The Journal of Herlam Corkwill - IC

[The Smoking Man]

The Journal of Herlam Corkwill

Chapter One: Night of the Red Wizards

It is the last day of Flamerule in the year 1372 DR. Ashabenford has had trouble recently with marauding drow, but recently this problem has lapsed. It is a busier than usual market day as a result, and the stalls that line the streets are pushing up against one another. They are full of wares from the North, the Sword Coast and the lands of intrigue, as well as from other of the Dales. The streets are fuller than usual, and the din of haggling, arguing merchants, laughing children and the town cryers is thrumming on at a fever pitch.

For foreigners, today is not a day to get a good feel for the rustic city's usual pace. Town elders stand in their doorways, shaking their heads in wonder, having not seen a day this busy in perhaps a decade. The Riders of Mistledale are lucky that the drow threat from the forest has abated somewhat, as their hands are full with pick-pockets, foreigners, and merchants arguing over street-space for their carts.

On top of all the hustle and bustle, the sun seems preternaturally hot today, made all the worse by the almost complete lack of breathing room in the central squares and main streets of town. The most exotic merchant in town at this time is a textile seller from Calimshan who also sells the enchanted fans his wife makes (at an exorbitant price) to those afraid of heat stroke.

A mercenary troupe from the Sword Coast North has been permitted to set up an arena and archery range just north of town, where they are allowing those possessed of martial prowess to enter contests of might and skill.

The town's resident wizard, a grumpy Tiefling named Noristuor, is holding a small contest of arcane showmanship outside of his home on the river in the north part of town. This extremely uncharacteristic act of community has drawn almost every local mage who didn't have anything better to do (and even a few that likely did).

In the midst of the buyers and sellers clustered in the west part of town, a woman outfitted like a mercenary or adventurer can be seen handing out small pieces of parchment to those of the adventuring persuasion. Most of the adventurers who receive the parchment laugh and scoff upon reading its contents, throwing the note to the ground with comments like, “Hah! That old braggard? I pity the poor souls who agree to any of his foolishness...” and “Not in a thousand years!” followed by “Not even if Elminster himself threatened to turn me into a gnome!”

It seems whomever the note pertains to, they have something of a reputation. The Dalefolk who receive the note from the sword-carrying woman can be seen with groups of curious foreigners huddled round, regaling them with wild tales and mockery. Before you have time to ask one of them what the scandal's all about, the woman in leather armour with the sword at her back approaches you. She is stern looking, with dark brown hair tied back at a severe angle. She approaches you with one of the notes and says, “Please, if you seek adventure and gainful employment, take the time to read this.” and then moves on to the next adventurer, ignoring those who mock her after reading her note.

The parchment reads thusly:

Well-met,

I am Daurily Corkwill, daughter of the famous adventurer Herlam Corkwill of Marsember. If you have heard or read of my father's deeds, or have heard the rumours of his temperament, know that they are, by and large, true. I have approached you on this day to ask for your assistance. My father is sick. The healers say that he has a year left on Toril, before the gods above take him. In Spring this was true, but with the heat of summer upon us and the rigours of the road weighing heavily on him, I fear my father has less time than even he supposes.

To the point. As any bard will tell you, Herlam is a difficult man of changeable fortunes. He has basked in glorious and profitable triumph as often as he has stared down the ugly face of inevitable defeat. He has seen many things, ranged far and wide, and has made as many friends as enemies. He has learned the secrets of spell and sword, song and stealth (as the ballad goes), but now, good travellers, he is helpless. He is afflicted in mind and manner, as well as with infirmities of the body. He rages at his misfortunes, and wishes only to finish his business...

Please, if you can find it in your hearts to aid an infamous greybeard who once wandered the same paths you yourselves do, meet my father and I at the Ashabenford Arms Inn, just north of the market's main crossroads, on the left hand side. Come after dark. We have a private room on the third floor. Ask the barkeep.

May Tyr and Mystra defend and lend wisdom,
Daurily Corkwill, former Purple Dragon of Cormyr.


Sundown is not for another five hours yet, giving you some free time beforehand should you decide to heed the request in Daurily's note. The shops are open, the taverns are flowing with drink, and the entertainers and contests have no shortage of audiences and participants.

The Realms await!

OOC:
Feel free to do/participate in whatever you like! And in case anyone wants to start doing PC to PC interactions, I'll rule that you can all notice each other if you wish (seeing as you are likely some of the only adventurers in town that didn't laugh and throw away the note). Before entering either of the contests, please make sure all your stats are completed on your sheets! Other than that, there's a map of town on Page 135(I think) of the Campaign Setting manual.

Also, anyone from Cormyr, the Dalelands, the Western Heartlands, the North or the Sword Coast can make a Knowledge Local check to find out more about Mr. Corkwill and his reputation.

Can't wait to see people's first posts! Please let me know in the OOC thread if there's anything you'd like me to explain/describe/clarify.

Enjoy! :smallsmile: And expect regular posting by me. Depending on work it may not be every day, but it will always be better than weekly at the very, very least.

TSM.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia leans on her elvencraft bow as she reads the letter, considering the woman that gave it to her. She had seemed quiet strong, of body and spirit; and yet her willingness to seek aid spoke of a quiet wisdom that few humans ever managed to obtain. The grey elf drew a long, dark lock of hair back behind one of her ears, looking at the woman as she moved on. It was interesting, to say the least.

Even still, Perelia had to make it over to the competition for arcanists. She had few chances to display her skill in front of so many people, though she was quite nervous about her chances of doing anything but making a fool of herself. She had not yet managed to cast any third level spells, though she believed that she was making good headway in the matter. The allure of the competition was too much to ignore, however; she may get the chance to copy a few spells while she was there, and her spellbook was not yet even half complete. She thought of the heavy darkwood and vellum tome with a faint smile; it was no magical grimoire, but it was hers, and it meant the world to her.

She set out for Noristuor's home, pleased with the headway that she had already made through the busy town. She kept one hand on her staff and one on her dagger, but other than her normal and healthy state of worry she was enjoying the flow and tide of people. It was a place where she could feel aloof and scholarly, a place where her regal elven features and wizardly robes bought a berth of space around her. These people did not know that she was a Generalist, or why that was a bad thing; they just knew that she had power, and most of them had some respect for that. At the very least, she assumed that they did.

[Keylac]

Leaning against his horse, Banner, Ryn Kavaren finishes reading the note he was handed. He idly runs his fingers through Banner's mane while he ponders the note and what he knows of Corkwill's reputation. The wanderer hadn't planned to stay in The Dales long after visiting his family in Deepingdale, but it didn't sound like this would keep him here either. In fact, given how far Old Herlam had traveled...

With a sudden grin, Ryn slides the note into his belt pouch. He's long since grown immured to foul words and worse tempers, and such a man will hopefully have an interesting story to tell. He will see what they wish after dark; if nothing else, he remembers good things about the Arms cellar.

Having resolved to at least hear them out, he now has a few hours to spend on the frivolity he came here for. With a crooked smile, he begins to lead Banner to the north end of town, looking to participate in a good joust, archery contest, or a maybe even a melee...

[Dragonsong]

To the Dalelanders milling about in the city streets Ashabenford was a familiar sight, its taverns, alleyways, and faces each a part of an everyday tapestry. On this midsummer day the tapestry was highlighted with the bright and unusual threads of foreigners, merchants and adventurers of outlandish dress, wares, and tales that brought shakes of the head and squeals of excitement to the townsfolk in equal measure. To most of these visitors the town was new, but little about it was surprising; it was a stopover on their journeys, a place to rest and sell and drink and gossip, like many other towns they had seen before.

To Roen Ravensperch, however, Ashabenford was a bizarre and wondrous place.

It was difficult enough to imagine a town without walls. Crinti settlements, from the smallest plantations to the mighty capital at Cathyr, were always surrounded by great walls of dark stone, patrolled by crossbowmen and studded with sharp metal spikes on both sides to keep slaves or invaders from climbing them. Ashabenford seemed somehow naked, with cottages, orchards, and fields of wheat and barley flanking the road and hugging the river right up to the main road that led to the town's namesake ford. Though armed horsemen stood tall in the saddle along the bustling thoroughfare, alert for trouble, their presence was more reassuring than oppressive.

Roen had walked from the outskirts of Shadowdale, and his clothes were caked with the grime of the road; he'd been caught in a summer thunderstorm that had soaked him to the bone and turned the path to mud. Yet he was hardly unaccustomed to being dirty, and his oilskin backpack had kept his important possessions dry. Exhaustion and discomfort had quickly fallen away as he met travelers who greeted him with a smile and nod, a stark contrast to the traditional Dambrathan greeting of attempting to display that one was better armed than the other party and thus should not be attacked.

As he left the small farms behind him and entered the town proper his sense of wonder steadily grew, and the joy of the goddess swelled in his heart. Here were people living free lives, every day a choice. Some of them were caught up entirely in their own business, the sort who would never know what a wonderful opportunity they had been given. Others recognized their freedom but used it to take advantage of others; Roen recognized many a pickpocket, as he himself was a rather accomplished one. But there were some who treated the day as a gift, as it truly was, and they were the truly free ones.

Wandering from market stall to tavern front and back again, up and down the street, Roen took in sights, sounds, and smells he had never imagined. Merchants dressed in exotic silks and summer furs alike exchanged half a dozen different currencies; people laughed, shouted, and gossiped without fear of arrest; the scents of pastries, meats, and roasted nuts drifted on the warm breeze. As he passed the Ashabenford Arms inn, the elegantly carved and painted wooden placard above its door swinging lightly back and forth, it occurred to him that he had never slept in a bed before, and he knew he would have to try it in the best one he could find.

Eyes wide, smile equally so, the somewhat disheveled young man nearly ran straight into the dark-haired lass with the bits of parchment. "I beg your pardon, miss," he said in thickly-accented Chondathan, touching two fingers to the bridge of his nose and then to his forehead in a Shebali gesture of apology. He accepted one of the papers and gradually scanned it, struggling a little over the longer words; he was a self-taught reader, and Chondathan was still a new language for him. But the gist of the message he understood, along with the opportunity it presented.

What better way to bring joy than to make a man well again?

Staring upward to gauge the sun's position, Roen decided that there was plenty of time yet before he needed to pursue the note's course of action. And how better to spend the hours than to bring a little joy and wonder in the mean time? He was no mage to compete in the arcane challenge, nor did he enjoy the thought of a fight, even a false one, so soon after seeing so much all too real bloodshed. But he was not without his talents. Finding a relatively uncrowded spot along the main road, he set down his pack and withdrew five worn leather balls, gifts from his father so many years ago.

Beaming widely at the passers-by, he tossed them into the air as he prepared to spread a few more smiles. Though it'd been some time since he'd had occasion to juggle, his muscles remembered the motions with ease. Soon he was picking up speed, tossing the little balls behind his back, over his shoulder, and under a raised leg. Gaining confidence, he wiggled his dagger from his sleeve and added it to the mix, his hands a blur as steel and leather flew between them, the grin on his dirty face only growing...

[The Smoking Man]

Perelia: As you approach Noristuor's part of town, the air seems to change. The clamour of commerce and gossip fade into a rythmic chorus comprised of gasps of amazement and shrieks of delight, as well as rumbling waves of laughter, accompanied all by sudden flashes of light, changes in temperature, cracks, bangs and utterances in every dialect of Draconic ever conceived.

You turn a corner and a squat, three story tower sits huddled between the river to the north and an ancient and formidable willow tree to the south. A large statue of what looks like a ten-foot vulture crossed with a bat guards the entrance along the western wall of the tower, and a small clearing occupies the land east of the tower. The clearing is dominated by a makeshift stage backed up against the tower itself and a throng of onlookers crowding at its base. On the stage stands a short man in blue and purple robes with at least a dozen different necklaces around his neck. This ugly little old man must be Noristuor, Ashabenford's reluctant elder arcanist. He seems to be finishing an announcement in his squeaky, oddly accented, and yet very loud voice:

"...and my apprentice Shelp awaits would-be contestants by the willow, where he will take your name, number of years studying the Art, etc. Now kindly be on with it. Ah, and thank you for indulging an old mage in his rare fit of showmanship."

And with that, Noristuor chants a single word of power, spreads his fingers, coughs, and explodes into a puff of acrid, grey-black smoke that flows up as a single mass and pours in through one of the tower's third-floor windows. Shelp, Noristuor's young Dalelander apprentice, stands under the willow tree with a quill, notebook and look of of almost incurable boredom. Several people from the crowd shuffle forth to give their information to Shelp that they might win the admiration of their elder peers.

Ryn: As you make your way to the northern outskirts, the hearty yells and curses of physical contest drown out the pleasant sounds of the market. Past a set of ragged brown flags bearing the symbol of a white sword interposed over an apple tree, you come across the camp of the Bears Errant, a mercenary company from the Western Heartlands.

Several small arenas with simple fences, guarded by cheerful men of the Bears Errant, occupy most of the campsite. Several contestants are already waiting around and stretching or tending to their weapons, while another group spars in the melee arena. The dirt of the site is hard-packed and the dust and heat will make for an interesting challenge.

A list master stands near the center of the site, with a squire behind him taking down the names of those interested in competing. The contests include: archery, mounted swordplay, boxing, wrestling, and the famous "dirty" melee, where almost anything goes. Sadly there simply isn't enough room for a good old-fashioned joust.

Roen: As you begin to juggle, several young children emerge from the crowd. They seem to be friends. They're all rather grubby, not accompanied by adults, and it's clear that the nearest Rider has his eyes affixed to their swift hands. As you continue your act, the oldest child - a boy of about twelve - removes a velvet coinpurse from his pocket and tosses you several coins from inside. The other children follow suit, realizing that the more stolen money they throw at you, the more likely it is that you'll keep juggling.

Now even a handful of adults are torn from what business they were conducting and find themselves compelled to watch those rustic brown spheres move in a fluid circle. Just as a small crowd is beginning to form, you notice the Rider begin to walk his horse over to where the street urchins are standing to watch...

OOC:
Perelia: Your Knowledge: Arcana is going to give you a bonus on the rolls for the contest (+2 to be exact). Here's how it's gonna go down: You choose up to three spells, describe how Perelia combines them, what the overall effect is going to be, what the bystanders will see/hear/smell/taste/feel etc. Be as creative as you like. Roll a Spellcraft check for each spell used. Also make a Perform or untrained Charisma check for the overall flare of the show. These are the checks you get the +2 on. I will tally up the results, and let you know how you do. I'll also describe some of your competitor's performances in my next post. If you do well, you can have another shot! Rewards forthcoming after the show...

Ryn: Kindly decide which of the contests you'd like to enter. I'll limit you to two for now, with a chance for more later. Once you decide/talk to the list master in the mercenary camp, I shall give you further instructions. If you plan on signing up for any of the melee/hand-to-hand contests, you might as well give me an initiative roll. Rewards forthcoming after the contests...

Roen: So, the kids are pickpockets (you can tell easily given your own unique set of skills) and the nearest mounted Rider of Mistledale is slowly making his way over (probably having seen the stolen coinpurses they've been using to pay you for your show). You have about three rounds before the Rider is too close. He has a good vantage-point atop his horse, but is having trouble making his way through the crowd. There's currently three street urchins watching the show, and about a half-dozen adults. So-far you have made a solid 55 GP.

[Keylac]

For almost a full minute, Ryn surveys the arenas they've erected north of town, his smile getting more crooked. Involuntarily, he rubs the scar on his cheek while he ponders. With a shrug, he turns towards the List Master, already working his muscles in anticipation of bruises and sprains.

Leading his mount by the reins, he presents himself to the master-of-the-lists, sweeping off his hat with a flourish and giving a histrionic bow.

"Olore, List Master. I am known as Ryn Kavaren, of Deepingdale. I would like to enter the lists, to try my hand at the mounted swordplay, and" here he grins, no less cheerfully then before, but with all the assurance of a wolf among hounds, "the melee. Perhaps the boxing too, if I've got both wits and time remaining."

He replaces his hat upon his head and tilts his head slightly to one side, awaiting the List Master's response with respect for the other warrior.

OOC


Rolling for Initiative for the Mounted Combat: (1d20+8)[11]

Rolling for Initiative for the Melee: (1d20+8)[18] Eh, coulda been worse. :smallamused:

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia takes a moment to mutter out the simple words of a prestidigitation, and she takes a few seconds to rid herself of the dust of the road and the miniscule amount of sweat she has accumulated throughout the day. Elves were far cleaner and neater than lesser races, and it wouldn't do to appear sloppy or dirty in front of her arcanist peers. She fills the air around her with the very faintest scent of crushed pine needles and cool air, and she adjusts the pack on her back.

Feeling more wizardly by the moment, and ignoring the faint flutter of nerves in her stomach, she moves through the crowd to the willow, observing those around her and looking for any familiar faces. Seeing none, and pleased to do so, she moves up to Shlep, waiting patiently until he gives her his attention. "I am Perelia Laethia, of Halruaa. I have studied the Art in the way of my people for exactly one hundred years, come this winter solstice."

She speaks with a bit of pride as to the length of her studies. Though the shorter-lived races were able to race through magical learning with much greater haste than elvenkind, she felt that the slow and steady methods of learning resulted in more consummately powerful spellcasters, at least in the long run. And, in the end, it was in her blood to consider the long-term results of her actions; let haste be for those more mortal than herself.

[Dragonsong]

In his thirty-one years of life, Roen had done many things that were far from good in and of themselves. He had regularly stolen, often spied, and occasionally killed, and though the victims of each act had been deserving, he fervently wished that none of them had been necessary. Each had been a rebellion against cruel and evil authority, but there was no such authority in Ashabenford, so far as he could see. He would not steal from innocent folk, and by taking gold from pickpockets he was complicit in their crime.

Still, he had no wish for the lads to get in trouble. He had no idea what the punishment would be; in Dambrath it would've been a hand at the least, even for children, and while he doubted it would be nearly so severe here it was also true that these kids had almost certainly never in their lives needed to steal so badly as the perpetually malnourished Shebali. He was no crusader for justice, but he wanted to make things right, to keep the chance of joy for all parties involved if remotely possible. For that, his tongue was his best tool.

"Best drop those, lads," Roen murmured just loudly enough for the urchins to hear, a friendly twinkle in his eye. "You've been spotted now, and I've yet to meet a man who can outrun a horse. But if that rider were to find them purses on the ground, why, there'd be nobody to blame but their careless owners. And I'll keep juggling for free."

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga reads the note and considers the implications for a moment, as well as the reactions of the rest of the adventurers disregarding the request for aid. He takes the slip of paper and pockets it, continuing his way towards the ongoing arcane demonstration.

Perhaps there will be someone willing to speak to me on defensive energies. Afterwards, I should test my mettle at that contest. It would be good to stretch the limbs and get the body moving after all that travel.

Once he reaches the arcane displays, Doroga frowns as he sees Noristuor explode into mist and flow into the nearby tower. After a pensive moment, he decides to head over to the melee arena and figure out how to enter the contest.

Bah, had to edit because I missed someone elses post! Thanks Ragged.

[The Smoking Man]

Doroga and Ryn: The Master of Lists takes down both of your names and the contests you'll be taking part in.

First is the mounted swordplay event. As Ryn enters the field atop Banner, the other contestant - an Uthgardt tribesman by the look of him, riding a stocky baley horse - eyes you up. He does not seem impressed...

OOC:
So Doroga is entering the Dirty Melee I assume? If so, he'll have to wait until Ryn is done his mounted match. In the meantime he is welcome to participate in one of the other events...
EDIT: Doroga can roll Initiative for the Dirty Melee now if he wishes.

Ryn wins Initiative against the Uthgardt contestant. What does he do? The Uthgardt is using a cold iron longsword and a wooden shield cased in moose hide, as well as studded leathers that do not seem to be of the highest quality. His horse looks tough but slow. They are 60 ft. from you, at the other end of the arena. The terrain beneath his horse is packed dirt. The arena's ground gives way to a difficult sharp gravel near the center (-2 on ride checks while in the 40 ft. inner circle).

Roen: The children seem anxious as the Rider approaches - both because of the danger and at the prospect of throwing away a day's hard-earned coin... but in the end the eldest boy throws his coinpurse down on the ground in front of you, and the other two follow suit before all three disappear into the crowd. It seems the street urchins of Ashabenford are not as desperate or immune to diplomacy as some of the more tragic cases you have met in your life...

After a few seconds the Rider makes his way to the front of the crowd gathering around you and asks, "Jester! Those children... Whose purses are those?" pointing to the three small leather sacks with his spear.

OOC:
The guard seems wary but not aggressive. There's a number of possible reasons a street performer would be surrounded by purses. But he seems to think he saw one of the children with one of them...

Perelia: Shlep shows nary a twitch in his face as you describe your training, but does look up briefly from his ledger when you mention Halruaa. "Hm," he mutters, "Didn't think you folk generally made it this far north. Then again, didn't know you was elves, neither..." He records the information nonetheless and says, "Right, foreigner... You're up first, looks like." and points to the rickety stage.

OOC:
See my last post for details about the performance side of things.

[TheDivineWind]

Well, Doroga is neither a horseman nor an archer, though he could wing either if he really had to. He will wait for his match and enjoy the games.

At a side, you could run both at the same time, and Ryn could post double-duty. Would only be an issue if wounds will be rolling over to the second event I suppose. Either way, Doroga waits. I can't discuss arcane theory with the Wizard since he stopped the show (or can I?).

Doroga grins and walks over to the sidelines, watching the current match, leaning on his guisarme.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia's nerves vanish at the casual comments of the apprentice. She realized that, however weak she may perceive herself as, she was steep in the Art in a way this child would never be. He would die of old age before he reached the point in life that she was at, and she had spent every moment of her life considering and contemplating the depth and complexities of the Weave that permeated their world. She was Halruaan, and she was a moon elf; she was a nearly a being of myth and legend to these people, hailing from a land that they told about in fables. How simple could she be, to get nervous in front of them?

Perelia remained silent, walking to the simple stage with an easy grace, and air of calm dignity. This may have been a quaint venue, but it was also one of the first real tests of her magic outside of the academy; she may as well give the townsfolk a memorable performance. Something, perhaps, that they might tell stories about.

Perelia slipped her hand into the pouch at her pocket, reaching into the highly-organized internal dividers to draw out a few slim chips of mica, the translucent stone sticking to her fingers with little resistance. The air around her swirled and buzzed with her prestidigitation, and with a firm, clear voice she called out the words of one of the most effective and powerful combat spells in the world. Effective, powerful, and beautiful; as her words drew to a conclusion she flung her hand down in a sweeping stroke, and from beneath her and around exploded a massive cloud of gleaming, glittering gold flakes. The sparkling dust spread out in a cloud, twenty feat across in all directions, nearly hiding her from view and covering all the surfaces in reach with a golden cover.

Perelia was not finished, however, and she began her next spell almost before the conclusion of the first one, the gold dust still filling the air with a faint smattering of sparkling light. Her hand went back into her pouch, drawing forth a single speck of phosphorescent moss. She crushed the moss into her hand, and she felt it cease to exist as the power held within its material form was consumed, flowing into her as she directed the forces with a few simple, sharp words. She knelt, bringing her hand down on the stage, and the stage itself exploded into light, as bright as a torch and powerful enough to blaze out ten paces from the stage itself.

The glitterdust had not faded, however, and as the light reached out of the stage it met the shimmering particles. Each mote of golden dust reflected and refracted the light; and the stage was completely covered with the stuff, as was Perelia herself. The light was nearly blindingly brilliant, and a hundred thousand tiny spots were sent out from the stage, covering the surrounding area with a thousand newborn constellations.

Perelia was still not finished, however. She whirled, her now-golden cloak catching the light of the stage, and as she did she cast her final spell, cloaking herself in light and shadows, calling forth an illusion of indeterminate power. There was a blurring of the air, and then she seemed to change size and shape, though with her back turned it was difficult to say what change had really occurred. Her staff was different, and her pack was gone. She was taller by almost a foot, and she was wearing a hat and a sword at her side.

She turned, slowly, just as the glitterdust faded away. As she turned, there was a puff of blue smoke, and a unpleasant and unfamiliar smell filled the air. She faced the crowd, and for a moment there was no sound, no noise. Nothing but light, the faint dregs of smoke from her last puff on her pipe, and Elminster Aumar, standing on the stage in place of Perelia, looking amused at his own cleverness. He took another puff of his pipe, and he looked over to the apprentice, raising a single white brow at the boy and smiling faintly.

[Keylac]

As the tribesman sizes him up, so does Ryn study him in turn. He recognizes his type from his short time among the Uthgardt; good fighters, but lacking finesse. This would be a fight of strength and stamina, not guile.

Then again, Ryn thinks to himself, I've been accused of thinking with my spurs more then once myself.

With a laugh and a cry of "Zelzing!" he discards caution, deciding such a warrior deserved to be met openly. Banner responds to the touch of his heels and charges across the ring, angling to meet the other rider.

As he charged across the field, time seemed to slow and it always did, each moment seeming to drag out, slowly moving into the next, then speeding by into eternity. His vision seemed to simultaneously narrow and expand, seeing nothing but his opponent while noticing all the details of the arena. It was times like this that he felt alive. Not happy, or even content. Merely... alive.

And it was moments like this that reminded him how truly absurd war actually was. Yep. I shoulda been a farmer. Familiar thoughts, with that familiar tinge of humor and irony.

Then Banner was a mere stride from the Uthgardt's left side, and time reverted to normal. Humor and irony retreated as always, waiting, leaving behind Purpose and the pure joy of combat. With a flashing movement, Ryn draws his saber, using the motion of his mount and the draw to bring the sword round in a sideways cut, over Banner's head, aiming at the barbarian.

OOC

Right then, this should be fun. :smallsmile: Got a couple of things though. First, the phrase he shouts is from this here list (http://forum.candlekeep.com/topic.asp?TOPIC_ID=13403), it's the closest I could find to an "en garde" that the barbarian would understand. :smallsmile:

Second, I'm not actually sure, but did we put padding on the blades so they only do non-lethal damage, are we depending on healing to not kill each other, or is this to the death? I wasn't sure, and it would (slightly) change what I'm trying to do.

If we are using padding, I'm just trying to smack him a good one..

If we're not using padding, then I was wondering, could I cut his saddle strap and have him fall off his horse? That would pretty much win me a mounted match by default, I would assume... and it would be damn funny even if it wouldn't. I'm not wedded to the idea either way, even if it would be funny. If that doesn't work, then again, just a side cut to start things off right. :smallsmile:

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13517646#post13517646)

Rolling for Ride: (1d20+6)[23]

Note: Rolling Ride just in case, because as far as I know, I don't need to roll it for anything at the moment (I'm controlling the horse with the reins in my left hand). Still, didn't want to hold it up if you decided I needed the roll for something

Rolling for Attack: (1d20+11)[24]

Note: I included the bonus for the charge here, but it did occur to me that I might not be able to actually *Charge* across the gravel in the center, in which case my roll is -2.

Edit: Ya know, it occurs to me, that just in case I hit, I should probably roll damage too. Just in case I hit, that would save a lot of time.

Rolling Saber Damage: (1d8+4)[10]

I think that's the only other roll that's relevant at the moment.

[Dragonsong]

Roen offered the kids an approving nod as they took his advice, vanishing back into the densely-packed stream of people long before the rider reached the little crowd of onlookers. He hoped they would be alright, but the fact that they'd been tossing him money was actually reassuring; if they'd been starving, they wouldn't have wasted the coin on him. The rider wouldn't go after them now; whatever Roen had said about the speeds of men and horses, there was no way he could find the children amongst all the chaos. But that did leave Roen with some explaining to do, for he was tall enough to be spotted if he ran.

Besides, he was not guilty of anything for once. It was nice to be secure in that.

It was strange to be called "jester." There was no jest, merely a display of skill, but somehow Roen doubted that the rider would care to make the distinction. He had his duty to fulfill, and there was no denying that Roen's current circumstances were a bit suspicious. But though he'd had reason all his life to despise authority, the young Dambrathan had no desire to make a bad impression in Ashabenford. He liked the place, liked the people he'd seen thus far, and saw nothing to rebel against. So he would be honest; though he'd lived on carefully woven lies for years, sometimes truth was best.

"I'm afraid I don't know to whom they belong," he told the rider. "I would, however, be glad to help you find out. As they were lost near my act, it is my responsibility to see them returned." Politely thanking his audience, he juggled to a close, sending the balls back into his open pack one at a time before catching his dagger and returning it to his sleeve. Then he bent over and scraped the gold that had been thrown to him from the purses back into them as equally as possible; he had no idea how much had come from each purse, so it was the best he could do.

Scooping up all three, he handed them over to the rider. "How do you suggest we find their owners? There are many who would wish to claim such heavy purses, I think, whether they've ever seen them before or not." Roen hoped that they could find the owners in the chaotic crowd; it would bring joy to return that which had been lost, and that was, as ever, his goal. "Mistress of Revels, aid me in this, my true purpose," he murmured, then looked up at the Rider with an open, expectant smile.

[Neth]

The curious allure of swarming foreigners and strange smells was only just enough to tempt Neth into this steaming bowl of oppressive heat. If any breezes were skirting the river, they hadn't bothered to push their way into these crowded lanes. It was hard for the druid to imagine why someone would fancy sitting in a town-sized open oven all day selling decorative pots, unless their only alternative was unbelievably grim. Deciding this could be the only possible reason, she proceeded to cast every street vendor an expression of profound sympathy, leaving puzzled locals to stare with twisted grins of amusement.

She led her fluffy mountain pony by the bridle, having been so over-hot that she'd removed every detachable and non vital piece of her own armour and draped it over his back. The poor furry creature was huffing and snorting his polite suggestion that they immediately seek out a pile of snow.

Wealthy travellers passed through, seated on glittering mounts heaped with as many jingling coloured pieces of expensive finery as their owners, and curious peasants glared at them. Some time later, Neth noticed a moon elf pass through, and watched how the curiosity of the crowd was very different, awash with genuine reverence and awe. Neth herself was struck. Her lands were not known for anything or anyone with that variety of majestic-ness. Even the witches, who may possess some kind of grace, were still unkempt and savage.

Every so often the sizzling crackle of some roasted foreign delight swept delicious waves through the air. Neth gazed around for the source, as one might seek the face of some mesmerizing voice.

Two children appeared with mild alarm in their eyes and scampered between some oxen and under a cart, escaping into the crowd. She warily eyed the direction they'd come from, as children and animals are usually the first to perceive imminent catastrophe, but Neth was too short to see over the crowd. Gyl took to the air, and circled around for a while, looking for anything curious.

The bustle around the Horsewater Pool had been a bit too much for the exhausted mountain pony, so Neth decided head to that Arms Inn early. She was eager to get out of the sun for a bit, and knew that whoever hung around an Inn before nightfall generally had an intriguing story to tell. And perhaps one or two of the defeated combatants from the arena may arrive for a drink to comfort their battered pride and might appreciate a bit of a mend on battered body parts.

Gyl's looking around... I'll roll a spot for any commotion he sees worth noting...?

[The Smoking Man]

Neth: Gyl returns relatively at ease, given the strange environment he finds himself in. And were he not an owl, he'd be returning partially blind after having flown as close as he did to a certain Halruaan moon elf's phantasmagorical display by the river.

As you make your way north through the trade district of town toward the Ashabenford Arms, you notice something that hadn't occurred to you or Gyl all day. You haven't seen a single cat, which is strange in towns of Ashabanford's size or larger (especially, as you have come to notice, in western countries). You sense that Gyl has noticed this as well, as he tends to use cats as wayfinders on perpetual hunt for mice.

"Move along, Uthgardt." says a particularly surly old Mistledarran as he cane-walks past your puzzled-stiff form in the middle of the road.

Perhaps it's just the heat...

You make it to the Ashabenford Arms - a gated, three-storey affair composed of fine yellow brick, a red shingled roof, several chimneys, a semi-detached stable for customer use, and a parapet tower shooting up one side of the main building. The front door to the common area is a double-door made of very fine, dark oak.

After tying your pony up in the stables, you enter through the oaken doors to the welcoming fragrance of fresh rabbit stew, baked bread and the smell of a freshly tapped barrel of ale. The common area is large and L-shaped, with a long bar at the crux, currently attended to by a stately-looking old man with a long mustache and an unnervingly calm expression on his face. There's a man and a woman with raised hoods and travelling cloaks sitting near the unlit fireplace, an off-duty Rider of Mistledale sitting alone over a bowl of stew and a mug of ale, a table of three pipe-smoking local merchants who seem to be used to their surroundings and the barkeep, and, alone at the bar, sits Daurily Corkwill, brooding over a very large mug of water...

OOC:
A spot check reveals that the hooded men are from the east... you can tell by the face and something in the way they move their hands as they speak to one another.

Roen: The Rider seems entirely baffled by your request to help. He takes the coinpurses, looks at them, and looks back at Roen. His hard, simple face betrays no emotion in one direction or the other. Until the laughter starts. The man laughs so hard he almost unhorses himself.

"By the sewers of Cormanthor! You, good sir, are either the worst or the bravest thief I've ever met in me 'ole life!" And with that, dismounts (probably for fear of falling off), strides over to Roen and slaps him square in the middle of his back, still chuckling.

"You know what? I admire that kind of courage. We could put it to good use out there against them drow's been crawling up through the forest caves an' raiding our borders... And you know, even if it's not courage but stupidity, we can always use more men willing to walk out in front of dark elf spells and arrows! Hah!" He then clandestinely tosses you one of the purses, turns, continues to laugh, and remounts his horse to leave.

With a final shake of his head, a chuckle, followed finally by a tsk tsk, the rider departs...

OOC:
The coin-purse contained 73GP. You could not sense the man's motives effectively, and were therefor confused as to whether he meant to intimidate you or was being at all genuine. Either way, you see him head in the direction of the Rider's Barracks in the east part of town.

Ryn and Doroga: The charge is executed by horse and rider with textbook finesse - both of you anticipating and shifting to compenstate for the sharp gravel, then regaining control of speed and muscle for the blow with all its momentum. The sword strikes true at the stirrup of the large man's saddle, causing him to falter and half-fall off of his horse.

The spectacle of the proud Uthgardt nearly toppled after a whopping six seconds sends an energetic ripple of laughter through the crowd of spectators. To top it all off, the barbarian drops his sword point-down in the dirt.

"Throgel! Misratthan, holken fjirlon! Fjirlon!" the man swears at his horse, but to no avail as the stocky animal simply leans opposite the side of the broken stirrup, so as to stay standing with the mass of disoriented muscle clawing up its side...

OOC:
You get an attack of opportunity as he spends his round attempting to get back on he saddle minus a stirrup. He seems to be holding on with both hands and sheer force of will. Incidentally, he is now raging (which, unfortunately, will not help his Ride skill...) So yeah, your previous ride check got you over the obstacle-gravel, and your attack was high enough to call it on the stirrup (IMHO) even including the -2.

As to the question of damage, it is until one side yields or is incapacitated or until the presiding Cleric of Helm decides the match is over. It is also up to said mercenary cleric to heal those wounded in the match.

Also, Doroga, good idea. We shall do both matches simultaneously. Initiative please! I shall make another post later tonight or late tomorrow which will include the beginning of the dirty melee.

Ryn, I hope you don't mind rolling for two combats at once? I'll keep the Dirty Melee posts seperate from any others, so that they're easy to track even with the other stuff going on. There's be 4 contestants in total, including Ryn and Doroga. :smallsmile:

Perelia: It becomes abundantly clear to you a moment after the final casting just how profound an effect your performance had on its audience. Most stand before you, jaw-dropped. Shleb laughs uncontrollably (though not in a mocking way). Apparently, some don't know whether to think you're a haughty moon elf or the Sage of Shadowdale himself. A few unsure claps issue forth from the depths of the audience. An owl, seemingly for effect, hoots a low and dramatic hoot as it flies overhead and circles back around towards the trade district.

The only audience member who doesn't seem impressed is a short man in a travelling cloak with the hood drawn up. Upon seeing your magically imbued disguise, he gasps with palpable fear (though you are the only one who seems to notice) and makes his way out of the crowd as quickly as possible. He heads back around the other side of the tower, and presumably towards the rest of town.

Meanwhile, clapping can be heard from the third floor of the tower at your back...

OOC:
So the man deaks behind the western side of the tower and is out of sight, having given away the fact that Elminster's sudden appearance would (read: did) scare the living daylights out of him.

Okay... A) Epic rolls.
and B) Way to blow an NPC's super-sneaky cover by COMPLETELY RANDOM ACCIDENT. :smallbiggrin:

Fate is truly on your side, ma'am. The only question is... do you stick around to collect the gold you're being showered in, or do you decide there are more important things to be done..?

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia takes a long moment to soak up the attention and praise; she had expended a not-insignificant portion of her daily magical power, and it felt truly heartening to see a positive reaction to her extremely-improvised performance. She quirked her hears up underneath her Disguise Self, listening to the mutters from the crowd as best she could, attempting to better discern their reaction. She is distracted from the crowd, however, as she notices one of their number breaking away from them with apparent fear.

She had prepared for some kind of odd reaction to her choice of disguise, and it seemed that the man fleeing the crowd had some kind of qualm with Elminster.Not enough of a qualm, thankfully, to do anything rash like attack her, but then few were powerful or foolish enough to assault a wizard of Elminster's caliber when he was aware and prepared. If Perelia herself tried it she would be rendered unto either oblivion or unconsciousness in a fraction of a second; it made her illusion a bit cheeky, perhaps, but not any kind of true insult.

Perelia generated another puff of noxious, if immaterial, smoke with her ongoing prestidigitation, making sure to have the stuff originate from her 'pipe'. She looked to the third floor of the tower behind her, and she tipped her illusionary hat in a gesture that was both cheerful and respectful. She looked to the audience one final time, and then she let out another thick puff of smoke, not enough to actually obscure her but more than enough to befuddle her visage. She turned, slowly, and when the rotation finished she was a tall and lovely elf once more, though anyone familiar with the stories about Elminster knew that he was a consummate shapechanger. No matter what she did, a few of them would always suspect that she was he, and Perelia couldn't help but enjoy that thought.

She took a brief moment to consider following the man that had fled the crowd. He was clearly no simple townsfolk; he may have interesting information, or some sort of magical knowledge she would find interesting. At the same time, however, he was just as likely to be violent, or know nothing or import, or already be long gone. Besides, she had gotten a good look at him with an elf's eyes, and if she saw him again she would be sure to recognize him unless he went to efforts to disguise himself. If and when she did, she could ask her questions.

She decided rather quickly to stay with her audience and enjoy the fame of the moment, and to milk the good luck of her performance for all it was worth; money, spells, scrolls, and components were forever needed, and it was all she could do to keep up enough with her scholarly demands. "So," she said with a genuinely warm smile to Shleb. "I suppose the others get to try their hand at matching me now, before the winner can be decided. Where should I stand in the interim?" She glanced up at the third floor of the tower for a bare moment, more wistful than truly expecting an invitation.

[Keylac]

Seeing the Uthgardt slipping out of the saddle, scrambling to pull himself back in, Ryn presses his advantage. With practiced ease, he reverses the direction of the blade, bringing it down in an overhand slash with all the elegance and grace of a meat cleaver. Anticipating the hit, he angles the blade to the left, intending to complete the figure eight with his next blow.

The calculating part of his mind, the one filled with violent purpose, watches the blow, searching for fault; studies his opponent, looking for openings; senses his mount, feeling his mounts trained steps to a better position.

And inside his head, perched in a corner, watching, Humor and Irony note the barbarians rage at his predicament.

"Oh yes, this isn't going to come back to haunt me at all..." he mutters to himself as he completes his strike.

OOC

I'll go ahead and roll for my next attack after the AOO as well. Both of them are simple straightforward hits. I'm going to go ahead and use Power Attack 4 on both hits as well.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13521965#post13521965)


Rolling Attack - AOO: (1d20+5)[9]

Rolling Attack - Next Round: (1d20+5)[10]

Rolling Damage - First Attack: (1d8+8)[16]

Rolling Damage - Second Attack: (1d8+8)[16]

Huh. Two Max Damage rolls on top of two attack rolls that wouldn't hit a corpse. Apparently, I'm really, really pissed off at the air around this guy...

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga takes his time entering the ring, using the butt of his guisarme as a walking stick. As he makes his way to the starting position, he takes a moment to size up his opponents and get a feel for them; how they hold themselves, their weapons, armor, how ragged or well kept they look.

He looks over to the stands, dimly aware that there are introductions being made, the soft breeze blowing against his skin, and the smell of cooked meats in the air. One by one, he slowly collects each of these distractions, boxes them up, and scoots them into a dark corner of his mind, focusing his attention and will on his opponent(s).

Doroga bends down, the guisarme leaning in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and palms the ground. He rubs the soil between his fingers, drawing the smell of the earth into his lungs, before finally grasping his weapon by its well worn grips. With that, he lowers the point of the guisarme and waits, readying himself for action.

He does this by readying an action! :D

[Neth]

Re-attaching all her armour, and retrieving her pack from the pony, Neth chuckles to see the beast shudder with relief and dunk his snout in the water trough. She enters the dim commons, absently trailing an appreciative hand along the fine wooden door as she passes. Gyl had decided to doze on her shoulder. His senses seemed to have been overwhelmed by some marvelous display of splendor.

Out of the sweltering street she feels much less like whacking everyone with her staff and jumping in the river, and much more like eating. She takes a stool at the bar, a little more than what a Rashemi would consider a polite distance from the Corkwill woman, having learned her typical distance was not quite adequate for disgruntled Uthgardt and well armed Illuskans, and she now took to leaving generous spaces for even halfling shepherds of one leg.

To the barkeep in a friendly manner she says, "I'd love a drink of whatever you kept in the coldest part of your cellar. And a bit of the rabbit stew, if I may. So long as it is truly rabbit stew," she added in mock suspicion, "since you townsfolk must be doing something with all the missing cats here. And by now you must have an army of rodents, which could truly help diminish those crowds. Have you fitted them with armour?"

[Dragonsong]

It had not occurred to Roen how strange his offer must have sounded to a man charged with enforcing the law - or, frankly, to anyone at all. It must've seemed from the rider's angle that the'd been using his performance as a cover to receive gold from a gang of young pickpockets he sponsored. Or perhaps he hadn't seen the children clearly, and had thought that Roen was disguising purses he himself had cut among his performance earnings. The young Dambrathan was still uncertain as to how genuine his words had been; were they a warning or truly a jest? Being left with one coin purse seemed to suggest the latter.

Nearly as baffled by the entire exchange as the rider had been, Roen finally decided that the best course of action was to let out a hearty chuckle of his own. He hadn't been arrested within a half hour of entering town, and that was cause for joy indeed, especially given how suspicious he'd ended up looking. "Thank you for laughter, my Lady, and all that it solves," he murmured, then picked up his pack and slung it back over his shoulder. It took another moment for what the rider had said to sink in: Dark Elves. His laughter slowed, then stopped. Dark Elves, those who had enslaved his ancestors and put the Crinti in power.

It disheartened him to hear that the Drow were here, so far from his home, as well, and that they were clearly no less malicious. He had met good, selfless people and horrid, craven ones (the man who had betrayed Haldis rushed to mind, but he pushed the thought away immediately), but he could not imagine what could drive an entire race to evil. Philosophical musings, however, could wait. Every day, as he flashed back on the faces of the Crinti he had cut down in battle (and once, though again he pushed the thought away, in sleep), he told himself that he was not a murderer. He was a man who stopped evil however he could, and here was a chance to do so again.

He told himself that this wouldn't be about revenge, but the heaviness in his gut at the thought of it remained.

He could not forget, of course, that he had already agreed to a meeting at sundown. There was no telling where that would lead him, but it seemed a purer goal to heal a man than to kill in order to protect, and the thought stayed him. Still, there was no harm in being informed about the recent raids; perhaps he could do something to protect Ashabenford from the Drow and find a way to help Herlam Corkwill at the same time. Calming himself, relaxing his features once more, Roen began to move through the crowd, pausing at merchants' booths to strike up conversation and ask unobtrusively about the attacks.

If necessary, he was willing to spread around a little coin to get the whole story...

[The Smoking Man]

Roen: The merchants seem to be more interested in swapping tales that are better for business than drow raids... but one or two mention (namely those who've seen or been in a raid) that no one is quite sure why the drow have been making themselves known on the surface. Some say it's internal politics of the drow forcing some marginalized group upward, while a few hint that there's something more organized going on related to one of the great drow cities. No one you speak to, however, knows much more than that, other than the fact that the raids had been pretty regular in the outlying countryside until a couple of days ago. The present lull in attacks has not caused the Riders and local adventurers to stand down, but it has allowed for a sudden burst of activity on the roads.

Neth: The barman laughs at the quip about the cats. "It is a strange thing, aye, but I swear by Illmater these rabbits be true!" he laughs again in his strange, straight-faced way as he hobbles off to the kitchen, muttering "..tho' I suppose it is strange all the cat's are either gone or staying indoors last few days..."

After the middle-aged man comes hobbling back with a large wooden bowl of stew and a glass of Silverymoon Summer Wine (vintage 1350), Daurily turns to look at you. "If you don't mind," she asks in her stern, genuine way "I'd like to know if you plan on heeding the request on that letter I handed you. I... saw a lot of you ripping them up and poking fun at my father. It would do my nerves some good, easterner, if you told me the truth."

Ryn and Doroga: Both of Ryn's next attacks swing wide, though they do serve to delay the Uthgardt even more in his awkward situation. In a few seconds, he is finally back on his horse, though leaning to compensate for the broken saddle. In a few more, he will have his sword back...

OOC:
That's yet another AoO for you sir, and your regular turn as he tries to re-ensword himself. (Poor guy).:smalleek:

Doroga: The beginning of the Dirty Melee will be with my larger postings later today. Very sorry about your relatively sidelined stuff so-far. Aiming to rectify that state of affairs post-haste! Very excited to see what your Abjurant Champion aspirant can do...

Perelia: After the waves of applause die down, you sense a presence behind you on the stage as the crowds suddenly gasp in unison (only to resume cheering). You turn to see Noristuor, who winks his ugly face at you, and then moves to address the crowd.

"Magelings and mere gawkers, I am afraid that this is all we have time for today. If you will excuse me, I must confer with my old friend, the Sage of Shadowdale! Shleb, pick up the old man's gratuities, will you?"

Shleb does as he is told and begins to collect the various rewards thrown at the stage while the crowds leave in the midst of their excitement and disappointment at the lack of further entertainment. Among the tossed prizes are coins, a few scrolls thrown by appreciative fellow wizards, and one or two other baubles. Noristuor turns to you and asks if you will speak with him in private, saying "You are quite a talent, for one so inexperienced. I would like to speak with you about that man who ran away. You see, he visited me earlier today. He has... designs tonight in Ashabenford, and I would have someone talented handling it. What do you say? Think of it as a lucrative short-term apprenticeship..."

Noristuor waits, gesturing crookedly but politely to the door of his tower, as Shleb returns with your winnings...

OOC:
- 97 GP
- x2 Arcane spell scrolls (will roll those up when I post later in the day... oh the anticipation! :smallbiggrin:)
- EXTREMELY high quality bat guano in a fine leather pouch (value 200 GP) (Enough for three Fireballs. Add's "Fortitude save or Dazed" effect. Exact info when it comes up or, if you're curious, when I post later.)
- A Masterwork Scroll Case with a key, bearing carvings of green and bronze dragons set in ivory (obviously coloured by arcane means).

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia was a bit impressed that the wizard had so rapidly noticed her relative inexperience; it meant that he himself had considerable skill in both perception and magical knowledge, for little in her performance had given such things away other than the duration of her spells. That was good; she disliked wizards that had more power than sense, but the tiefling seemed to have an abundance of both."Thank you greatly for the compliments, sir; it is good to meet one so skilled in the Art, and I thank you for the opportunity to display my own modest talent. It would be an honor to work with you." She nodded to the tiefling respectfully, and she moved in the direction he indicated, swinging her pack off of her back to store her winnings.

As she did so a warty, large toad worked its way up out of the leather satchel, making its way to her shoulder with a few clumsy jumps, hanging on to the thin fabric of her robes with its tiny claws. It croaked once, cheerfully, and it gave Noristuor its attention with an uncanny glint of intelligence in its eyes. "Ah, yes, forgive me. This is Bittles, my-" She was cut off by an abrupt and loud croak from the toad. She glared at it, silently furious, and it returned the gaze, unabashed. "Ahem. This is Sir Bittlesby, my familiar. I apologize in advance for his manners; he thinks rather highly of himself, and I have not yet managed to find our common tongue with which to properly reprimand him. As I was saying, I managed to get a good look at the man before he fled, and I don't believe I will have any problem picking him out of a crowd. What is he planning, sir?"

[Keylac]

As Ryn completes the figure eight, his crooked smile resurfaces for a moment in admiration of the Uthgardt's efforts. Somehow - he's not quite sure - the Uthgardt managed to twist aside from both blows as he hauled himself back into the saddle.

At the touch of Ryn's heels, Banner repositions himself slightly, giving his rider a better angle on the now seated tribesman. For a brief moment as his horse moves, Ryn considers and discards several tactics - or let's be honest, dirty tricks - that come to mind. Few could be used in such a contest, and the rest...

He thinks to himself, with that familiar, dry sense of humor: No, he deserves a chance to strike back.

Very dryly: Of course, if I really thought that, I probably shouldn't have cut his saddle.

Very dryly: Or tried to finish the fight before he even got back on his horse... Ah well. Fight now, philosophize later.

His horse repositioned, Ryn resumes the attack, banishing humor once again, resuming his focus. No sign of his internal monologue shows on his face as he stands in the stirrups and prepares to bring the saber down again. Except, perhaps, a small twitch of the lips.

OOC
Okay, let's see if I can actually hit him this time, eh? two more simple cuts, the first using Power Attack 4, the next not using Power Attack at all (watch, that one will crit and the first one will miss).

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13536198#post13536198)

Rolling Attack - AoO:(1d20+5)[9]

Rolling Attack - Third Round: (1d20+9)[29]

Rolling Damage - AoO:(1d8+8)[9]

Rolling Damage - Third Round: (1d8+4)[5]


Rolling to confirm Critical Hit: (1d20+9)[15]

Rolling rest of the damage for if critical is a success: (1d8+4)[7]

[Dragonsong]

It was good to speak to people, to chat openly and honestly with strangers; in Dambrath, one did not speak to one's "betters" unless asked a question, and one did not speak to one's fellows at all (in practice, not within an overseer's hearing) while working. The tension brought on by the mention of Drow slowly flowed out of Roen as he listened politely to the merchants, nodding and asking questions in all the right places to keep the conversation flowing. Unfortunately, the merchants could only give him a basic description of the attacks, but these were the sort of folk who steered well clear of such business.

If Roen wanted to do something about all this, he would have to ask others who were trying to do the same.

It was still hours before sundown, he reasoned, and that left him with plenty of time to make his inquiries. He was no tracker - he'd relied on his nomad allies, may their souls find peace, when such was required - and was thus unlikely to discover the Drow position (or positions), especially since they had gone to ground of late. But perhaps he could still be useful. Politely thanking the latest merchant with whom he had spoken, he turned and headed in the direction the rider who had accosted him had gone. Brave or stupid, he thought, grinning at the memory. He could only hope they didn't really think he was a thief.

It was not far to the Riders' barracks, a walled compound of several buildings, one of which was clearly a jail. Though Roen was certain he could escape it with nothing more than his little finger, on which he kept the nail long to pick locks without tools when necessary, and a bit of good fortune in where the shadows fell, he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He was here to help, and though he was by habit uncertain of authority at best, the people of Ashabenford seemed happy enough to be ruled by this one. Taking a deep breath, he approached the gates...

[The Smoking Man]

Roen: As you traverse the street eastward toward the Riders' barracks, you are almost knocked over by a ruddy-skinned man with hawk features speeding in the opposite direction. When he bumps you in the road, the hood of his travelling cloak is cast from his stubbly head to reveal strange tattoos covering his scalp, ears and neck. He curses at you in some unknown language before throwing his hood back on and continuing west toward the trade district of town, muttering the words "Tylarc hilmern... Elmystrel, magist... tylarc hilmern..." as if in disbelief of something he had seen or heard.

As you approach the gate to the barracks, the same Rider that spoke with you in the street is leaning on a post just inside the complex where his well-bred horse is tied up and chomping on a carrot. The Rider chomps on another. "Ah!" he says, "If it isn't the hero-jester of the south come to offer a word to a lowly Rider of Mistledale! Come, friend, what have you to say for yourself?" And with this opens the main gate to speak with you.

Ryn: After two more swipes at the more stabilized barbarian, a hit is finally landed. A good one, too. You feel the saber dig deep into the man's leathers, biting the skin beneath his rustic cuirass. Blood shines on your steel as you return it to an attacking position. The Uthgardt, however, stays ahorse, biting down the pain.

And now he has his jagged iron sword in hand, and is ready to take vengeance in his enraged state...

OOC:
Decided to roll publicly for the Uthgardt's attack (see dice thread). Looks like he hits for 10!:smalleek: Feel free to incorporate the hit however you like into your next post.

Also, your critical hit is successful. The barbarian's impressive pectorals have seen better days.:smallsmile:

Oh it's on...

Perelia: Noristuor leads you into the entrance hall of his home, explaining as he does so the events of yesterday. "What exactly this unscrupulous mage is planning, I do not know. What I do know is that he's a Thayan. He thought he could hide his accent and tattoos from me, but he's a fool. He said he wanted to sponser something of a small performance here at my tower. Said he was recruiting mages for a caravan trip south. Dragon manure, of course, but there's an advantage to letting others think they've got the best of you... The trick of the elderly, I call it." He chuckles as he lights a blackwood pipe produced from within the folds of his robe. "Anyhow, I got the impression he needed today's festivities as a distraction for some larger scheme, but then, when you, erm... when Elminster showed up, he found himself a bit out of his league!" Noristuor laughs his gravelly laugh, leading you from the entrance hall of his musty, grey-stone tower into a small parlour with a table and two chairs.

He sits and offers you some tea. "As I was saying, a distraction. I thought it best to let things go on as they would so that I could watch him without attracting suspicion. I have no doubt he's working in tandem with others, though I have yet to see his companions. I think it best for Ashabenford if I keep myself as far from the action as possible. This is not the time for the city to go mageless... Which is why I invited you in to hear all of this. I was hoping you might be so kind as to find out where the Thayan went exactly and what he plans to do. If you are not interested, I understand, but would ask that you leave me if that's the case so I can take the necessary steps in dealing with this disturbance. What say you, Halruaan?"


OOC:
And another post soon for Neth, who is almsot done her next one, as well as a seperate one for Doroga and Ryn in the Dirty Melee event. Expect them very soon! :smallwink:

[Neth]

At the barkeep's last mumbled words, Neth's expression flickers with mild surprise and shifts into a kind of wary attention. The cats had not been missing more than a few days? Hearing this, only a ghastly dense druid would not be alarmed. The bustle of the streets had certainly caused some annoyance, but this was the first moment Neth had reason to sense something truly amiss looming over the town.

As the food arrives, Gyl stirs with a groggy coo of awakening appetite, making an increasingly avid commotion as the aroma of the wine drifts over. Seeking to promptly distance him from the beverage, Neth plucks a chunk of stew meat and turns on her stool to toss it away from the bar. Gyl snatches it from the air with a sputter of flapping discord and retreats to a high rafter to tear and peck his prize to death. In the fleeting moment, Neth takes a better look at the off-duty Rider, the smoking merchants and the two figures by the fireplace, (now seeking anything remotely strange about anybody), before the Corkwill woman speaks up.

"Your request is the reason I'm here," Neth replies, moved by how this stranger addressed her. "And I doubt you'll be lacking interest come nightfall. I wouldn't pay much heed to the rest. I imagine any man who's found fame has found scorn, and those who hate your father before they've met him aren't worth the soil they spit on."

After a drink of wine, she takes up the wooden bowl, not thinking her eager feasting discourteous. "For my part, I will listen," she says. "And I am sorry your father suffers. But I'm no great healer. There may be nothing I can help you with."

(rolls about the people in the tavern...)
search:(1d20)[4]
listen:(1d20+5)[19]
sense barman motive:(1d20+3)[9]
sense woman motive:(1d20+3)[18]

[The Smoking Man]

The Dirty Melee, Round One:

The dirty melee is a time honoured tradition among mercenaries of the Bears Errant company, whose reverence for Helm causes them to expend perhaps more time, effort, energy and blood in the ring than they should.

Presiding over the match is the aforementioned cleric and the leader of the Bears Errant Second Company, Captain Stailwoln Karpike, a one-eyed ex-farmer from some nameless dirt-speck village in the Western Heartlands. Stailwoln strides to the center of the makeshift arena, spits heavily and wetly onto the hard-packed earth, looks to the four fighters in each corner, and seems to ready himself to give a speech. He promptly smiles, nods, and leaves the ring as quickly as he entered it. This, apparently, is the sign to begin...

The two other contestants are a dwarf in heavy armour wielding an enchanted halberd, and a half-elven swordsman in chain with twin blades glimmering in the hot sun.

OOC:
Initiative:
Ryn with 18
Half-Elf with 17
Dwarf with 11
Doroga with 7/ready action.

The arena: A rough square of hard-packed earth about 35 ft. across, with the four contestants starting in each corner. In the middle of the ring there's three kegs standing in a triangle. They're empty and relatively light, can be stood on, picked up, hidden behind, etc. All three barrels have a special something inside that can be used in the match.

The rules are fairly simple: No offensive or healing spells, no attacking someone when they're down, no outside help. Other than that, it's all up to luck, skill and showmanship. First place is a yet-to-be-determined purse of gold straight up, with a special showmanship prize offered to whomever got the biggest rise out of the audience (which consists of a couple dozen mercenaries, a few families of townsfolk, and a gaggle of other martial types waiting for their matches.)

Ryn, you're up! The dwarf is across from you in the north quarter. The half-elf is to your right in the east corner, and Doroga, you're to Ryn's left in the west corner (meaning the Half-Elf is across from you and the Dwarf is to your left with Ryn to your right).

[Keylac]

The Uthgardt was quick; even off balance, he got his shield up in time to block Ryn's first strike. It wasn't a complete waste though. The impact, combined with his precarious position, rocked him back. He had to throw his shield arm out wide to stabilize himself... just as Ryn's next slash came whistling in. The Uthgardt grunted in pain as the slash sliced into the flesh along his ribs, cutting through his armor.

He was tough though, that Uthgardt; without even a pause for a breath, he lashed out with his blade. Ryn managed to twist his torso aside from the blow, feeling it glance off his armor. His leg was less lucky. He bit back a curse as he felt the longsword bite into his thigh.

A quick glance at his leg assured him that the wound wasn't immediately serious. Even without healing, simple stitches would take care of it, eventually. Still, there was a fight on. He brought his blade around in another slash.

OOC
Regular attack, +4 Power Attack (it's got to work sometime, right?)

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13539322#post13539322)

Rolling for Attack, Round 4: (1d20+5)[15]

Rolling for Damage, Round 4: (1d8+8)[14]

[The Smoking Man]

Neth:

Before Daurily can respond to your words, another man in a featureless travelling cloak with the hood drawn up enters the Inn. He is clearly out of breath, but attempts to hide the fact as he walks shakily over to his two companions by the fireplace. He begins to blather, much to the chagrin of his more elder companion, before even sitting down. The older easterner stands, puts a hand on the shaken man's shoulder, but instead of comforting him, forces him into his seat. The third easterner, a woman with a permanent sneer, shakes her head at the man's apparent foolishness.

You hear them well enough, though you do not understand their words. A cold shiver runs up your spine, however, as you recognize the language as Thayan. Also, you recognize the tone as one of tension, even fear or deep anxiety in the younger of the three as the elder man attempts to reason with him...

From the barman you get no particular sense, other than that he is not the deceitful sort. Daurily, however, is very obviously troubled. Even more so when the third foreigner comes in to join the other two. She eyes them, notices that you too are eyeing them, and returns to her mug of water, saying quietly, "Do you know those men, adventurer? Forgive me if I'm wrong, but their accent bears a minor resemblance to yours. I must admit that they do not give the best of impressions..." She shrugs. "But I must thank you for your kindness. And worry not. My father is beyond conventional or magical healing of the more mundane varieties, hence my call for aid. When the time comes and any others who choose to heed my request make themselves known, I shall explain more."

Aside from the foreigners, you notice as well that the off-duty Rider of Mistledale has taken a keen interest in the three foreigners. He rises from his table, leaving some silver as a tip, and makes his way slowly over to the door. He makes a point of showing the three easterners that he is watching them, before he leaves the common room to fetch his horse from the stables.

OOC:
Pretty sure I addressed all of your rolls? Let me know if anything else needs clarification...

[Keylac]

The Dirty Melee, Round One:

Leaning against the post in the south corner, greatsword leaning next to him, waiting for the match to begin, Ryn eyes the competition.

The half-elf was the weakest looking; the dwarf alone probably had him beat by a good five stone, height be damned. Then again, he'd long since stopped assuming that just because someone looked a bit weaker he couldn't take care of himself. Briefly, he rubbed the scar on his cheek, before dropping his hand and turning his attention to the dwarf across the way.

The barrels didn't help his view of the short one, but he wasn't surprised at all by what he saw. Steel on steel, topped off by a beard; standard for a dwarf. He made a mental note of the halberd, a fairly wicked weapon to meet in melee.

As for the other human... he wasn't as heavily armored as the dwarf, but Ryn wasn't going to enjoy coming within reach of that pig-sticker of his. His light, sure grip on it as he readied himself told Ryn everything he needed to know about how well he could use it too.

"Ah well," muttered Ryn as he watched the captain stride into the center of the ring, "easy's only fun when it comes to wine, women, and gold."

In truth, as Ryn heaved himself upright, reaching for his greatsword, his thoughts were quite cheerful. His earlier match had gotten his blood pumping; a fight like this was going to be the best workout in weeks, win or lose.

He readies himself, sword held in a low guard, waiting for the call to begin. As soon as the captain leaves the ring, he moves.

A quick pivot to the right, and straight at the elf he charges, sword already positioning for a strike. As his feet eat up the distance in a bare few strides, he considers the gamble he's running. All out assaults like this can be risky, but he figures the odds favor him. The barrels will block any charge from the other human, and he's wagering the dwarf will refrain from attacking engaged opponents, out of a sense of honor.

Either way, he'll know soon enough...

OOC
Making a Charge, using Power Attack +4.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13539753&posted=1#post13539753)

Rolling for Attack, Dirty Melee Round One: (1d20+7)[9]

Rolling for Damage, Dirty Melee Round One: (2d6+14)[21]

[The Smoking Man]

The Dirty Melee, Round One, Post Two:

The half-elf steps deftly aside to avoid your blow, and follows expertly through with an opportunistic double slash at your exposed back...

OOC:
5-ft. step to get beside you, and full attack (Two-Wep.-Fight.)


"Fuad the Scar" Half-Elf ranger attacks for round one:
(1d20+6)[15]
(1d20+5)[24]

(1d8+3)[8]
(1d6+3)[4]

So that's two hits! Take full damage, but remember that you have been healed since the Mounted Swordplay event.

The dwarf makes a move for the barrels in the center, and attempts to climb up on top of them.

OOC:

Dwarf's climb to barrels:
(1d20+1)[15]

He makes it but is now flat-footed on top of the barrels.

Doroga be up! (Sorry for the wait...)

[The Smoking Man]

Keylac:

The Uthgardt takes your next blow on the opposite side of the torso, and this time can't help but cry an obscene oath as his head jerks back in reflexive pain... The enraged barbarian has seen better days, but his vengeance seems to blur the effect of the undeniable pain...

He strikes again, but the rage throws off his aim, as does the burning wounds in his torso. The sword falls short of you.

OOC:

Uthgardt Attack:
(1d20+7)[12]

Uthgardt Damage:
(1d8+4)[7]

Which means a miss on his part!

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga watches the first few seconds with interest. The other human and the elf seem to be going at it with ferocity while the dwarf seems to be going for... well, for eye-level.

"Well, looks like I get the ankle-biter.", he mutters to himself.

"C'mon Knubbs! I'll shave you as bare as the day you were born! You can pretend to be a mole-rat!"

He grins and moves towards the dwarf swiftly, stopping 10 feet away and taking a swipe at the elevated dwarf's stubby little legs.


Trip action!
My touch attack roll: (1d20+9)[17]
Opposing Str Check (+4 feat added in): (1d20+7)[11]

Assuming I succeed, the attack!
Attack roll: (1d20+9)[15]
Damage roll: (2d4+4)[9]

Assuming I crit, the crit!
Confirmation: (1d20+9)[13]
Damage roll: (2d4)[2]

That, is some poor rolling. Average of the 4 d20s is 7. XD

TSM: Just in case you haven't tripped in awhile and to simplify what you have to go looking for. Dwarves don't get their stability bonus because the barrel wouldn't constitute stable ground. We're both medium, so no other modifiers!

Aaaand if the dwarf does get tripped, when/if he tries to get up... My attack of Opportunity!

AoO when the dwarf gets up (if necessary):
ANOTHER TRIP!
Touch Attack: (1d20+9)[25]
Opposing Str Check: (1d20+7)[12]

Attack: (1d20+9)[27]
Damage: (2d4+4)[9]

[Dragonsong]

Preoccupied as he was with his musings about the Dark Elves, Roen was not terribly surprised to end up running into someone, though not particularly pleased with himself either; even here, in apparent safety, it was wise to be cautious. He made a little half-bow and a quick apology, but was met with what was clearly a curse for his trouble. The young man simply shrugged; some people were like that, and this one was obviously harried. But as the stranger's cloak fell away, revealing his many tattoos, Roen's mind whirled. Had he seen their like before somewhere? Perhaps among the other slaves... or the slavers.

He was tempted, for a moment, to follow the man, but he didn't want to get himself into any further trouble with the town guard, and if he was seen tailing someone it wouldn't look good. He doubted he would be; he was quite good at being stealthy, having practiced all his life with much more dire consequences for failure. Still, it hardly seemed worthwhile to risk it for a half-formed hunch, especially when success might only prove a waste of time. Better to inquire with the Riders; if there was something useful to be done for this town, they'd be likely to know it, and the Drow were a known threat.

Smiling calmly as the Rider made his jests (he still wasn't quite sure how serious the man was), Roen stepped through the gate as it opened. It was a matter of courtesy in Dambrath to allow one's host to receive guests behind closed doors, as this both indicated a degree of trust in the host and allowed him or her to ensure that no unwanted visitors, or the spells and arrows of an assassin, entered at the same time. Roen wondered that it was so obvious that he came from the South; after all, he had not had to make the journey overland, and still found it difficult to orient himself on a map.

"Good rider, you mentioned that courage or stupidity might be useful to this town's people, so here I am to demonstrate one or both once again," he said, leaning on the gate and letting out a little chuckle. "I have no love for Dark Elves, and I know how they fight. I've heard that they've gone to ground of late, but that just means they're planning something, in my experience." It was true enough. The only quiet days in Dambrath's capital city of Cathyr, apart from the Days of Agonized Silence set down by the Loviataran clergy on which the tongue of anyone (noble or slave) who made a sound was ripped out, were the days when the Crinti were hiring assassins and spies rather than mercenary militias.

"If there is any way I can assist you against these Drow while I'm in town, I'd be glad to help."

[Keylac]

As he ducks under his opponents swing, Ryn contemplates how much fight the other rider has left in him.

Not a lot, I think, but enough. Let's try to get this over with before he corrects his aim then, shall we?

As he straightens up, Ryn touches his heels to Banner, moving him half a step forward, and drives a thrust forward.

OOC
Regular hit, no Power Attack.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13542975#post13542975)

Rolling for Attack, Round 5: (1d20+9)[29]

Rolling for Damage, Round 5: (1d8+4)[10]


Rolling to Confirm Critical: (1d20+9)[23]

Rolling for remaining Critical Damage: (1d8+4)[7]

On a side note, Yay me! On a downside note, why couldn't I have gotten that 20 in the Dirty Melee? We'd be picking elf parts up off the ground for hours... :smallbiggrin:

[Neth]

Hearing the vile syllables of their language spill out of those Thayan worms, Neth finds her stew now revolting. Detesting the lot of them as a menace to her people, but mostly for ruining her appetite, Neth entertains several courses of vengeance. The younger had made it clear the Thayans were hiding something. Whatever they were up to, the last thing they seemed to want was to draw any attention. For all they knew, that cautious Rider had taken up watch just outside.

With the thrill of an opportunity to either ruin their day or get herself killed, Neth takes a final sip of wine, and says quietly to Daurily, "Yes, that language neighbours mine. But they've butchered it, along with my people. I expect you'll find nothing similar in our morals."

She turns to glance up at Gyl. "Kst! ...maoun!" she hisses. The owl adopts a heavy-eyed, lazy expression, and swoops casually into the middle of the three Thayans and perches upon the mantle with a careless bit of cooing.

Neth tries to look annoyed and beckons him. "Venna...! venna...!" The owl remains. Sliding off her stool and drifting over to the fireplace, Neth greets the strangers.

"Your pardon, nokahi. He never listens," she says with a grin, taking Gyl onto her arm, and scratching his neck gratefully for his performance. "Perhaps he heard you and felt homesick. He has not flown an east wind for many seasons. Have you also been long away?"

With a thousand curses burning on her tongue, Neth waits for their reaction with the most pleasant demeanor a Rashemi has ever attempted.

(I've been instructed to do a bluff check...)


(1d20+1)[20] ... :smallcool:

[The Smoking Man]

Ryn: As the Uthgardt's defenses drop, you are able to take full advantage of the situation. Your horse-propelled forward thrust finds the barbarian's skin without issue. The bloodied man grunts and spits, cursing as he does so. This next strike may very well be his last of the match, and so he pours most of what strength he has left into it.

OOC:

Uthgardt Power Attack:
(1d20+4)[12]
(1d8+7)[10]

Miss! Again, feel free to describe however you like.

Neth: Daurily has no time to preach caution before you stride over to where the three Thayans are seated at the crux of the L-shaped common room. Gyl watches as the elder of the three turns to address you after your "friendly" introduction.

"You noticed we were easterners, eh?" (In Rashemi) "Jansc nohaki strelged? You have friends in these parts, ethran? We certainly do..." And with that the man nods and turns back to his companions. The woman among them continues to eye you darkly for another few seconds, even after the elder man has returned to his wine. It seems the elder and the woman are sure of themselves, though the younger man who just arrived is especially nervous, and obviously so (especially from so close).

Roen: "The drow, eh? So you know a thing or two about fighting those slimy dastards y'think? Well, far be it from old Captain Thraeg to shoot down a young street-performer's aspirations to usefulness..." The Rider pauses for a moment, chewing his carrot and scratching his chin. "Well, I suppose I could think about letting you into the field with my men, but first I'd-"

The captain is interrupted as another Rider trots up the street from the north, dismounts, and double-times it toward Thraeg and yourself. "Sir," he pants, leaning on the post, "Drow. Come east from down Battledale way... One of ours is dead. Ferndan the Ranger from Dorthorpe. He caught a quarrel right in the heart... it had a note to it." the Rider hands captain Thraeg a bloody piece of parchment. The Captain reads it, curses, and seems to consider you a moment.

"Tell me," Thraeg asks you, "What do you know about old man Herlam? i trust that daughter of his gave you one of those requests for help too, eh? Well? Do you intend to help him? Seems the drow gave me my very own request for heroic deeds." he pauses a moment, as if deciding whether or not he should divulge the note's contents to you. The side of him that likes and wants to trust you gives in. "Seems we're to deliver Herlam Corkwill to the drow, or Ashabenford get's raided. We have until tomorrow evening, and then we can expect a full assault if they don't have that old man, along with some book or other he's got on him." he turns to messenger, slapping the note with one hand, "Do you believe this Gnoll spit?" And turning back to Roen, "Eh? What do you think, then, sneaky one? Hand over a poor old man to the demon-worshiping cave elves, or allow the biggest city in the Dalelands to be pillaged in the night? You wanted a chance to prove your worth. Why don't you start by going to see what this old man has to say for himself?"

OOC:
More later folks. It's a wee bit late.

[The Smoking Man]

The Dirty Melee, Round Two:

Doroga manages to sweep the stubby dwarf's legs directly out from under him, causing him to fall comically with his arse breaking through the lid of one of the barrels, trapping him there for the time being. He grunts and struggles, but getting out of such a tight spot is no easy feat for a dwarf in plate armour (especially one wrestling to keep hold of a weapon considerably taller than he is).

OOC:
Ryn: You're still up in your struggle against the half-elf!
Doroga: You get an AoO and then your normal round, as the Dwarf is not going anywhere this round...


Dwarf's Opposed STR check v/grapple:
(1d20+2)[4]
(Just realized the dwarf is actually weaker than the half-elf... lol.

[TheDivineWind]

Well, that went better than expected...

"Come now Dwarf, lets not make this an unfair fight!"

Doroga shifts to the side a few feet to get a better angle under the thick armored plates on the dwarf and proceeds to stick him with his weapon twice.

AoO:

Attack roll: (1d20+9)[24]
Damage roll: (2d4+4)[6]

Next round action, ATTACK!:
Attack roll: (1d20+9)[11]
Damage: (2d4+4)[9]

OOC question: Did the dwarf manage to right himself? I acted assuming he wasn't able to.

[Keylac]

For the first time, steel rings out as Ryn parries the Uthgardt's strike, directing the blow harmlessly to the side. Ryn shakes his head in appreciation of his opponents sheer toughness; a lesser man would have been dead in the dust by now. It's obvious he's on his last legs, but he still grimly holds to his saddle, striking back.

With a sigh, Ryn once again discards tactics. The barbarian's already losing, and he already made him mad enough; he doesn't need to shame him further. His saber flashes around in another slash at his wounded opponent.

OOC
Standard attack, no Power Attack.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13549429#post13549429)

Rolling for Attack, Round 6: (1d20+9)[16]

Rolling for Damage, Round 6: (1d8+4)[6]

Not my best damage, but eh.

[Keylac]

The Dirty Melee, Round Two:

Ryn grimaces as he feels the half-elf's blades slice into him. The smaller one got caught up in his armor; he can feel some blood from the wound, but it wasn't bad. The other one though, that one hurt a bit. The worst part was the knowledge he'd left himself open for it, following a reckless charge with such an off center swing.

His grimace turns into a grin and he contemplates his earlier thoughts on the odds. Apparently, they weren't as good as he'd thought, but there was nothing for it now but to keep on.

Strangely cheerful from that thought, he spins to his left, coming low and aiming another bone-breaking strike at the half-elf, calling out a cheerful greeting.

"Uluvathae to you too, you long-eared dandelion eater!"

OOC
Straight attack, with Power Attack +4.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13549624#post13549624)

Rolling for Attack, Dirty Melee Round Two: (1d20+5)[24]

Rolling for Damage, Dirty Melee Round Two: (2d6+14)[19]


Rolling to Confirm Critical: (1d20+5)[17]

Rolling for Additional Critical Damage: (2d6+14)[21]

Total Damage on Critical: 40.

Come on having 17 or less AC!

[Dragonsong]

Chuckling at the line about street performers aspiring to greatness - though for a far different reason than the joke was made - Roen nodded along with the offer of field work. He would have his chance to prove his worth soon enough; juggling was only one of his talents, and however little he liked killing he had been forced to admit over time that he was good at it. To fight for a good cause was nothing new, but a good cause with even a chance of victory, that would be a nice change of pace. And then the messenger arrived, and Roen cursed his perfect timing, bowing his head respectfully at the mention of the dead man.

"Aye, the lady gave me one of her papers, and I was planning to hear her out, at least. As for the Drow ultimatum, it could go one of two ways. It could be that they're afraid to attack the town, and hope that we're afraid enough of that possibility that they won't have to. But Dark Elves are sneaky and cunning; they don't give away their intentions unless they're supremely confident of their victory, which probably means they'll attack the town no matter what we do." In Roen's experience, it was true enough. A race that fought by poison and ambush (and tended to wear light armor) gave up a major advantage when they surrendered the element of surprise.

"You weren't really thinking of handing the old man over, were you? Gods only know what they'd gain with this book of his, and as I said, they'd probably attack just for the slaves and plunder if they're willing to be this bold." Roen doubted that the rider was thinking any such thoughts; after all, it was his duty to protect the town and its citizens. Still, a little reinforcement of that path likely wouldn't hurt. "I'll speak with him, if you think it'll help. Should I go now, do you think, or wait and meet with the parchment-giving lass about it? In the meantime, perhaps we should send word to the outlying farms that there are Drow skulking about, get them into town before night falls."

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia accepts the tea graciously, and both she and her familiar listen with respect, her long ears tilting forward slightly during the elder wizard's explanation and exposition. After he finishes she takes a moment to compose and order her thoughts before replying, her voice polite and calm. "I enjoy hearing the thought processes of one so logical, Master Noristuor; it has been to long since I have held the company of another practitioner of the Art. This Thayan sow, however," her eyes narrow, "has already found my distaste, and I've not yet met the man. I entirely understand why you should not rush out into action, sir; to abandon your town would be rash, especially when you may be potentially outnumbered. I have no doubt to your power, but an elder's life should never be gambled with when young hands are at a plenty."

She thumbs her elven bowstaff, the elegant and elongated piece of wood humming as she brushes its string. "I am no stranger to violence, though it is not my specialty. I accept your task, and I will take it upon myself to find this man and determine his plans to the best of my ability. I believe I will see if I can find some aid in the matter; with this many people in town, there will surely be a few willing to act towards the well-being of the people in this area. I will go into town now and begin my work." She nods politely and gracefully to the old mage, standing to leave.

"Oh," she pauses for a moment, clearly troubled, before continuing. "I do not wish to be rude, sir, but after I return from this task, could I possibly copy a few spells for my, admittedly, small collection? I would not take long, and the degree of spell that I can currently cast is quite limited, so you need not worry about unsafe power falling into my hands. I request no other compensation, and if you refuse I will complete this task all the same. That said, sir, it will cost you nothing, and it would mean a very great deal to me." Her toad chirrups in agreement, and the sound is somehow earnest, despite its source.

[Neth]

"You have friends in these parts, ethran? We certainly do..."

Neth takes a moment, and then replies in the same language. "An honest traveller can find friends in every land," says the druid calmly. "Unless it is a wicked land," she adds with a pointed look.

Neth realizes they must really want to avoid attention. Or they’d never dismiss me with such civility, especially if they thought I was an ethran.

What exactly they were trying to hide, she couldn’t fathom. But I’ll swallow several daggers if they’re up to some kind of good.

Determined to expose their vile shenanigans, and confident now that she could likely aggravate them quite a bit before they’d resort to any measure that would reveal themselves, Neth proceeds to provoke them, in an attempt to learn anything that might betray their secret.

"Friend!" she exclaims, pretending to suddenly notice the trembling one, who had lately arrived. "What news? You are stricken with terror." The druid tenses up and acts like she is prepared to alert everyone in the vicinity.

"There was a Rider here, just stepped out. I shall call him in for you--"

[The Smoking Man]

The Dirty Melee, Round Two:

With the power of Ryn's momentous backlash, the half-elf, though full of finesse and alacrity, cannot withstand the force of the larger man's considerably larger weapon. Before Ryn can resume a ready stance, the cleric of Helm and his squire are rushing onto the battlefield to tend to the fallen contestant, leaving Ryn to turn his attention to the remaining two opponents...

OOC:
You squashed the half-elf like it wern't no thang. It's the ICU for that pseudo-elven schmuck. :smallcool:

Meanwhile, in the center of the ring, the dwarf remains comically trapped with his feet sticking over one edge of the barrel and his head over the other, struggling with his halberd to regain some semblance of footing.

Doroga makes a deft opportunistic attack, and follows it with another direct strike. The first nicks the dwarf's arm badly through a joint in his mail, while the second clangs off the heavy breastplate...

OOC:
The dwarf failed miserably his Escape Artist check to /stuck himself. Proceed with your attempted butchery of the metal-encased dwarf.

The crowds are having an uproariously good time, by the way...

[The Smoking Man]

Neth: "No! You mustn't!" cries the youngest of the three Thayans, still aquiver from whatever person, place or thing sent him running into the inn to join his comrades. The elder of the three shoots the young one a sharp look that promises future recrimination. He stands and gives you a false smile, clearly wise to the game you are playing, but attempting to keep his cool.

"We must thank you so very much for your concern, fellow traveler. My friend here is merely suffering from a wretched combination of heatstroke and road-nerves. We have come far on our way to Sembia, and are not as close to our destination as we would like to be. If you would kindly leave my addled friend here in peace, I would have no cause for anger." The last word is said with barely-restrained emotion. It is clear they will tolerate little more of this...

Daurily has assumed a position facing Neth and the three Thayans. She seems calm and alert. The group of merchants in the corner seem strangely detached from your interactions.

Perelia: "It is reassuring to hear a mageling such as yourself express an interest in more than just the accumulation of power. Would that all such aspirants display that level of... courage, I suppose." Noristuor stands slowly and walks over to a bookshelf closer to the fireplace. He scans several volumes as he speaks. "And yes, it would be my pleasure to share with you some of the tricks and incantations I used when I was still a younger mage." he laughs his gravelly laugh, then says "I remember how every new scroll and each chance to study a new volume was like a gift from Azuth himself, accompanied by the ecstasy of communing with fair Mystra's Weave." He steals himself from his reverie as Shlep enters the room.

"Master," the portly young man says, "I have scryed somewhat successfully the location of the man who fled the event. It seems he has run to the Ashabenford Arms. It is strange, though... some magic I cannot decipher blocks my vision further. We will not be able to see into the Inn itself."

"In that case, Perelia, I suggest caution as you move forward. Before you leave, I'd better help to ensure your safety. Nothing too noticeable, but something nonetheless..."

Noristuor then chants several words in the Draconic tongue - words that seem to come as easily to him as Elven does to you - makes a quick gesture through the air before you, and you feel his defensive magic like a bulwark invisible over your skin. "That should do." he says. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't still be careful, though. Now then, if you don't mind, my apprentice will see you out and give you directions to the Inn if you don't already know where it is. He'll help you go anywhere else you need as well. I'll expect to see you soon with news."

OOC:
Noristuor has cast Mage Armour on Perelia. The apprentice stands by to answer any questions as Noristuor climbs the stairs leading to the upper floors of the tower.

Roen: "Aye," says the Rider captain, "Their motives are damned vague. Makes one wonder how they knew Herlam was here in the first place." He throws up his hands. "Lieutenant, send riders to the outlying villages, and round up as many of our scouts and rangers you can. I want our meager forces ready for whatever comes. I'm not in the habit of negotiating with drow, at least not without a damn good explanation as to why. Southerner, you'd better go to the Inn now, or at least soon. If you've got a meeting in a couple of hours with the old man, that'll do I suppose. I'll be coordinating things from here if you need me."

And with that the captain jogs back to the barracks, yelling orders as he goes...

Ryn: With your final blow, the Uthgardt makes a last attempt to raise his sword, but his muscles falter. His eyes flutter, and he droans a slow gurgle/curse that dribbles out of his mouth as he slumps to the earth in a bloody, dusty heap. The cleric of Helm and his squire rush in, and are already upon the man, chanting and signing their curative magic, before you even know the battle is finished.

After the match, the Master of Lists approaches Ryn with a purse of coins. "Good showmanship, all around. A bit of comedy here, a few deft swings there, some good riding. Most fun I've had watching a mounted combat in a good long while. Oh, here's the winnings."

And next up, the Dirty Melee... (OOC: Will now be incorporated into the main posts).

OOC:
The purse contains 150 GP.

[Keylac]

Blast From the Past!

As the cleric rushes over to the Uthgardt, Ryn shakes his head, bemused by how hard the tribesman had tried to keep going. Reaching over, he pulls a cloth out of Banner's saddlebag, using it to clean the saber before sliding it back into it's sheathe. Then, careful of his wounded leg, he dismounts.

After taking a moment to clean the barbarians longsword, he walks over until he's leaning over the priest, and waits for them to bring the barbarian back to consciousness, if not health. With a jerk of his head, he grabs the barbarians attention, before giving a short bow of respect.

“If you're feeling up to it later, come down to the Ashbenaford Arms.” he says, breaking into a grin. “I'll be there after the melee, and the first rounds on me. “

With that, he turns around, leaving the priest to his work. On the way past, he murmurs “If you've got any healing left after seeing to him, Father, I'll be waiting over there.”

As he leads Banner out of the ring, the Master of the List approaches him with the winners purse. Thanking the Master of the List for his comments as much as the gold, he searches for a relaxing spot to wait until the melee. Presently, he finds himself leaning against a tree, leg stretched out before him, the wound bound up and awaiting healing. Still feeling worked up by that match, he begins to contemplate what tactics he could use in the fast approaching melee...

Dirty Melee, Round Three (Now part of the main timeline)

Ryn winces as he see's the half-elf crumple to the ground; he hadn't intended to hit him quite that hard. Then again, he hadn't expected the half-elf to completely miss his block either.

With a shrug, he dismisses his prior opponent from his thoughts, concentrating on the rest of the fight. He can see that the dwarf is still caught in the barrel, a poor situation to be in, and probably humiliating for the a proud warrior – and what dwarf isn't proud? The other human was making the most of it though, not that Ryn could blame him. Still...

An idea suddenly blossoms in his mind. A bark of laughter and a fierce grin are the only signs of his decision, as he charges forward, calling forth his battle fury as he goes.

OOC
I just raged (adjustments applied to my sheet) and I'm trying something that may not work. I'm charging straight at the barrel the dwarf is trapped in, and I intend to try and shoulder check it, sending it flying at Doroga, hopefully freeing the dwarf at the same time. So, for that, I'm going to roll a Bull Rush.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13552766#post13552766)

Rolling for Bull Rush against the Barrel/Dwarf: (1d20+8)[22]
I'm not certain that was the right thing to roll for this btw, but since it's just a strength check with the additional +2 from charging, I figured it would suffice even if a Bull Rush wasn't quite right.

[TheDivineWind]

For TSM so that it doesn't slow down the action~ Let me know if you'd prefer to roll these yourself TSM, or if I (we?) should try to do it preemptively).

Reflex save to dodge out of the way of the barrel in time, should it be necessary.
Reflex save: (1d20+4)[19] (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=13554372&postcount=48)

[Dragonsong]

Roen nodded, pleased that the rider had no intention of negotiating with such vile and cunning tricksters as the Drow, and allowed the man to turn away and give his orders without further comment. So, he would be back in battle when night fell. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine even as worry sat heavy in his stomach. For himself he was not afraid; his life was in the hands of his goddess, and he had been delivered many times before from what seemed to be certain doom. But an attack on this barely-defensible village would cause deaths and woundings amongst those who little deserved such things.

He would do everything in his power to protect them, but battle was ugly. Good people would fall.

Turning away from the barracks, Roen moved back through the crowd towards the inn he had noticed earlier, the same one Daurily's note had told him to meet her at. The tension before a battle, that thrill-dread that sharpened his perceptions and set his mind racing, had wormed its way all through his body, and he doubted he would sleep that night. But he could at least find out what it was like to lie down in a bed, if not to sleep in one, and he could do with some food and drink. Whistling merrily to keep his nerves down, he strode through the inn's main door.

[RaggedAngel]

Just as a note, Perelia speaks Draconic, as well as Elven, Sylvan, Gnome, and Goblin. I assume that he's said nothing but the words to the spell, but you may also find that information useful.

Perelia nods gratefully as the wizard ascends his tower, her full lips curving into a smile. It would be interesting to see when the magical armor faded; such a thing was a stark demonstration of a mage's power, and it was always good to collect knowledge on potential allies; or potential enemies. She made a polite farewell to the apprentice, who himself seemed to have power at least the equal of Perelia's own; and quite probably more, since scrying was still beyond her capabilities. She would need to make sure to stay in their good graces.

Perelia left the tower quiet and thoughtful, and once outside she coerced her familiar back into the relative safety of her pack. She set out for the town proper, specifically towards Ashabenford Arms. As she did she took out the two scrolls she had been gifted after her performance, frowning slightly in concentration as she attempted to discern the spells that they contained.

She's going to assume these are 1st or 0th level spells, so she'll take 10 on her Spellcraft check for a 21 to decipher them.

[Neth]

Despite the sparking tension, Neth can not contain a look of slight amusement. Why indeed would a young man simply suffering from the heat of a long journey be so horrified at the idea of confronting a guard?

Her veins crawl with hostility, and with a frustrating internal conflict that many travellers fight. She was not likely their intended victim, but she could not warn whomever was. Nor could she block this path of destruction. Like a canary watching an avalanche.

Before she had decided what to say (or spit) at the shady hoods, a light-hearted whistling from outside suddenly diffuses the atmosphere as though someone had told an unexpected jest. Feeling better, the druid dips her head with a slight bow and leaves the Thayans by the barren hearth. She didn't know who was approaching, but she clung like an infant to the hope that it was some formidable monster of a hero who hates Thayans and would stroll through the door and crush them with his fist. In which case, she'd want to be elsewhere, considering how all easterners look the same to a foreign eye. Neth assumes so anyway, as she has issues distinguishing southerners.

The druid takes up her seat again and requests another wine, murmuring to Daurily, "Had I been born a half-orc, I would've shoved those sickly tindertwigs up the chimney and lit a fire."

[The Smoking Man]

Neth: The elder of the three Thayans seems to assume that his intimidation worked on Neth, and sits back down, positively reeking of barely controlled rage.

Daurily laughs wryly at Neth's description of what she would do to the Thayans. The three are more edgy than ever, and Daurily nods her approval. "The more I think on it, the more I realize it can't be a coincidence... their being here while my father and I keep a room. I appreciate your interest, but perhaps now is the time for observation. We, after all, stand between them and the only route up the stairs to my father. Let us wait and see what game it is they intend to play." and with that, offers to buy Neth another round of whatever she was drinking.

OOC:
The elder Thayan continues to admonish the younger one, while the woman's sharp eyes dart from the door to the bar, taking note of everyone who enters and exits...

Perelia: As Perelia makes her way steadily west to the trade district, she manages to identify the spells contained in the gift-scrolls as "Dawnburst"(CoM) and "Karmic Aura"(CoM) on the first, and "Torrent of Tears"(CoM) and "Know Protections"(PGF) on the second. Truly a boon, as these spells were completely unknown to you before today...

OOC:
If you need any additional info on the spells from the scrolls, just lemme know! :smallsmile:

Perelia and Roen: Perelia almost runs into the gate of the Ashabenford Arms with her elven nose in a scroll before Roen on his way inside absently opens the gate for her as he strolls up the short walkway to the door.

Inside the common room of the arms, it is not quite as packed as it could be. Three hooded travelers having a heated conversation sit closest to the door on the right hand side by an unlit fireplace. They speak a language neither Roen nor Perelia are familiar with. One is a young man (back to you), another a man in his middle years (facing you but not paying you any notice) and the third is a perceptive-looking woman who took notice the moment you entered the building, though she is making a point to show as little emotion as possible. Roen recognizes the cloak of the younger one as the man who ran into him in the middle of the road earlier, and Perelia knows him as the one who (rather comically) retreated expeditiously at the image of Elminster.

A group of four foreign merchants sit at a large table on a slightly raised platform (sometimes used as a stage), smoking and chatting among themselves, calling for new drinks only rarely. At the bar at the far end of the room, Daurily - the woman who gave you the note earlier today - sits with a rather barbaric looking lass possessed of an owl. The two chat quietly. The middle aged barman is tall and skinny, with straight-cut white hair and a polite, hard-to-read face. He nods at every customer as they enter his establishment.

Dirty Melee Update: Ryn comes flying out of right field, grunting the whole way, and slams into the flimsy barrel. The wrought-iron dwarf comes flying out at Doroga, who steps deftly aside in order to avoid having his toes crushed.... but that doesn't prepare any of the three remaining combatants for what happens next...

Liquid fire bursts from the shattered barrel. The crowd of watching mercenaries explodes with knowing laughter, while the rest of the audience gasps with delight. Alchemist Fire. Lots of it. All over the place. Especially the dwarf.

Seems the "prize" in the bottom of that particular barrel was several flasks of the stuff, flasks that broke when Ryn decided to turn himself into a human battering ram. For his part, the dwarf proceeds to roll as far as he can to the north, cursing and grunting in dwarven as his plate armor becomes a fiery furnace of death (a state of affairs the dwarf handles much more admirably than many others might... must be all that smithing and mining).

OOC:
You each take 3 points of fire damage (one for each flask, as per the PHB). You also each get an AoO on the rolling molten dwarf statue. There is now an area of flaming barrel-bits and two intact (but flaming) barrels between you. This gentlemen, would be the time for a dramatic circling each other around the fire scene. No melodrama points will be lost for the rolling, cursing fire-dwarf in the background, as his presence cannot be helped...

It is now Doroga's turn!:smallsmile:

Ryn (Chronicles of the Shadows of the Last Five Minutes Sub-Plot): The Uthgardt, holding a cloth covered in horrid-smelling healing salve up to his chest in a funny sort of perpetual oath-sign, regards you with seriousness as you approach the cots where the cleric tends to the wounded. He attempts to rise, but has yet to recover all of his strength, and sits back down, shooting you a look to see if you had noticed (he's certainly prideful, even for an Uthgardt).

He seems surprised by your invitation. He chuckles. "It would be better, I think, to fight on your side than to fight against you, yes? I will join you at fest-hall when I have been healed by the armoured shaman. I would like to hear about where you learned your sword and horse. True skill, Dalelander. True skill. For now I recover and watch the dirty big-fight. I am wondering, though, what makes such a thing dirty? The dirt? No more dirty than the horse and sword event, and yet, no dirty. Why? Ah! Word-foolishness of southern folk. No matter. I ramble. It is the salve..." he pulls a bottle of thick, brown something out from behind the cot "or perhaps it is this. Either way..." he takes a good long drink and passes the bottle to you "I should less talk and more drink, ah? Oh yes. My name Groban Hillspek of the Screaming Wasp."

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga's eyebrows climb his forehead as he realizes what just happened. Well, they would have if they still existed. A few pink spots and the beginnings of a couple blisters showed on the exposed flesh of his right side. The poor dwarf looked like he might never be taking that armor off again because it seems to have slagged itself to his body.

He whips the hook of his weapon around the rolling dwarf's foot in an attempt to send him sprawling instead of a controlled motion.

Trip on the steel dwarven bowling ball:
Touch: (1d20+9)[16]
Opposed Str: (1d20+7)[14]

Attack if success: (1d20+9)[23]
Damage: (2d4+4)[8]

As he completed the motion, Doroga takes a quick assessment of his situation. He was (mostly) untouched and could start to feel the stinging pain of a light burn, the fellow who tackled the barrel seemed to have miraculously come out of that as untouched as he was. Slowly, the sound of the cheering crowds comes back as his senses extend beyond the melee.

Abruptly, Doroga snaps back his attention to the melee as the other primary competitor stands nearby. As they both are recovering from the explosion, Doroga scoots to within 10 feet from the man and whips his guisarme to sweep at the human's legs.


Trip attempt:

Touch: (1d20+9)[26]
Opposed Str Check: (1d20+7)[13]

If successful, the attack:
Attack roll: (1d20+9)[22]
Damage: (2d4+4)[7]

Man, terrible luck with the opposing rolls!

[Dragonsong]

Oblivious to the tension building between the Rashemi and the Thayans, and the nationalities of either party for that matter, Roen found himself much more interested in the surface Elf who, without his help, would likely have earned a pair of bruised knees courtesy of the oaken gate. He'd had the misfortune to see a number of Drow in his time, but he'd never met one of their reportedly more benevolent cousins. He wondered at her purpose there, and supposed he would never know; a mage such as she - for that was all she could be, reading such mumbo-jumbo scrolls - could have many reasons to pass through town.

Still whistling even as he shot a disapproving glance at the back of the rude young man's head, Roen made his way up to the bar. It occurred to him as he leaned up against the wood and surveyed the patrons that he had never tasted alcohol either. He'd heard that the stuff made one sloppy, and had never dared steal any; sloppiness could be ill-afforded when the consequence for failure was torture and death. But he was hungry first and foremost, and hoped that good food could push the anxiety from his gut. "Goodsir, he said to the innkeeper with a wide smile, I'll have some food, please. And a room. With a bed, if it's not too much trouble."

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Daurily, wondering what he should say about her family's role in the coming attack...

[Keylac]

"Hells Bells!"

With a shout, Ryn almost leaps backwards in shock as the barrel explodes. That had not been what he had expected to happen when he slammed into it!

The surprise was enough to break through, for but a breathe, the battle fury he'd summoned. As he stared at the flames, trained instinct guided his hand and he lashed out at the dwarf rolling past, without even looking. The shock running up his arms and the the clang of the blow hitting armor brought him back to himself.

Heedless of the flames roaring around him, or his singed clothing or burnt skin, Ryn throws his head back with a bark of laughter.

Truly, there was no greater reminder that battle is a fickle thing, he thinks to himself as he returns to a combat stance.

Apparently, fate agreed that battle is fickle. Barely had he set his feet again then the other human attempted to trip Ryn, hooking his leg and attempting to pull him down.

Humor and irony ran as fury once more took center stage; with a snap, his battle fury came back into focus. With a shout of "Badaulder!" Ryn whipped his leg back, resisting the other mans attempt to pull him down and attempting to rip his weapon from his hands in turn.

Ryn watched as the other man kept his feet, but he was forced to unhook Ryn's leg to do so. Full of fury, Ryn displays a grin more feral then humorous. The other man was weaker then him; that much he was sure of, but when trying to trip him, he had made up for it with skill.

Ryn resolved to try and prevent him from getting another chance.

Still wearing that same grin, fury calling out to smash his opponent, Ryn takes a stride forward and brings his blade down.

OOC
I'm gonna go with a +4 Power Attack hit here.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13566526#post13566526)

AoO vs Dwarf: (1d20+11)[22]

Damage vs Dwarf:(2d6+9)[19]

Here's the attack and dmg vs the dwarf, for the AoO. I tried to keep it ambiguous if I hit him or not (I could have gone through the armor, or just bounced off).


Strength check to avoid Trip: (1d20+6)[14]

Strength check to try and trip Doroga: (1d20+6)[7]

Here's my resisting his trip, and then trying to trip him in turn (or more correctly, trying to make him drop his weapon). It failed, so I went ahead and wrote that straight in, rather then keep it ambiguous.


Rolling Attack to hit Doroga, Dirty Melee Round 4: (1d20+7)[24]

Rolling Damage vs Doroga, Dirty Melee Round 4: (2d6+17)[20]

And here's my attempt to pound him into the dust, on my initiative.

[The Smoking Man]

The Dirty Melee:

Between the persistent liquid death encapsulating the already encapsulated dwarf, the taunts of the apparently heartless crowd, and the opportunistic attacks of Doroga and Ryn, the dwarf is essentially a write-off. He sputters a few last curses before lying stationary and waving for the priest of Helm, who jogs over to the fallen combatant (a grin cracking his hard face, for even he cannot deny the humour of the dwarf's plight) and begins to set out the last of the remaining cinders and prepare his curative spells.

Meanwhile, closer to the center of the ring, the two humans face each other down. Doroga opens with another trip maneuver, only just avoided by the canny Ryn, who attempts to knock the pole-arm out of his opponents hands. The maneuver is avoided, and Ryn follows through with a devastating blow from his greatsword, causing a gruesome red smile to purse its lips across the collarbone of the taxidermist's son.

It is Doroga's initiative.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia takes a long moment to take stock of the room, including any potential sources of violence or places of egress. She decides that her first course of action should be to approach someone that will have a better idea of what they are doing; and in this room, it seems fairly obvious who that will be. She barely noticed a slim young human, who gave her a look or two before moving up to the bar. She dismissed the glance as mere interest; there were few elves around these parts, even less than in Halruaa; and in her homeland only one out of every hundred beings was an elf, and even fewer were of her subrace, which was generally even more refined and intellectual than the average elf, though she was an unusual example of physical strength among her kind, which was not saying much.

Perelia ghosts over to the area where Daurily is sitting, careful to not jostle anyone or draw unneeded attention to herself, without going to far as to actually draw up her hood. When she comes within a few feet of the adventurer and her companion she stops short, waiting patiently to be acknowledge by the younger, though more experienced, woman. When she catches her eye she smiles, and speaks calmly and politely. "Milady Daurily; it is good to see you again. I was wondering if you and your companion could spare a moment of your time to give me some small advice; it potentially concerns the well-being of this town, as determined by Wizard Noristuor."

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga cries out sharply in agony as his flesh is sliced open along the neckline of his chain shirt. The blow had been brutal, fueled by the rage that was clear in his opponent's eyes. It was only his training that had allowed him to survive it, moving with the momentum instead of fighting it, and sending him into a spin that carries him 5 feet backward with a spray of blood and bits of his collarbone into the air, taking nearly all of the fight out of him along with it.

He nearly lost his weapon in the motion that followed.

Doroga torques his wrist sharply and grasps his guisarme with his better arm, completing the rotational motion, ducking low, and sweeping again at the man's feet. All the while blood continually flowing from his wound. At the last second, he whips his weapon and limbs back in to his body, and uses the additional momentum to hop up slam his hooked polearm into the crook of his opponent's armored knee, sending him into a sprawling twist.

As the man goes down, Doroga twists his weapon and loosens it from his opponent and uses his upward momentum to bring his guisarme back out and angle it towards his target. Then, as gravity beings to reassert itself Doroga's body, he brings his blade down between the man's armor.


5 foot tactical move back, theeeen.

Trip Attempt
Touch: (1d20+9)[14]
Opposing Str check: (1d20+7)[24]

If available, the free attack: (1d20+9)[21]
Aaand damage: (2d4+4)[9]

[Keylac]

This time, Ryn's strength wasn't enough. He scrambles for balance as the other man pulls his leg out from under him, but fails to find it. Landing flat on his back, his opponent takes the opening to land a solid hit.

On the ground was not where Ryn wanted to be in this fight; he wasn't looking forward to attempting to stand up with that man waiting to pull him back down. Working on instinct, he switched his blade to his left hand, pulling his dagger from his belt and throwing it at the other man.

OOC
Throwing my dagger. Hopefully this would/will work. :smallbiggrin:

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13571034#post13571034)

Rolling Attack for Dagger throw: (1d20+6)[7]

Rolling Damage for Dagger throw: (1d4+6)[8]

Bloedy hell, that did not work out very well. :smalltongue:

[TheDivineWind]

Whipping his head to the side, the dagger whips by in a powerful if mal-aimed attempt to hit him. A grin spreads across Doroga's face as he realizes the man is only holding his greatsword with one hand. He grasps his polearm and swings at the man's wrist, hoping to force him to drop the weapon and remove a significant source of power from his immediate grasp.

Disarm attempt. (since I have range, there is no attack of opportunity, unless you wanted to fling that great sword at me, I suppose...)
Opposed attack roll: (1d20+13)[17]
(+4 for 2 handed weapon)

You can attempt a disarming opposed attack roll if you win this.

Which you might, again with my pissy rolls. :smallbiggrin:

[Keylac]

With a clang of steel hitting steel - and a curse from Ryn - his greatsword is knocked from his hand. A quick shake of his announces his disgust to those watching; it was bad enough that he'd allowed himself to be tripped, then missed his dagger throw, but to leave himself open to be disarmed...?

Still on his back, he took a split second, as the other man recovered his stance, to consider his options. None of them looked very good at this point, which didn't surprise him at all.

With a sigh that contained as much humor at his bull-headed stubbornness as irritation at his predicament, he decided that his best option remained stark, simple violence.

Without wasting another breathe, he whipped to the side, tucked his feat under him, and sprang to his feet, courting another attempt by the other man to pull him back down in exchange for mobility.

OOC
Here goes an attempt to stand up. I'll go ahead and let you make your AoO before I finish my turn, since I need to know if I'm back on my ass or not. :smallsmile:

Edit: Yeah, that didn't work so well. On the upside, at least DW missed his free attack. So, on to the finish of my turn!
As he attempts to regains his feet, the other man whips his weapon around again, catching Ryn's leg and pulling him over. The follow up strike, however, was badly aimed and went right past him.

"Thank Tymora for small favors," he mutters, as he attempts to move into a better position to defend himself.

OOC 2
I'm taking a Full Defense Action until my next turn. My AC is at +4, and you're up DW.

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga seizes the opportunity and whips his guisarme at the man's leg, pulling it out from under him as he tries to push himself up. Another quick jab offers little success, clanking off his armor.

Doroga re-asserts his stance and aims again for a strike, but again it peels off nothing more than a sliver of steel.


Attack roll: (1d20+9)[13]
Damage roll: (2d4+4)[9]

Sorry for the delay, GF wanted cuddles, and by thunder she got them! .\ /.

[Keylac]

As the other mans latest hit rings of Ryn's armor, he lets out a satisfied growl. The longer reach of the mans weapon was seriously hurting Ryn's prospects, but at least he wasn't bleeding any worse.

Temporarily stymied on his attempt to get back into melee range, he decided to go back to Plan B. Without missing a beat, he reached into his quiver and pulled out an arrow, throwing it at the other man.

OOC
Yep, that is correct. I am throwing an arrow. Why? Because I'm never gonna get off this bloedy ground with him standing there :smallbiggrin: Arrows, by the way, function as Improvised Daggers, so a -4 to my attack with it. How bad is it that I still find it more likely that I'll hit then that I'll get close enough to hit him?

Roll (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13573829#post13573829)

Rolling Ranged Attack, Arrow Throwing: (1d20+2)[16]

Rolling Damage, Arrow Throwing: (1d4+6)[7]

[TheDivineWind]

The last thing to fly through his mind before the arrow hit him was...

He is not going to throw that arr...

As the arrow thuds into his thigh, the pain overwhelms Doroga's concentration and he collapses. Seconds later he passes out from the pain.

[Neth]

Neth did not possess the most splendid specimen of human imagination, but even she could think of about a thousand spectacles of atrocity that the Thayans could be orchestrating, and a thousand more possible victims of their intent. As Daurily looks into her cup of water and speaks as though her father is most certainly the central part of all this, the druid fixes her eyes on the woman and studies her, trying to discern whether her cares simply weighed so heavy on her mind that she could think of nothing else, or whether there was some clear connection that Neth had not yet figured out.

She had made no progress before two strangers came through the door. Her expression snaps curious and alert, with little effort to hide this. One of them shot a look of what might be disdain at one of the Thayans. The druid decides she likes him.

While absently holding her wooden bowl steady as Gyl scuttles down her arm to peck at the stew remnants, Neth watches the two make their way to the bar. The elf she'd seen once in the streets appears no less ethereal in the rustic room, and the human moves to lean on the bar with that smooth, agile ease of manner, which to the uncoordinated druid, is like foreign magic.

At the elf's approach and request, Neth maintains an open, respectful expression, waiting for Daurily's answer, and ready with some thoughts of her own, if the discussion calls for comments on the Thayans, the missing cats, or the stew.

[The Smoking Man]

Neth, Perelia and Roen: Daurily answers Neth, "My father has made many enemies in his travels. A great many. If I acted every time my intuition told me that someone was here to make trouble with him, I'd likely have been killed or imprisoned years ago. My philosophy is to be prepared always, but never to assume. If they are here for my father, I am not worried, as he is upstairs and we stand between those Thayans and the staircase." With that she turns to the two new arrivals.

"Welcome friends. I hoe you have come at my behest as per my message. If so, kindly join me while we wait for any others." She turns to Perelia: "And what is this news from Noristuor? What threatens the town?"

She turns to Roen next. "And you, young man? I saw you entertaining the locals earlier. Are you here to rest your hands, or seek gainful employment?"

OOC:
Perelia notices that the young Thayan becomes noticeably more irritated and agitated than before upon seeing her. Roen and Neth both notice this as well, though Daurily does not seem to. The merchants at the raised table have also noticed the congregation at the bar...

Doroga and Ryn: Doroga comes to under the gnarled face of the doddering cleric of Helm. "Ah! There we are. Right as a Rashemi rainfall. Up you go, then. I've more patients comin' through." he says in a jovial but hurried manner, gesturing for Doroga to leave the small tent.

Meanwhile, just outside, Ryn stands with his new friend the Uthgardt warrior, counting his prize.

OOC:
The purse for the Dirty Melee win is 300 GP. Doroga wins the showmanship prize, as the crowds loved his tripping and dodging finesse. He receives a potion of Eagle's Splendor and a shiny new spiked buckler courtesy of the Bears Errant's famed blacksmith, Gourdaln of Luskan (it even bears his signature on the front, marking it as a true collector's item.):smallsmile:

OOC:
More when I come home in a few hours. Doroga and Ryn are free to make their ways to the Inn, along with the Uthgardt.

[TheDivineWind]

Grunting as the healer helps him stand, Doroga pokes his tender pink flesh where the magic closed his wound, wincing slightly. The announcer declairs the winner and the crowd breaks into applause. When he is awarded the showmanship prize, Doroga only laughs and accepts the gifts.


Might as well live up to the title and give them a show.


He lifts his guisarme into the air and yells a wordless thanks to the crowd in order to rile them up. After a few seconds, he heads over to the dwarf and apologizes for his words.

"I meant no insult, dwarf. I only hoped to give myself an advantage in the fight and get the crowd cheering. Good fight."

Afterwards, Doroga tips his polearm in a salute towards Ryn and moves to meet up with him as they exit the arena.

"Well fought. I haven't felt a blow that powerful since my time in the guard fighting against the grey orcs of my homeland. My name is Doroga of Impiltur. How's about a pint?"

He slaps the man heartily on the side where the newly healed wound Doroga gave him would be. Doroga gives a wolfish grin and awaits the man's introduction and response.

[Dragonsong]

Studying the inn's inhabitants out of the corners of his eyes, a skill he had learned well in years gone by, Roen pondered exactly what to say to Daurily. The introduction of the Thayans, as she had identified them, into the mix of the many who wished Herlam ill further complicated matters. Were they in league with the Drow? It seemed unlikely. A better explanation would be that they too were after this book the Dark Elves' note had mentioned. Perhaps it held secrets of the arcane; that would make it attractive to both factions.

"I have your note, milady, if that's what you mean," Roen finally said, doing his best to hide his tension behind the friendly smile he almost perpetually wears, "and I've no intention of throwing it back in your face." He still had no idea why so many of those who'd been offered the document had thrown it aside so quickly; he could see nothing particularly threatening, ridiculous, or even specific in its contents. Perhaps it was because he did not know Herlam, but even if he hadn't intended to take the job the old man would've been an important part of the next half day.

"I couldn't help overhearing you saying your father has made many enemies. If you don't mind my asking, was that because of the deeds he did or," his voice dropped, not quite to a whisper but low enough that the Thayans wouldn't hear, "because of the things that came into his possession?" It was a pointed, straightforward question for several reasons. First, Roen was good at detecting lies, and if Daurily lied to him it would tell him much. Second, he could not be sure she even knew about this book, and if she was honestly surprised that was also valuable information.

[Keylac]

Response to the Uthgardt:

"Well-met then, Groban Hillspek. Truly, it was an honor to fight once more with an Uthgardt; you and yours are truly the might of the Northern Wilds." He pauses for a moment, taking a swig from the extended bottle before passing it back. "I am known as Ryn Kavaren, late of Deepingdale, and it would be an honor to share tales with you. For known though, I must take my leave and prepare for the fight. Rest well."

With a nod of respect to the Uthgardt, Ryn walks back to his horse next to the tree.

Up to the present:

As his opponent crumples to the ground, Ryn let's out a rueful chuckle. He certainly hadn't been sure that would work, that's for sure! He spends a moment more on the ground, feeling the fury leave him now that the fight was over, before grabbing his sword and heaving himself up off the ground.

A few minutes effort was rewarded with finding his dagger and cleaning his sword; both went back into their sheathes. In no time at all, with just a couple stops along the way, he finds himself healed and counting his winnings in front of the priests tent. His horse stands behind him, patiently, while he engages in idle conversation with Groban, debating the relative merits of a cavalry saber versus a longsword.

Hearing the priests words, he turns his head to see his last opponent sitting up. With a smile, he puts the money away, turns towards him, and sweeps his hat off his head in flourishing bow, waving him out of the tent to collect his own winnings.

After watching him collect his prize, they all move out of the arena, back towards the ford into town. Listening to the mans - Doroga's - introduction, he smiles, chuckling in appreciation when he slaps the now-healed wound.

"Well met to you then, Doroga of Impiltur. I am Ryn Kavaren, late of Deepingdale, and this is Groban Hillspek, Uthgardt warrior of the Screaming Wasp. We were just heading to the Arms for a drink ourselves, and would be honored to have you join us. The first rounds on me."

For a moment, his smile goes crooked. "I had invited our other erstwhile opponents as well, but they declined." His smile grows into a grin, though still crooked. "So, I suppose we'll have to drink their share as well."

Seeing that they had arrived at the inn as they walked, Ryn fishes a couple coins out his pouch, handing them to Doroga. "I need to put Banner in the stable, you two head on in. If you would, order a couple of pitchers of Arhlo's latest stout."With that, he heads over to the stable, still leading his horse.

Upon arrival, he raises an eyebrow at one occupant of the stable; a fluffy, almost furry pony. "Well now," he murmurs, seeing the pony. "That's certainly not from around here." Grinning at the thought of meeting a traveler from - he hoped - a distant land, he quickly removes Banner's tack and gear, leaving him in the care of the stable-hand. After placing the tack in the tack room, he strides back to the inn's door, walking inside.

Conversation with the Half-Elf:

As Ryn approached the half-elf, he's greeted by a glare. Almost against his will, a smile appears on his face. "Come now, my friend. There's no reason to be holding a grudge. It was a good fight; I had the wounds to prove it. Come, let me buy you a drink down at the Arms."

Conversation with the Dwarf:

After speaking to the half-elf, Ryn goes and finds the dwarf to invite as well. When he finds him, he almost winces. The dwarf does not look very good, even after healing, and his armor looks worse.

"You have my greetings friend dwarf; and my apologies. I had not meant to compound your misfortune by setting off that fire, but rather had attempted to get you back into the fight. Truly, ill luck followed you in that fight."

Ryn makes a throwing motion with his hand, as if to throw aside misfortune. "I would, however, be honored if you would join me for a drink at the Ashbenaford Arms. The first round is on me, and we can drink to better fortune on the next field of battle."

OOC
I went ahead and incorporated DW's response to the IC post, since he responded while I was still writing. Also, Inn!

Note: Not sure on the price of the beer (his stuff may sell for more then the base after all), but that should be enough.

Note 2: Carrying the tack and crap until I can find somewhere to put it all down. :smallsmile: Bloedy heavy stuff too. Edit: As Neth has kindly pointed out, there's a tack room right there. So, I'm going to put it in there, keeping (from the horse) only the saddlebags, sabre, and lance.

Note 3: Okay, and there's how I started the conversations with the Half-Elf and Dwarf. They're the "Couple of Stops" I made by the way, and I went ahead and incorporated their refusal in already.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia raises her brow at the mention of Thayans, and with a slight gesture to request permission she settles in at the table, sitting lightly and carefully on the wooden seat. "I believe that I may have a problem that is shared by a few here. My name is Perelia Laethia, of Halruaa. I went to the arcanist's competition held today by the town's wizard; during my performance I cast an illusion spell that cloaked me in the form of Elminster of Shadowdale. The man over there," she indicates with words and a slight gesture which one he is, "fled from the crowd, rapidly and a bit fearfully. Noristuor explained that the man represented Thayan interests in the area, and that he may be up to no good; whether or not that is true is up to me to determine."

Perelia looks to Neth, interested and inquisitive. "Tell me, dear; what is it that you know about those people, that has you concerned about them? I had only intended to come to this town for the competition, but between your request," she indicates Daurily, "and this request by Noristuor I am beginning to believe that attempting to meet all of my objective alone is unrealistic. I would like to get all the help that I can, if you understand my meaning."

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga looks down at the coins as they are deposited into his hand, then over to the young Uthgardt. Slowly, they both grin.

"Tonight," Doroga starts slowly, "...we drink like kings~"

"And tomorrow, we vomit like paupers!", erupted the barbarian.

To which the both of them cheer, "HUZZAH!"

The both of them turn towards the door of the Ashbendford Arms Inn. As they head off, the Uthgardt starts singing a song recalling the glory of some past battle in the name of Tempus, and Doroga does his best to ab-lib in descriptive lines of glorified battle where he can.

[Neth]

Neth makes a small sound of amusement in her throat, and answers Perelia, "They are Thayan. My horse could have told you they are up to no good. Little horse, I mean. Pony," she corrects herself, despite the fact that this is utterly irrelevant.

In a voice with slightly more tension she goes on. "The younger came in spooked. I went over. Tested them. Said I'd call a guard in for him, and he roared, 'No!' and trembled like a twig in a storm. They may be geshavlin," she says with clear difficulty, trying to gently pronounce a word that is typically spat in the midst of streaming curses. "Red Wizards. But I can't tell. They would be shaven," she said with a small gesture to her head. "With markings, sometimes. Of all Thayans, these are the most wicked, and most powerful. If the friends by the fireplace are these... we may all do well to gather some friends of our own. Quickly."

[The Smoking Man]

Early Evening of the Last Day of Flamerule, 1372 DR; The Ashabenford Arms Inn:

It seemed as if the heat of the day would never subside, but now, finally, a cool northerly breeze smelling faintly of oak and a dash of river drifts into town. With the cool air comes a cooling off of the day's trade. Merchants begin to strike their stalls, the mercenaries camped north of town dismantle their makeshift arenas, and the Riders report to the barracks for what will likely be a busy night of scouting, running messages, and making preparations to deal with a resurgent threat from the drow.

The townsfolk, however, are largely unaware of the Riders' errands, as canny Captain Thraeg has made a point not to alarm anyone. Meanwhile, Noristuor waits with growing anxiety in his tower for news of the Thayans' intent...

The proprietors of the Inn are not accustomed, it seems, to dealing with this many guests so early in the evening. Tsasha, the daughter of barman and owner Arhlo, comes down from her chambers in the tower yawning, not looking forward to a dinner rush so early in the evening. Arhlo, however, can almost be seen to smile behind his modest, polite-to-a-fault countenance.

Ryn, Doroga and the Uthdardt Groban Hillspek are seated along the right wing of the bar, opposite the stairs leading to the second floor, while Neth, Roen, Perelia and Daurily are clustered along the main wing of the bar, speaking in careful tones (quite the opposite of the three warriors, who drink and laugh merrily, ordering round after round of Arhlo's best ale). Arhlo's best happens to be a spicy amber Chondathan ale purchased not four hours ago. The stew is good, thanks to Arhlo's relationship with local rangers who know where to find the fattest rabbits in the Dalelands.

Despite the possible threats looming over Ashabenford tonight, the comforts of the hearth are denied to none...

...even to three travelers in hoods that lurk nearest the unlit fireplace. Normally, Arhlo would have lit the thing by now, but hasn't yet, possibly for fear that the foreigners may be less than amicable. Instead, he makes certain that Tsasha is ready with more wine when they require it.

***

Daurily responds to Neth. "Well then, Rashemi, consider yourself among friends. I, at least, will without question watch your back should those three try anything... I only wish there were some way to know if they were marked as you describe. It would certainly make things easier if we knew they were in fact Red Wizards..."

And then, upon hearing Perelia's description of the competition earlier, "Fled, you say? At the sight of Elminster?" she needs only consider this for a moment, then "Well then, friend Halruaan and friend Rashemi, I believe it may be safe to assume that they are at least up to no good. It is not the habit of well-meaning folk to run from the Chosen of Mystra."

Considering Roen's words, Daurily turns to him next. "It is a relief to hear that you come bearing good will toward my father and I, though you have never met him. Such honour. And yes... my father has indeed made enemies over the years, though to be honest, there are bards with more extensive lore on my father than I, his own daughter. We have not always been close..." she trails off for a moment, absently taking a swig from her empty cup, setting it down, then: "But perhaps those things are best left for your meeting with him. I would wait until he has had more rest - perhaps another hour or so - before inviting you and the others upstairs. The day's heat and travel has weighed heavily upon him." She continues in a more hushed tone: "And I fear not all parties present wish him well, at least not based on what Neth and Perelia, here, have to say."

OOC:
Currently, the only patrons of the Inn are you six (including Groban), Daurily, the three Thayans (who Doroga and Ryn and Groban do not recognize as such) and the four merchants sitting at the raised table, talking among themselves. Tsasha and Arhlo seem to be preparing for the night's main business rush, rushing in and out of the bar and kitchen areas.

Sottelgem Northhand, the halfling stable-hand, works outside in the yard, tending to your horses (those who have them) as well as Daurily's and Herlam's.

Also, I hope Ryn and Doroga don't mind my description of what you're doing at the moment. Feel free to rearrange and embellish as you see fit. Both Ryn and Doroga notice the relatively intense conversation between Roen, Neth, Perelia and Daurily.

Go forth and be awesome! And don't forget to ask if anything needs clarification. Also, to all those engaged in banter and conversation, feel free to post as many times as you like in between my updates. :smallcool:

[Keylac]

Leaning back against the wall, Ryn was greatly enjoying the conversation with his current companions, former opponents. The tales they swapped, of battles they'd fought, people they'd killed, and places they'd seen were a pleasure. They reminded him of that hoary old saw - See Strange Lands! Meet New People! And Kill Them! - but the world was what it was; a place of danger as much as wonder.

He'd noted the woman Daurily Corkwill when he'd come in, but had declined to interrupt her serious looking conversation with those foreign looking people. Hopefully, they were here to talk with her about her father as well; he would love the chance to speak with them of their homelands and the places they'd seen.

With a laugh at Groban's latest jest, he reached for one of the pitchers that they hadn't yet emptied, refilling his mug. He was careful to avoid knocking over his weapons; his lance and bow were leaning in the corner next to him, with his saber laying on the bar. He kept his greatsword on his back however, partially out of habit, and partially because he barely felt it's weight after all this time. He'd gotten an odd look from the barkeep when he'd first placed it all there, but it had been more questioning as to how he carried it all then worried by it's presence.

Still chuckling, he puts down the pitcher and reaches into a belt pouch, pulling out his pipe and tobacco. After stuffing the pipe, he glances at the hearth, looking for a light. Realizing that it's not lit, he shrugs, lifts the chimney off a lantern, and lights his pipe from a piece of tinder, replacing the chimney. After a few puffs to make sure it's lit, he waves out the tinder and turns to the barkeep.

"Ahrlo, why the cold fire," he asks, gesturing to the fireplace with his pipe, trying to keep a straight face. "Groban here is getting cold; you know his people are known for their delicate constitutions." Seeing Groban's face go from gathering thunder at the implied insult to uproarious laughter, Ryn loses his attempt to keep a straight face, grinning at the barbarian before turning back to Ahrlo. "Truly now, I know you and the lass are busy something fierce. Why don't I be lighting that for you then? I can see you've already done all the work and laid it out for us," he offers, already sliding off his stool, taking his mug with him.

OOC
I'm just such a helpful sort, aren't I? I admit, I was terribly ambiguous about that last paragraph. It has a bit of a whiff of meta-gaming to it, but I just couldn't help myself. I like stirring up trouble. :smalltongue: Not that this has to result in trouble of course.

As far as conversation goes, including talking to the party members me and DW haven't met yet, I'm more or less waiting. It would be less cumbersome if I react to them, I think.

[The Smoking Man]

Ryn: "Well," says Arhlo carefully at Ryn's offer, "I suppose ye could light the thing for me... it's just, y'know, so busy and all." He brings some flint, steel and tinder out from behind the bar and puts it in front of you. He laughs, "Dinner's on the house for you, Ryn, if you want to brave those three formidable foreigners, heheh!" though his laughter is more nervous than jovial. Arhlo doesn't like being intimidated, as it doesn't happen often inside his own common room.

OOC:
No worries about the pseudo-meta-gaming. I don't think any RP would ever get anywhere if players didn't at least act a little bit on meta-hunches and such. The only thing I have a problem with is PCs doing things based on knowledge there's no way they could ever possible have. But stuff like this? Not even a thing! :smallwink:

[Neth]

Neth eyes the exchange down the bar, and leans away from Daurily and the other two for a brief moment, hailing Arhlo over and reaching into her pouch for some coin.

"I'll pay for my meal now," she says to him. "And if you could pass me a bottle of your hardest stuff, I'll pay for that too. Need not be some fancy sort."

She barely finishes before Gyl makes a very bothered ruffle-fest of his wings and clips her elbow angrily with his beak. Neth makes a sharp sound and scolds him in Rashemi. "I'll get you one of your own if you cooperate with this. Now is not the time for games."

Please advise how much I shall be forking over for the bottle, and I'll adjust my coin count! :smallsmile:

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga laughs at Ryn's joke and gives Groban a teasing look and a wolfish grin, only to laugh more when the barbarian realizes the joke and bursts out laughing. As his giggles die down, he idly watches the barkeep and Ryn's interactions. Doroga's eyes followed Ryn's gesture to the fireplace. Through the light haze of the alcohol, he slowly becomes aware of the situation around him. The tension in the room and a trio of cloaked individuals standing next to an abnormally unlit fireplace for this time of day.

Slowly, his smile morphed into a thin line of non-expression, only to return a second later, if a little forced.

To Groban, "My friend," Dorogo utters as quietly as he can over the noise of the room, "near the fireplace, what do you see? I see three robed men, next to what should be a lit fireplace. The air in here seems a bit tense too."

Doroga looks Groban in the eyes, then over to the wall where their weapons lean, then back to Groban, raising an eyebrow. "I think we should be like your totem wasp; observant, quiet, and ready to sting at any moment."

He clears his throat and, a bit more loudly, "But until then, we have ALE!" Doroga downs the last quarter of his pint, then tops off the barbarian's cup and fills his own.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

Neth: Arhlo brings a long, jagged, purple bottle out from behind the counter and says, "Be careful with this, Miss. It's used to the stomachs of fat merchant lords from Calimshan. It may not be so kind to one so unfamiliar with such things. Just the same, I'll give you discount. Consider it a preemptive apology!" he winks. "Five silver, if you please, Miss."


Ryn and Doroga: Groban returns Doroga's look and nods his understanding. You realize he's more discerning than the average Uthgardt tribesman. "Those robes sitting over there... they have a changeable look about them. Evil. Evil as rain in winter, to be sure." he drains his mug and waits as you refill it. "In the lands of my tribe, such evil is dealt with swiftly, but here..." he wrinkles his formidable nose, "here it is all waiting and watching. I prefer to sting." And with that, chugs the refill, lowering his reddened, ale-watery gaze at the three Thayans, spitting onto Arhlo's polished floor before rejoining the revelry.

Groban looks to Ryn and the items Arhlo placed before him. "Aha! Smart man. Thinks and stings at once, perhaps? I will follow if you will lead. Just say, as you say, the word."

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga snorts and grins, meets eyes with Ryn, glances over to the three hooded fellows, then at Groban with a knowing look. Slowly he stands, putting a few coins on the table, and collects his things, using his guisarme as a walking stick and releasing his own grip on his balance, enjoying the swaying motion the alcohol imparts upon its users.

As he stumbles out, he turns left and leans against the outside of the tavern, around the corner so's to be out of view of the hooded men, but close enough that he can run in should something go down. As he stands there, he tries to regain control over his mind, still swimming in ale.

[Keylac]

Shaking his head slightly at all the worrying going on - there's only three of them after all, and they hardly look like a cause to worry - Ryn takes the striker Ahrol placed on the bar and slips it into a pocket. Mug in one hand, pipe in the other, he heads over to the fire. After a couple steps, he starts to whistle. Badly. And off-key. And fairly loudly. He seems to enjoy doing it though.

Upon reaching the fireplace, he nods his greetings to the three folks at the table, places his mug on the mantle, sticks the pipe in his mouth, and kneels down to start the fire. With the pipe in his mouth, he can no longer whistle, and instead starts humming a catchy little tune he heard once in Cormyr. Unfortunately, his humming isn't any better then his whistling.

[Neth]

Neth thanks Arhlo, saying it's just what she wanted. The silver pieces clack quietly down on the counter, and Gyl snatches the bottle with his talons, fluttering off more lopsided than usual. Apparently not surprised, Neth turns back to the conversing travellers, and waits for an appropriate moment before addressing Daurily.

"As this good man asked before," she says, with a friendly tilt of her head to the seemingly cheerful southerner, "Might we know what it is that earned your father such attention?" With a respectful nod to the elven woman, Perelia, she continues, "If the wizard she spoke of is concerned, and if you do believe this peril somehow involves your father, it would be good I think, to tell us why."

"Raveth gadan kel tumma," she adds. "The strong fighter has strong reasons."

Her wary glance follows the movement of the strangers, and flicks a tentative grin to where Gyl has settled with his bottle of gruesome liquor. Up in the rafters. Above the fireplace.

[The Smoking Man]

The three robed folk sitting by the fireplace do not look impressed with Ryn's whistling, nor with his whim to light the fire. None of them, however, make a move to stop him. They continue to speak quietly in their strange tongue.

With Doroga righting himself outside the front door, Groban moves to the end of the bar's right wing and keeps his eyes on the Thayans (as well as Ryn).

[Dragonsong]

Roen remains quiet as the drinking and watching go on, torn between laughter at the curious, bumbling joy of drunkards and solemnness brought on by the knowledge of the attack that is to come. He cannot be sure that the riders will keep the Drow away from the inn, and thus far these others are unaware of any peril save the Thayans, who have committed no crime other than being quiet and moody, not so different from Roen himself at this hour. The riders seemed to wish to keep the news quiet, and until now the young Dambrathan had obliged. But the target of the raid had a right to know of that which might be his doom.

Besides, these others looked capable. If it came down to a siege of the inn, they might yet hold out.

"I fear that these Thayans may prove the lesser of our worries," Roen finally says, breaking his watchful silence with a fierce whisper directed at Daurily and audible only to those close at hand at the bar. "Tommorow's eve, the Drow who so recently harassed these lands made a demand of the town: that your father, and a book in his possession, be surrendered to them, lest Ashabenford be attacked. The time to meet that demand has come and gone, for neither I nor the rider captain would consider such an evil bargain."

Well, the truth was out. Attack could come at any time, with darkness fallen. "The Dark Elves may know where to find Herlam already, and we must be prepared to keep them from him. I suggest that someone, and I myself will go if asked, be posted beside his door, lest someone enter and come for him from the second floor." With a practiced eye, Roen gazed around the room, noting where tables and chairs could be made into barricades and determining the position with the best arc of fire for his crossbow. The die was cast; they could now only do whatever they could within this given situation.

"We must also watch that the Thayans do not take advantage of the coming chaos..."

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia's eyes whip over to Roen, her mouth slightly open and her long, graceful ears pointing with surprise. "And when exactly were you going to mention that we are about to be assaulted by drow raiders, sir? I feel that it may have been more than a little relevant to the discussion of threats and dangers to this town. I doubt they are in line with the Thayans, however, and that gives me an opportunity to exploit." There is a small amount of vitriol in her voice, though she seems to have no trouble believing Roen.

Perelia stands, taking up her staff-bow, thumbing the string once to produce a mellow hum, testing the tension in the string. She looks at Roen once, very sternly, and she asks him a single question; "Are you positive that your information is correct?" After receiving confirmation, verbal or not, she turns to the room, raising her voice to an impressive tone that fills the room easily, without sounding like a shout or yell. "Listen now and listen well, for apparently," she shoots Roen another look, "We have but a day to prepare for an attack. This town receive a threat of assault from a band of drow raiders, who were asking for an unacceptable ransom. The men in charge of such things declined, and they will be charging in tomorrow evening. I, for one, am disinclined to allow them to kill me, and so I believe some preparations are in order."

She turns toward the Thayans, directly and earnestly. "You three are not the sort whom I am inclined to trust, just as I would not ask you to trust a Halruaan. That said, for the mutual benefit of ourselves and the continuation of our lives, I recommend that whatever point of contention may be between you and myself, or yourselves and this town, they be laid aside until we can address this threat. The drow," she says with a bit of dry humor, "will kill you just as readily as the rest of us, and divisiveness is not a stance of power. If you are who I believe you to be, you are wizards, and that means that preparation is your power just as it is mine. I am being earnest and honest with you, despite having no cause to do so, out of hope that by preserving you own lives you aid the defenseless people that live in this area. When you meditate tomorrow, keep in mind what comes tomorrow evening. I ask nothing more of you."

She lets the words sink in for half a moment, the bar silent, before looking to Roen, gesturing for him to stand. "This knowledge I have is second-hand, but this is the man that gave it to me. Please, sir, elaborate; I've set the floor for you."

Let's get thing done, ladies and gentlemen. Perelia isn't one for lazing about.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

The elder of the three Thayans stands slowly. He cracks his neck before turning to meet Perelia's stern gaze with a look of haughty superiority. "The danger, elf, is not ours, but yours. Our ends can be accomplished and we can be gone from this place long before those Underdark rats make their presence known." He removes his hood from his head, revealing a complex series of twisting runes tattooed expertly about his head, neck and shoulders. "I am Otythir of the Red Wizards of Thay, and I am the architect of your demise!"

With this, the other two Thayans pop out of their seats. The woman acts first as everyone is still shaking their heads, casting a Grease spell in a 3/4 circle around their table. The elder for his part, draws and points a wand at Ryn, who barely has time to turn around before receiving a face full of Magic Missiles.

The younger of the three Thayans moves with unsteady hands, but manages to scream a few Draconic syllables, unleashing a blinding mote of light directed at Perelia's eyes.

OOC:
Alrighty! Let the madness begin!

- Ryn takes 8 damage from the missiles.
- Grease spell is cast across the front approach to the table (Ryn is not affected).
- Perelia must Will Save or be Dazed.
- Ryn has succesfully started the fire.
- Doroga can clearly hear the curfuffle from the front porch.
- Gyl is in position...:smallsmile:


Thayans' Initiative:
Elder (Otythir): (1d20+5)[24]
Woman: (1d20+1)[10]
Apprentice: (1d20+1)[18]

I'll roll everyone's initiative just to keep things moving, and we'll use the turns method suggested by Ryn in the OOC thread.


Good Guys Initiative:
Ryn: (1d20+8)[19]
Neth: (1d20-1)[13]
Doroga: (1d20+1)[15]
Roen: (1d20+3)[17]
Perelia: (1d20+3)[20]

Groban: (1d20+2)[9]
Daurily: (1d20+2)[12]

So the order is:
1. Perelia, Ryn, Roen
2. Thayans
3. Doroga, Neth, Daurily, Groban

Post your actions when it is your group's turn. For coordinated actions, work it out in the OOC thread. After each group acts, I will post results/lead-in to the next group's turn.

So that means Perelia, Ryn and Roen are up!
EDIT: Tac Map (http://i615.photobucket.com/albums/tt232/Kaldhi/giantitp/AshabenfordArmsTactical.jpg) is now available! Note that everyone's token is the first two letters of their names. Bad guys in red, good guys in blue, bystanders in green.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia shrugs of the weak offensive enchantment with disdain, letting out a short, mocking laugh. She slips a hand into her spell component pouch, taking out a tiny bit of gristle, rubbing it between her delicate fingers with practiced ease. "Pathetic, really. Arrogant. You think your magical power compares to my own? Enough so that ever single other person in this establishment will not be enough to overcome your pitiful enchantments? You'll die for that foolishness, Thayans." She shouts out a few words of arcane power, High Elven and Draconic, and the floor directly beneath the Red Wizards becomes as greasy and slippery as the area that they had already slicked.

Grease, centered under the Thayans so that it gets all of them. DC 16 Reflex or they fall down.

[Keylac]

When the oddly-dressed elf had started talking, Ryn had barely paid attention to her, sparing her but a glance when she first started speaking before returning his gaze to the fire. He was a Dalelander himself - if the Drow were raiding, that simply meant it was Fourth Day. Something to be hated, certainly; to be feared even. But not something surprising. With half an ear, he listened to her short, earnest speech.

The newly revealed Thayans though... that was more pressing. Ryn had just finished lighting the fire, rising to his feet while pocketing the striker, when the wizard - Otythir - made his statement. He whirled around to face them, not appreciating them threatening someone in the inn. Which is when the magical bolts hammered into him from the wand.

As he half stumbles back against the mantle - in sheer surprise more then pain - his first thought was simple: Well, that's gratitude for you! Last time I light a hearth for them!

As he recovers his balance, he sees the elf step forward and cast a spell. Apparently the whole bloedy inn was full of wizards tonight. Shaking off the thought as a useless distraction, he focuses on the wizard that matters - the one arrogant enough to pick a fight with him within swords reach. With a glint of true humor in his eyes, he watches as the elf's spell causes all the wizards to slip off their feet, falling to the ground. Apparently, they were better finger wigglers then fighters.

Taking advantage of their predicament, Ryn takes a stride forward, greatsword whistling as it comes out of it's scabbard and down in a brutal chop at Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay.

OOC
5 foot step to get next to Otythir, then a 4 Power Attack hit.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13593965#post13593965)

Rolling to hit Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay in Round One: (1d20+5)[7]

Rolling damage to Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay: (2d6+16)[26]
Yeah, I'm gonna put that one down as "Possible but unlikely" and only possible because it's a wizard with a -4 from being Prone. Bah. :smallannoyed:

[Dragonsong]

It'd had to be said; the danger was coming for this very inn, and preparing those within was far more important than the rider's instruction to prevent a panic. Roen almost wished he'd said it sooner, especially after the Elf's tongue-lashing of him, but knew that he'd needed time to turn it over in his mind before he decided. This could, in the end, cause more harm than leaving the defense to the riders; he'd needed to weigh his options. But the people here seemed capable, and adding them to the town's defense seemed a better idea than allowing them to be surprised if the riders were broken.

Still, he winced when the Elf announced the impending attack to the whole common room; a panicked mass exodus from Ashabenford would only provide the Drow with more and easier prey, whether for slave-taking or casual slaughter of those they considered lesser beings. Roen had a good idea of how they worked; this was a raiding party, used to running down their prey, and there would be no easy escape. The only hope of anyone who fled was that they were more focused on old Herlam and his book, and Roen still wasn't sure how they fit into the whole picture.

Still, the secret was out, and Roen stood to speak after the Elf's introduction. But it was not to be, for a new danger had been brought into play when the attack was revealed; the Thayans had decided it was time to move. Spells flew, and Roen did what he always did when mages started throwing their power around: he went for cover. He was but a man, incapable of touching the forces of creation and destruction. Perhaps this situation need not devolve any further; perhaps his tongue, his greatest weapon, could end the fight. But if not, he was ready to use other means.

"You're being fools," he shouted, kicking over the raised table in front of him and sliding down behind it as he drew forth his crossbow, already loaded. "I'm the one who has seen the Dark Elves. Do you really think they'll take any chance of your escaping with the very thing they desire? They have the village surrounded, and mages of their own. Keep up this fight and you'll be dead, whether at our hands or at theirs. Only with us do you have a chance." He could only hope his words would be enough to sway the foolish wizards from their course, for otherwise they'd soon arrive in the beyond.

Roen had been a killer for much of his life, to be sure, and for a good cause, if that mattered. But after the way he'd felt when he'd slain that man in his sleep, evil though the Crinti slavedriver had been, he'd known he was no cold-blooded assassin. Ever after he had given his foes a chance to surrender. Few had taken it, but what joy he felt when someone did! Whispering the command word to his weapon, he prepared himself to strike should his words fall on deaf ears...

26 on Roen's bluff check to convince the Red Wizards that they cannot escape the Drow, even should they prove victorious in the skirmish... (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13599265&posted=1#post13599265)

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

Thayans, First (Non-Surprise) Turn:

Perelia's answering spell had seen all three Thayans fall ungracefully to the hardwood, only to be followed by a fierce attack from Ryn, whose sword just swings true, but is hindered in its approach toward the elder Thayan's neck by an invisible field of force that shimmers slightly on contact.

True, fiery anger showing on his face, Otythir yells: "Telzos, now!" At this command, the erstwhile merchants who had gotten out of Roen's way at the table, suddenly changed in manner. The lead merchant, a portly fellow of middle years, removes his hat, and somehow with it, his entire self, to reveal a lithe woman in sinister red and black armor, wielding a curved longsword and shield.

Her three companions shimmer for a moment with arcane unraveling, revealing their true forms as well: three Gnoll warriors, one equipped with a particularly nasty bow. The four new combatants move to intercept who they perceive to be the greatest threats to their masters...

"I have no doubt," yells Otythir above the fray, "that your news of the drow is certain. Our designs, however, shall not overlap." With this, Otythir mutters a few arcane words, summoning forth a roiling orb of fire that materializes above Ryn, and proceeds to try to engulf him...

The female Red Wizard attempts to stand, as does the younger of the three. The wizardess succeeds, but the younger one fails miserably and ends up flailing around in the muck.

OOC:
So, a reflex from Ryn is required.

Flaming Sphere damage should Ryn fail Reflex: (2d6)[10]

Also, on the map, M1 turns into the Thayan Knight, M2 and M3 into Gnoll melee warriors, and M4 into the Gnoll archer.

M3 Moves in front of Perelia and begins to menace her.
M1 Moves in front of Daurily and does the same.
M2 Moves to engage Roen.
M4 Knocks and arrow and begins to size-up targets, remaining stationary.

Note: Otythir is still prone, as well as the younger Thayan. The Red Wizardess is back on her feet, however.

Roen: Your Bluff worked, as the Thayans believe that if they were to stick around, they would not in fact escape the drow onslaught, but they seem to have other knowledge that prevents them from surrendering.

[TheDivineWind]

Upon hearing all the ruckus, Doroga pokes his head around the corner and peeks in. The three hooded people were now engaging some elvan woman, and Ryn had taken some magical bolts to the face. Idelly, he vaguely recalls Bill talking about such a spell, but can't recall any of the specifics.

Without yelling about, Doroga moves inside and decides to take out the only one he can reach before they take notice of him and can possibly attack. Instead of any fancy maneuvers, he simply raises his guisarme above him and preforms a brutal downward thrust.


Attack against R3 (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=13600158&postcount=75):

Attack roll: (1d20+9)[27]
Damage Roll: (2d4+4)[12]

Hot damn, there's some balance to those earlier rolls! :smallbiggrin:

[Neth]

Neth hops from the barstool, shooting a look at Gyl and flicking her hand. Her eyes are wide and alert with the sudden chaos, but Neth is a bit unskilled at rapid reactions. Wishing she knew more about the present company to figure out who would most need aid in the moments to follow, she reluctantly takes a guess.

Slipping back past the barstools to avoid the gnoll approaching Daurily, the druid heads for the southerner. She pauses just far enough away to be safely out of reach, and casts spell to heat the weapon of the gnoll confronting Perelia, hoping he'll drop it before causing harm. She grips her staff, preparing to approach the southerner and help deal with the beast before him. Tossing a glance toward the fireplace she murmurs a plea to the Three to let the good stranger near the Thayans be spared the brunt of Gyl's little trick.

I guess I should be standing five feet behind Roen now. I've cast Heat Metal on M3's weapon, and Gyl has flung his bottle of alcohol into the fire. :smallbiggrin:

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia takes a quick step back from the vicious threat in front of her, her grin rapidly fading and the bluster from moments before transforming into precision, speed, and focus. Her mind takes in the room and the assailants, and with uncanny intellect she breaks down the situation into components, as a chessmaster might break down a game into its most simple strategies and movements.

They no longer had a tactically overwhelming advantage of numbers, which was almost fair in many respects. Her Grease spell had been supremely effective; it had functioned exactly as expected, assaulting the weakness of the wizard's: their physical capabilities. It was no great secret that the strength of a wizard's mind came at the expense of his body, and she was certainly an outlier among her peers when it came to grace, mostly due to her high elven heritage.

The melee combatants on her side of the conflict had represented an excellent shield and buffer, giving her the room to freely and easily assail the three with area-control magic. Her next move would have been to bind them down, entrap them, allowing her new allies the chance to surround them and make combat preparations of their own; the gods only knew how much Perelia wished that she had thought to cloak herself in a Shield before speaking.

That said, as she seemed to be the only one in the room that was both sane and also a strong arcane caster, she decided it was prudent to take measures to protect herself. She took a quick step back from the threat, clearing herself of its weapon, and with a few quick, powerful words of both High Elven and Draconic she called forth a swirl of illusory color and power. The effect lasted for but a moment, and when it resided she stood no longer alone, but surrounded by four perfect images of herself. She spoke, and every image seemed to speak with her. "Disappointing, really, that you must rely on your thugs because your magic is so weak. I look forward to taking your spellbooks for my own, so that their contents may be put towards useful purposes instead of furthering your foolish schemes and ignoble masters."

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

The youngest of the three Thayans is knocked out cold by Doroga's hasty attack. He ceases to squirm, slumping over as his his eyes flutter closed.

The lead Thayan seems pleased with his minions' ambush, and seems to be aiming at getting up out of the Grease. The female is rummaging through her component pouch, trying to keep one eye on the closest combatants.

The Gnolls continue to snarl and bear down on their targets, as their Red Knight of Thay captain strides confidently for Daurily, who lashes out with her drawn bastard sword, drawing first blood against her opponent.

Meanwhile, at the command of his master, Gyl the owl makes a diving swoop for the fireplace, releasing the bottle of liquor previously held in his talons and just such an angle as to have it smash atop the large, cackling log.

Tiny motes of flaming alcohol and sharp glass come shooting out of the fire, catching the edge of Ryn's clothes on fire, and threatening to engulf Otythir. The wizardess, though scathed slightly by the minor blast, is largely unharmed... though the fire creeps ever forward...

Meanwhile, at the bar, Groban rushes the Gnoll menacing Perelia with a powerful charge, flailing his longsword as he goes, screaming something foreign and bloodthirsty even as the cold iron of the blade slices clean through the beast's arm, causing it to stagger back in yowling amazement, only to crumple onto the floor. The blood manages to find it's way onto Groban, Perelia, the bar, several stools, and, needless to say, much of the floor. Though cowering behind the bar with his daughter, Arhlo audibly winces at the prospect of such a stain.

OOC:
So, Otythir's on fire (ignore his reflex in die thread... forgot momentarily he was still prone), Ryn took some fire damage and is now on fire, but not in the Grease. The wizardess manages to avoid most of the damage, but will have to save on her next turn to not catch fire, as she's standing in the grease.

The grease cast by Perelia will last 2 more rounds, and the grease cast by the wizardess will last 1 more round.

Daurily scores a moderate hit on the Thayan she-knight, and Groban dis-arms the Gnoll in front of Perelia, taking it out of the fight.

It is now the Top of the Round! Meaning that Perelia (already went), Ryn and Roen are up next.

Roen and Neth are in range of the second melee Gnoll. Neth is moving to help Roen with the assailant.

Bad Guys Still Remaining:
- Otythir(prone, on fire)
- Wizardess(balancing in fiery Grease, but okay)
- Gnoll Archer(to the right of Raised Table, looking for targets...)
- Thayan Knight(toe-to-toe with Daurily)
- Gnoll Warrior(directly below Roen)

See dice thread for all the rolls mentioned here.

[Keylac]

It was bad enough that Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay - bloedy blowhard - had badly burnt him, nearly setting him on fire, with that damn magical ball of flame. Now someone else was getting into the mix. From the smell, someone had thrown a bottle of paint thinner - or maybe Orc-brewed Spirits - into the fire, and the result was the flames starting to take hold of his clothes.

Ryn shakes his head, amused despite himself at what a bad decision lighting a fire turned out to be.

Over the sounds of combat, he hears the elf mage's confident declaration and almost laughs, amazed at the vainglory of wizards, not to mention their priorities. Here they are burning down the inn, and her desire is to take their books? Chances are the books were going to wind up so much ash, and them with it. Loot was all well and good, but lives were at stake here.

A quick glance shows one of the gnolls on the ground, the woman Daurily locked in combat with the armored warrior, keeping her occupied at the very least. The other gnolls were free to attack less well armed foes however. Deciding his priority had to be putting down the wizard so he could help the other patrons, he brings his greatsword down in another strike at the prone wizard, attempting to break through whatever magic had saved him last time.

Hopefully, even if he didn't kill him, he might still shut him up.

OOC
I'm going to go ahead and make it a regular, no Power Attack Hit.
Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=13606404&postcount=82)

Rolling to hit Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay in Round 2: (1d20+9)[19]

Rolling damage to Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay in Round 2: (2d6+6)[16]

There, a bit better.

[Dragonsong]

Roen sighed audibly as the tavern was engulfed in blood and flame. Well, there was nothing for it; good people had already been hurt, and if this kept up they might be killed. He couldn't allow that. Peering over his improvised cover, he spotted the Gnoll coming at him and drew a bead on the creature. He'd never much liked the hyena-men; they'd been employed as mercenary guards by many of the slavers who came to sell in Dambrath, and seemed to take a perverse joy in savagely beating those who stuck a toe out of line. Besides, it was him or this creature, and he wasn't ready to die just yet.

"Back off," he growled at the onrushing foe, then let fly. In the hands of most, a crossbow was a ponderous weapon with none of the longbow's elegance. It struck harder, but required a prohibitive reload time of replacing the bolt and winding the winch rather than simply reaching for the next arrow. But Roen had fought with such a weapon for years, and its use was second nature to him. With fluid motions he loosed his first bolt, dropped a second one into the nock, cranked it back, and fired again, all within a few seconds. Both black shafts sailed toward the Gnoll, their points eager to drink of its blood.

And then he was immediately reloading again, not waiting to see what damage he had done...

Ermagerhd. Turrible durmurge. (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13609655&posted=1#post13609655) :smallfrown:

Due to epic fail on this part of this poster, these rolls are only partially correct. The attack rolls are fine unmodified, but the damage rolls should be 3 and 4 piercing, respectively.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms; Round Two:

Otythir (Red Wizard of Thay) spits blood as words of power come tumbling from his mouth. Despite the vicious blow landed by Ryn, the audacious bastard still seems to have some fight left; enough, at least, for one more spell. He cringes through more blood and just manages to finish the somatic component of the spell.

As he finishes, his form seems to sink from reality, only to be replaced a moment later by that of a large, battle-hardened Gnoll veteran with a gnarled longbow pointed at Ryn's face. Now beside the overturned table, Otythir gets up and grabs something from the Red Knight's pack still lying on the floor...

Meanwhile, the Benignly Transposed Gnoll lets fly his arrow at close range, followed quickly by a second. Both arrows miss, one flying over each of Ryn's shoulders, thudding into the mantle of the fireplace.

At the same time, the wizardess under Otythir's command looses her balance, falling once more in the fiery Grease, burning herself as she goes, but managing to fall just outside of the spell's effected area.

Back closer to the bar, Roen must contend with an angry Gnoll warrior with a rusty battleaxe. The axe swings wide of the canny rogue, however, and the Gnoll yowls in protest.

The Thayan Knight, angered by the stolen opportunity for first blood in her fight with Daurily, makes a reckless swipe with her sword, managing to more than match the damage done by Daurily's last strike. For her part, Daurily attempts a careful counterstrike aimed at the Thayan woman's midsection, landing a near-crippling blow that causes the Thayan to lose her breath and reflexively move her shield in to cover the now-gaping hole in her armour.

Groban, enraged that the veteran Gnoll would be so bold as to disappear and then reappear a moment later across the common room, growls and charges the beast, sword swinging above his head like an impractical metallic sling. The blow lands with a vengeance, but does not manage to sever any important part of the Gnoll. It does, however, knock the beast off balance and into the fiery Grease.

OOC:
Otythir casts Benign Transposition! Ryn and Groban are now in melee with the prone, wounded Gnoll who is also on fire. Ryn takes 1 fire damage because he's still on fire (please see dice thread for a relevant multimedia presentation).

Otythir is getting ready to drink a potion by the table.

Neth and Roen are still dealing with the Gnoll warrior, who missed Roen.

Daurily is still toe-to-toe with the Thayan Knight.

The Red Wizardess is prone and on fire, attempting to snuff it out in a most unflattering manner.

Doroga is standing over the unconscious body of the youngest Red Wizard.

Perelia is still near the bar, surrounded by a bunch of other, less-existent, Perelias.

Round 2, Phase 3 is next! That means you, Neth and Doroga!

NOTE: I moved Daurily and Groban up in the Initiative order. I think it's better to keep NPCs in the same Phase for posting purposes. Sorry for any confusion or inconvenience!

[TheDivineWind]

Now that the first was down, the next was sure to follow. Doroga moves slowly in an arc around the greased up (deaf-guy) table until he stands to the south-west of the Thayan wizard who just slipped in the grease again.

Move Silently: (1d20+7)[14]

As he gets into range, he makes an awkward jab at her vitals, hoping to land another vicious blow.

Attack on the second in command Thayan wizard:
Attack roll: (1d20+9)[12]
Damage roll: (2d4+4)[10]

Yeesh.

Doroga had heard of Thayan knights way out where he was from, but only in offhand comments and whispered fear. They were known for being vicious and power-hungry, and had a city full of terrible things.

That gives me an excellent reason to focus on taking them out first. I just hope the inn keeper doesn't mind all the stains it's going to leave...

...Then again, after that Gnoll's arm, I doubt anything I do will be of real consequence by comparison.

[Neth]

Neth hastens toward the Gnoll and reaches him just as his axe swings wide of his target. She'd seen the southerner who'd brought news of the Drow loose two swift bolts in the blink of an eye, but they seemed to do little to bother the towering beast.

Whipping her quarterstaff around she attempts to thwack the Gnoll firmly about the head, and grips the wood tightly hoping to feel a satisfying thump or crunch of some sort.

Meanwhile Gyl plunges down in his silent owl manner upon the crouching form of Otythir and attempts to snatch the entire satchel from the elder wizard's hands. Gyl now has a personal vendetta against the fiend who started the fight which prompted the worthless waste of an entire bottle of alcohol.

(edit, adding rolls:)
Neth (flanking?) Attack on Gnoll with Axe: (1d20+5)[21]
Neth Damage on Gnoll with Axe: (1d6+1)[7]
Gyl Move Silent: (1d20+17)[32]
Gyl Slight of Hand: (1d20+3)[6]

TSM, in case you forget, rolls you said you'd need to do for this:
Otythir reflex, Otythir strength. I will get Gyl sorted out with a stat sheet tonight for your convenience... didn't realize an animal companion had so many bonus things! :smalleek:

[The Smoking Man]

Ashabenford Arms; Round Two (end phase):

Doroga manages to sneak up and swipe at the Red Wizardess just as she loses her footing in the Grease, subsequently ducking the attack.

Meanwhile, Gyl can be seen swooping down silently from the rafters, in a play for Otythir's satchel. Gyl manages not to steal the thing away entirely, but the swiftness of his approach was such that Otythir barely had time to grab hold of one of the straps before the owl made off with it, leaving the wizard and bird in a tug-of war - Otythir straining and bleeding and cursing; Gyl flapping and flapping and flapping...

A few dozen feet closer to the bar, the owl's master lands a fierce, blunt thwack (a word of Rashemi origin...) square into the cranium of the Gnoll warrior, who bjorf!s with an amount of pain it had not expected from such a small human.

OOC:
Doroga misses the Wizardess.

Gyl is having a tug-of-war with Otythir for the backpack.

Neth lands a solid hit on the Gnoll warrior with her Quarterstaff.

Perelia: You may make the rolls you mentioned in the OOC post, but the minimum DC possible will be 4. Any lower and I'd just let you do it for free, but this requires at least a smidgen of actual doing. :smallwink:

Next is Top of Round Three!!! Meaning it's Ryn, Roen and Perelia!

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia watches in frustration as the eldest mage, the deadliest and most personally powerful of her foes begins to down a potion, and no one seems to be in an appropriate place to stop him. The owl, of all things, seemed to recognize the threat that he represented, but the bird would only slow him down for so long.

Faced with an increasingly worrisome prospect, Perelia noticed something odd; she was running towards the man, preparing herself to jump. She was even more surprised when she actually made the leap, landing squarely on the table the mage was cowering behind. Riding the rush of battle, she paid the outrageousness of her actions no mind, and with a few shouted, viscous words she called down hellfire and pyreflame on the Red Wizard.

She succeeds on jumping to the stool and the table.

She almost certainly hits, automatically deals 11 fire damage, and he must make a reflex save, DC 17, or catch fire.

[The Smoking Man]

Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay, explodes in a ball of flame that erupts from Perelia's fingers. The man clearly wasn't expecting the elf to climb the stools and table to make it to him, and barely turned to see the "architect of his demise."

Gyl, for his part, does not want to be burned all the way back to Chauntea, and tries to fly away. He is not fast enough, however, as until the very end he was attempting to wrestle the satchel away.

Gyl wobbles away back to the rafters, badly burned and trailing singed feathers, the scorched satchel still his talons.

Otythir lies crispy on the ground.

OOC:
Otythir is dead. Gyl got buuuuuurned.:smalleek:

[Keylac]

The satisfying sound of his blade hitting the wooden floor through Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay, reassured Ryn that whatever magic warded the mage, it wasn't impervious. Unfortunately, the wizard seemed to realize that as well. As he began to speak, spitting blood and strange words, Ryn recovers his stance, falling back into a guard position, ready for his next spell. Or so he'd thought.

His eyebrows tried to crawl into his hairline as the wizard vanished, replaced by the gnoll archer from across the room. This was something he'd never seen before! For a moment, he almost dropped his guard, so interested was he by what had just happened. The gnoll, graciously, reminded him there was a fight going on by attempting to put an arrow through him.

Ducking, Ryn throws out a quick thrust, just enough to try and spoil the archer's aim. Apparently it worked, with both arrows passing harmlessly over his shoulders. Straightening up, he see's something out of the corner of his eye, and smiles. Taking half a step to the right, the gnoll follows his movements... just in time to have Groban slam into him from the side, knocking the gnoll on his heels and into the fire.

Grinning at his new friend, Ryn seeks to take advantage of his strike, taking a half-step forward and driving his blade straight down at the gnoll. Even as he strikes, the room is illuminated by a sudden burst of flame from the middle of the room. The smell of burned meat, already present - Ryn himself was starting to smell a little past medium-rare - fills the room.

So it was, as he struck once more at an opponent, Ryn's thoughts turned once again to wondering if the inn would burn down.

OOC
Regular attack, with Power Attack 1, for variety. :smalltongue:

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13622937#post13622937)

Rolling Attack against Gnoll Archer, Round Three: (1d20+8)[20]

Rolling Damage against Gnoll Archer, Round Three: (2d6+8)[14]

[Dragonsong]

Two shots loosed, and neither seemed to slow the onrushing hyena-man. Yet Roen did not flinch; he'd faced down cavalry charges in much the same position, and one brutish thug wasn't gone to faze him. Besides, scrambling to get out of harm's way would only cost him his next shot and present his back to his foe. Though prepared to hold his position to the bitter end, the young man was nonetheless very glad to see the Rashemi woman leap at the Gnoll and deal it a solid whack with her quarterstaff. Perhaps that would distract it just long enough for him to reach a better position...

Of all his many skills, Roen was not a trained tumbler. He'd never had the need, usually attacking from ambush when he fought at all. At that moment, however, he dearly wished he'd picked up the skill. With the Gnoll right on top of him, using his crossbow would get it shoved back into his face, and so he dearly wished to be able to move to flank it and sink his dagger into its back. But while he was no acrobat, he was a master of deception with both tongue and body. Dropping his crossbow (it was well-crafted and magicked enough to survive), he wiggled his dagger into his palm.

Now armed with a more suitable weapon, Roen drove the point of his dagger down, as though aiming to punch into the Gnoll's midsection. He put his weight behind the thrust, his body clearly giving away his intended target. Then, all at once, he took a step forward and came from beneath, stabbing upward at the creature's snout as he pulled out of his feint. Perhaps it had been too long since he last fought in close combat, but he could feel that he had not been so convincing as he'd hoped; still, he was committed now, so he did his utmost to see his attack through...

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms; Round Three, End of First Initiative Phase:

Otythir is felled in a ball of flame, as Ryn's sword plunges into the fallen Gnoll's chest. By the bar, Roen makes a successful feint against the other Gnoll, slashing him badly on the snout and face.

It all happens so quickly, that the surviving opponents don't notice that they are all of a sudden severely outnumbered and out-maneuvered. The fight continues:

Second Initiative Phase (NPCs):

The Thayan Knight continues her death-dance with Daurily, swiping in a wide arc intended for her opponent's head. This time she misses, and Daurily grunts and spits with effort as she twists aside. As she does so, her formidable blade whirls around to chop at the Thayan's more exposed midsection. The enchanted bastard sword strikes true, and the female Thayan knight is cut down in a mist of blood and a cloud of whirling, broken chainlinks.

The wizardess, prone and on fire, nonetheless summons enough will and concentration to overcome present difficulties and attempt a spell on Doroga. An arrow of hissing acid leaps from her fingers, striking Doroga in his middle, splashing about his person and burning as it goes.

Groban, meanwhile, scans the room briefly for his next target as he breaths heavy as an oxen pulling a lead-merchant's cart uphill. He spies the wizardess, sees her fling her spell at Doroga, and decides that it is her turn to die. He vaults over the table, landing sword-first beside the wizardess, who passes out unconscious from the flames, smoke and swords before Groban even has time to ready himself for his next action.

Meanwhile, the last surviving Gnoll, enraged and oblivious to the rest of the common room, makes a vicious swing at the rogue that cut his face. The blood, however, is blocking the beast's vision and causes his attack to fumble and allow Roen to side-step it with ease.

OOC:
Wow. That's a three-kill phase, folks. Only enemy left is the Gnoll attacking Roen and Neth. Wizardess and Young Wizard are unconscious. Otythir, the Thayan Knight, and two of the three Gnolls are all dead.

Doroga takes 5 damage from Acid Arrow, and must save next round or take one more burst of damage (but is safe after that).

It is now Neth's and Doroga's turn.

[Neth]

Anyone who has hunted a creature or seen a horse in battle will probably find an animal's scream of anguish as heartbreaking as a child's. After the initial pang of distraction it usually causes, Neth quickly retrieves her focus, knowing that if Gyl was able to fly after that, he'd be just fine. She didn't need to watch the scene to understand the accident, although she would've savoured the pleasure of watching the Red Wizard crumple to the floor, now looking less like a Thayan and somewhat more like a charred carcass.

But all her attention became transfixed as the southerner swung forward, switched his motion in an instant and slid the dagger into the Gnoll with such a fluid stream of action that Neth thought her eyes must have mistaken something. The druid consistently stuck to flicking spells into the air from a distance and whacking things with sticks because if there ever came a day when she was tempted to believe she could pull off a lovely maneuver like that southerner's trick, it would be her last. She had half a mind to drop her stick and just applaud the stranger. But he would probably not appreciate that right now. Sending the other end of her quarterstaff hurling back toward that hyena-like face, Neth directs her aim as much as she can at the hideous eyes nestled above that hideous snout, and hopes to hear a hideous howl of agony.

Neth Attack on Gnoll: (1d20+5)[18]
Neth Damage on Gnoll: (1d6+1)[2]

[TheDivineWind]

Assuming the spell is melf's acid arrow, it gets no save. :( Oh well.

The acid cruelly burns his flesh and he does his best to avoid as much of it as he can, and wipe the rest off on the neighboring table. A quick survey of the room suggests that there were only a couple more gnolls, and the other combatants in the room seemed more than capable of handling them... Groban not the least among them, having sliced and diced a few with prejudice.

He looks back to the sorceress and the young wizard he downed earlier, both unconcious, one on fire, and both bleeding out.

Well, if we want answers, they probably will need to be alive.

Doroga takes a knee and begins work on putting the fire out on the sorceress.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms, End of Round Three:

Doroga manages to see to the Red Wizardess and put out the flames, though she will require healing relatively soon if she is to survive the night. As for the younger Red Wizard, he is lying unconscious, bloodied and scraped, but is otherwise stable.

Neth makes a well executed swing with her staff against the Gnoll, but is unable to put as much force behind it as she would have liked, (likely due to the other things clamoring for the attention of her senses) and thus effects a minimal amount of damage to the lone survivor.

OOC:
Top of Round 4! That means it's Ryn, Roen and Perelia's turn!

One Gnoll remains.

The Wizardess currently being tended to by Doroga needs healing fast, unless you guys only want the one prisoner...:smallwink:

TSM

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia turns to the remaining gnoll, the hideous, bestial creature still threatening the people that had rushed to the aid of the bar and their fellow civilians. She decided that she liked these people. She also decided, just as firmly, that she hated the gnoll, and even more, she hated its masters, the people the convinced it that its actions were good and wanted. The people that brought it here, and gave it the opportunity to kill and maim.

She drew a short, heavy wand from her belt, and she unleashed unerring magical power on the hairy creature.

She deals 9 damage with two Magic Missiles.

[The Smoking Man]

Woot!:

The two missiles of arcane energy leap from Perelia's trusty wand and streak through the battle-thick, smoke-tainted air of the Ashabenford Arms. For a few brief seconds, it looks as though the Gnoll has the tactical advantage over the rogue and druid who cannot seem to hurt the thing sufficiently to put it out of their way for good. Its grotesque battleaxe raised above its head, yellow eyes squinting with a full-maw snarl, the beast suddenly stops... two collisions that send ripples of force through its body... and thud. The Gnoll falls flat on its face, arms still raised and eyes still open, dead.

The battle is won.

OOC:
Perelia takes out the last Gnoll!

[Dragonsong]

One moment Roen had been locked in a deadly dance with his bestial foe, his own small blade marring its face but hardly slowing its rage, and the next the creature fell back, killed with not a sword but a word. Relief flooded the rapidly tiring rogue; he'd not suffered any harm, but avoiding it had sapped his stamina, and he was more eager than ever to learn what a bed was like. Satisfied that the Gnoll wouldn't be getting back up or nipping at his ankles, he scanned the room for anyone still fighting, then let out a bark of triumphant laughter when he saw that he and his newfound allies stood without opposition.

Even the fire that had threatened the inn was now vanquished.

Bending to recover his crossbow, Roen gently dusted the weapon off and returned it to its spot on top of his backpack. He then withdrew a tattered old cloth and cleaned the blood from his dagger before spinning it back into its place of concealment in his sleeve. Satisfied that his gear, so essential to his continued survival, was well taken care of, he allowed his smile to return. "Whoever cast that spell has my thanks," he said, offering a bow in the general direction of the others. "I fear that creature had not the good sense to recognize that it was outmatched, and meant to make me pay dearly in order to prove its mistake.

Turning to the wild-looking woman with the oaken staff, he gave another little bow. "I thank you also for your timely intervention. You were under no obligation to aid me against a foe out for my blood, and yet you risked yourself." Finally, he turns to look at the two badly-wounded but still-living Thayans, his eyes narrowing slightly and his grin faltering. These wizards had attacked without any real provocation, putting their search for - what, power? wealth? - above the lives of those who had done nothing to wrong them or any others in the town.

"I imagine the riders will know what to do with the survivors, much as I personally wish to kick them on the backside every step of the way back to Thay." The thought of killing the defenseless prisoners, despite all of their crimes, never even occurred to the young man. That was not a road he wanted to go down again, justified or not.

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga looks at the wizard's wounds for a few seconds, then over to the others.

"Would someone with more skill in this area please tend to this wizard's wounds? I suspect she doesn't have much longer, and while I can heal her, I would truly rather not restore her to consciousness right now."

With that, he gets up and scoots over to the first wizard he fought and checks his wounds. After a moment, he concludes that the younger wizard will live through his wounds, assuming no one adds to them.

"Okay, this one is going to be fine, probably." Doroga starts to sort through his equipment and move it away from him at the same time. He then pulls his rope and binds the mages hands, figuring a mage without material components and a pair of bound hands threatens few people. He tosses the other end of his rope (preferring not to cut it at the moment) over towards the sorceress where someone else can bind her hands.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia takes a moment of breath, and then she switches and realigns the tracks of her mind, putting away the battle-fervor and bringing forth organization and logic. She immediately assigns her Prestidigitation the task of cleaning the blood from the ground and the smoke from the air, and a bubble of purity and cleanliness rapidly begins to form around her. She looks to Doroga, nodding in assent to his actions. "Setting their spell component pouches aside and binding their hands is an excellent way to prevent them from moving. There are still spells that have only a verbal component, however, so once they have awakened it will be prudent to gag them as well, if only temporarily."

She heads over to the owl she had accidentally harmed, taking out her toad as she did so; and while she walked, she continued to speak, calmly and without haste. "Make sure that any of our own are not injured before we heal them, though I suppose they are more useful alive than dead. As for what to do with them, the answer is fairly straightforward; the Wizard of this town, Noristour, was the one that asked me to determine what the Thayans were doing, and I daresay that he will know the appropriate things to do with them. I would have you all accompany me to his tower on the edge of town, if you could; both for protection and because I feel that you have more than earned the right to see what is done with these people. That said, if we do not take them to him we may as well kill them; other than force-marching them out of town with bound hands and no supplies, which would kill them, we can do little to hold them permanently without them having a good chance at figuring out an escape; and the second time they attack us, we would likely kill them. Noristour is their only hope of, if not salvation, life."

She reaches the owl, her steps very slow to allow the Prestidigitation time to clean the space around her, and she holds out her hands, deeply apologetic, and her voice drops in volume. "Hello there, noble one. Forgive my actions, for I did not mean to bring you to harm. This is my toad, Bigglesby. I treat him well, and if you would let me lay a hand upon you, I can heal your injuries." She looks to the druidic woman, a single slender brow raised in question, waiting for a sign of assent before moving to heal the owl with a burst of magic from her belt; the calm, golden glow spreads over the beautiful bird, healing the marred, burned areas.

[Neth]

With a similar feeling of relief, Neth let out a laugh and answered the southerner. "You should not be thanking me, friend. What did I do, tapping him like that? More harm than good, I bet, reminding the stupid beast which direction to swing. You'd have finished him faster without me. Next time I'll just hold your drink, yes?"

The druid threw the man a friendly thump on the back, and although unfeminine the gesture had the easy motion of habit, and certainly looked to suit an easterner more than a curtsy would. Just as she does so, her attention is caught and her hand pauses on him. "I do not know that cloth," she says absently. "When we next have time to drink, I would be glad to hear of your lands."

Seeing the woman named Perelia step gracefully toward Gyl, Neth's attention shifts, and at the words spoken by the elf, the druid is moved. She herself could have treated his wounds, and she was certain the woman knew that, which gave the gesture different significance. All manner of things happen in the chaos of a fight, and Neth and Gyl, being both rather unsteady, had over time accidentally given each other more scratches than they likely would have if they'd actually fought each other. Needless to say, the care this woman took to apologize for a trivial thing was remarkable, and made quite an impression on the druid. She would make sure to say as much during the next moment of respite.

Thinking of this, Neth remembers the own damage she'd caused, and makes her way through the wreckage to where the Thayans are being bound, reaching into her pouch as she does. She approaches the man whose complexion resembles the locals, and assumes he is from nearby.

"Take this," she says, handing him a small bottle. "If it smells foul, forgive me," she adds with a crooked grin. "I made it lately, and don't yet know the most enjoyable herbs in these parts."

(I give Ryn one of the cure moderate wounds potions I had made, unless he objects! :smallredface: I have three others still, and different healing things as well, and can make more when I get the opportunity.)

[Keylac]

As the last gnoll had crumbled to the ground, victim of the odd elf's spell, Ryn spent a moment scanning the room, making sure all the others were dead. Finding that the combat had concluded, Ryn was finally able to turn his attention to the fact that he was on fire. Casually, he jabbed the spear into the floor - through the dead gnoll in front of him - and began patting out the flames.

As he does so, he listens with one ear to the conversation of the foreigners. Well mannered folk they were, as well as competent. They'd fit right in with Dalesfolk, accent and language barriers be damned. He did crook an eyebrow at the mention of Noristour. Ryn didn't know much about him, not being from Mistledale, but he'd heard the man was an old grouch. He supposed Thayans, and drow from what they said earlier, are enough to cause an old grouch to think of his neighbors.

For a moment, his mind turns to considering the problem of the drow and their demand. A rather evil idea begins to form...

He looks up at the approach of the rustic looking woman, setting aside future plotting. Hearing her offer, and explanation, he chuckles.

"Well stranger, I would suggest using Cormanthor Mint. It grows around the wet places throughout the Dales. Bit stronger then you find most places, but pleasant enough. As for your potion, I thank you, but these burns aren't bad, and I've a bit of magic I picked up in Waterdeep to deal with them." For a moment, his smile turns sad. "You'll need that potion come tomorrow, belike."

"If you'll pardon me a moment, I'm going to help Doroga with those poor fools before they wake up and try something stupid. Again."

With a quick bow, he turns towards Doroga and the unconscious Thayans. He considers for a breathe on what to use to gag them. For a moment, he almost reaches for the tunic of the dead gnoll in front of him, before deciding that would be too cruel. Besides, he doesn't want to kill them, and given the smell, that would be a distinct possibility. Instead, he walks back to the bar, nabbing a few of Arhlo's rags with a grin at the barkeep and a promise to help clean up when they're done. With that, he walks over to the Thayans.

Whistling as he works, he begins binding the woman's wounds and burns, until she is no longer in danger of bleeding out on the floor. Once finished, it takes but a moment to gag and blindfold her, making sure to cover her ears as well. That done, he binds her hands with the rope Doroga provided. Finished with here, he takes a moment to gag, blindfold, and deafen the male wizard as well, breaking of his whistling to compliment Doroga on the skill with which he disabled him.

All finished, he rises to his feet, slapping Doroga on the back as he does. Now standing, he looks around the room, searching. Upon spotting where his pipe fell, and his beer, still on the mantle, he walks over and retrieves them before leaning against the mantle, thinking.

"I'd not wish to gainsay you, Lady Mage, but perhaps there's a better option to bringing them to Noristour." A wave of his hand at the fella with the crossbow. "This one says the Riders has an interest in this too." Here, a wave at Daurily Corkwill. "And it all seems to revolve around her father. Perhaps instead of moving them all out of here, It'd make more sense to simply bring the Captain and the Wizard here, to hear the reason why from old Herlam. We can question the Thayans here at length as well, if needed." Here, an evil grin. "I've a few ideas about how to loosen their tongues." A wave at the dead bodies." I'll need these to make it work right though. Especially that gnoll that you felled last, since he's more intact then the others."

There he stops, awaiting their comments, calmly relighting his pipe and sipping his beer. Almost as an afterthought, he remembers to look to himself, and uses the magic in his belt - handy trinket! - to heal himself.

OOC
Took 10 on the Heal Check, for a total of 17.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13638828#post13638828)

Using 1 Charge of Healing Belt: (2d8)[14]

[b]Using 1 Charge of Healing Belt, Second Time[b]: (2d8)[5]

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga loops up and grins as Ryn slaps him on the back, a familiar action from earlier in the day. Nodding, he turns back to the items he pulled from the unconscious mage. A book, sparsely written in, a partially full bottle of some sweet smelling but powerful liquor, and a small purse with a handful of coins in it.

"Hey Groban, our new friends brought us some celebratory liquor! I'm so glad we thanked them for the show before they decided to lay down, it would have been downright improper if we didn't have the opportunity! I suspect this is a bit stronger than what we were drinking. I'll join you in a few moments.", he hands Groban the bottle.

Doroga opens up and begins flipping through the book a bit more closely. The writing was nothing like he had seen before, and the ink was made of some sort of gold lettering on some equally fancy paper. The book itself was bound tightly and well worn, despite its owners young age.

This looks remarkably similar to Bill's spellbook back home. I wonder if it has defensive spells like those he showed me.

He looks across the room to the woman who began the immolation of the room that was only now sputtering out. Clicking his tongue, he waits until she is done with what she is doing, and gets up and moves towards her.

"Hail mage. That was well fought, if not... *he motions to the smoldering bits around the room* without collateral damage. I am Doroga, from Lyrabar of Impiltur." Doroga waits for her name in return, then continues.

"Well met. I was wondering if you might be able to help me, now that all the fun is over. The youngest of them had this (he produces the spellbook). I was wondering if you could tell me what sort of spells it holds. I have a particular interest in defensive magic, and a spellbook along those lines would aid me in my studies."

Doroga knows nothing about why those 3 attacked, and is just assuming they were bandits of some kind looking to make trouble. The claims of impending doom from earlier well quickly forgotten once the room exploded into violence, hence no mention or thought of it, and turning directly to having fun again!

[Neth]

The man's light-hearted reply and this easy manner of both he and his aquaintance leaves Neth with an expression gradually growing more pleased and amused. They were not common, those who seemed to be perpetually enjoying themselves, and who might whistle while they gagged their captives. But when there is blood drying into the ground and bodies to be burned, you always wanted one of them around.

She listens thoughtfully to the exchanges, and is sorely tempted to nurture the plan to make their way to the wizard's quarters, if only to get back out into better air and open sky. Stifling the impulse, she gestures to their Thayan prisoners and says, "I spoke with these earlier. They told me they had powerful friends in this town. They may have lied, but all the same, before the truth is drained from their throats, we might do better not to haul them through the streets. I think we should gather what is useful here, quickly, and move to a place that is better for watching, better for protecting, before someone comes looking for them. Maybe the old tower behind here is good for this," she suggests, tossing a hand toward the back door.

Then with a nudge of her head to indicate the stranger with the pipe, she adds, "This man is right, many are involved now, so it might be best to summon them here, if they will come. It should be faster, and if this town may come under attack tomorrow, fast would be good, I think."

[Dragonsong]

The wild-looking woman's easy, unfeminine manner reminded Roen a little of home. Most of the Shebali women acted thus; men and women were tasked equally harshly, so there was no reason to make differences among themselves. It didn't hurt that she looked a little like them; he wondered if she had Arkaiun blood in her, or perhaps hailed from a land near where the Arkaiuns had originally lived. Her offer of conversation would have to be taken up soon; the potential answers to his questions already intrigued him. But until then there was work to be done, so he offered only a grin as she moved on.

"I agree," the southerner said with a nod as the new plan was formed. "If they may have allies, it's best that few see them, especially given that there'll be panic soon enough regardless. I can fetch the rider captain if you, lady mage," he offers a slight bow, as he once saw the harpers who rescued him do in the presence of a Northern woman, "would bring this 'Noristour' here." He starts for the door, then turns back, his face turning pensive. "I, too, would very much like to know what one aging adventurer has that so many of the wicked want."

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia listens to the others patiently, judging them as she does so. She is pleases to find no idiots or dullards among them; though she could be patient, it was not in her breeding or of her profession to deal with potential nuisances. The folk at the bar, however, seemed to be of a good nature and manner, and it was pleasant to find two potential magical practitioners amongst them, though the druidic woman clearly followed the Power instead of the Art.

Perelia looked to the young man holding the youngest Thayan's spellbook, and she held out a slender hand to accept it and inspect it. The spellbook was horrendously annotated, as she had suspected; the very markings and symbols were filled with the utter belief in the distinctness of the magical schools, and it indeed seemed that the blasted Thayans used a different language for every breed of spell. It wasn't utterly unlike her own methods, of course; some magical constants were just that, and nothing about them could be altered if one wished to keep the integrity of the spells.

"This book," she murmured softly after a few long seconds of study, "Is that of a specialized abjurer, a wizard that focuses on disruption and protection above the other arts. This abjurer seems to have banned; that is to say, declined to learn; the arts of necromancy and enchantment. If you wish to learn magic, this would not be a terrible book to start with; necromancy holds incredible power, but at the expense of some people's morality, and enchantment is a very delicate art that can potentially be used to subvert the free will of others, making it another questionable school for some. There shouldn't be anything objectionable here; which makes it all the more sad that this young wizard was a part of such a horrible organization."

She hands the book back, giving the young human a slight bow as she did. "Use this well and wisely, young man; and I would be pleased to give you some suggestions that may make that book more legible and less bitterly prejudiced. Now, I agree with the thought of bringing the people of importance to this location, and I am willing to move forward with that course of action; but first, I believe introductions are in order. My name is Perelia Laethia, a wizard of Halruaa and a seeker of new knowledge and new spells. What may I call you all?"

[Keylac]

Ryn listens intently to the words of his new found battle companions, contemplatively puffing on his pipe. He hadn't realized the rustic looking woman had talked to the Thayan's earlier. It was hard to believe such lackwits would have many friends in the Dales, but you never knew. Not that his folk were too noble or holy to fall in with such company; just smarter.

He's about to say something to the quick little fellow with the dagger, when Doroga walks over to the Lady Mage. Their conversation was interesting - Doroga had mentioned his interest in magic during their earlier drinks - but it was her introduction that made him pause.With a rueful grin, he realized that he hadn't introduced himself, and didn't know them from Azoun either!

"Ah, pray forgive me, Perelia Laethia, of Halruaa. I completely forgot courtesy!" he says, straightening up from his slouch against the wall, and reaching for his hat before realizing it's still on the peg over by the wall. His aborted grab for the hat turns instead into a sweeping bow at all present. "I am Ryn Kavaren, of Deepingdale, wanderer of these Realms. It is honor to make your acquaintance, and I hope we'll have time to speak of your homeland, for I've not yet been there."

Straightening from his bow, he turns to the fellow almost out the door. "If I could make a suggestion, before you head off to fetch the Captain?" Here, a gesture at the hat lately worn by a Knight of Thay. "Take that with you, just in case they truly do have friends. Seems it can disguise you, which might be handy. Besides, I'm greatly interested in hearing how it works. It has... possibilities."

Next, a gesture at Perelia. "As for you Lady Mage, if you plan to fetch Noristour, you should take Doroga or Groban with you." A brilliant grin. "Being bold is a lot easier if you prepare carefully ahead of time."

[The Smoking Man]

Groban, heaving and sweating heavily, takes a seat by the bar. When Doroga hands him the Thayan liquor, he smells it, winces, and pours a stream from a foot or so away from his head into his mouth. He swishes it around in his mouth, swallows, and seems much the better for it. "Well, friends! A good melee, no? I think I will take your sword's sorrows as my own, brother Ryn. You have the luck of the bear about you, I think, yes?" with that he raises the bottle in salute to the room at large, takes another drink, and then sets himself to the task of cleaning his sword and seeing to his armour.

Daurily (leaning wearily against the bar until now) stands up straight and takes in the conversation before her. "It seems," she says, putting her large sword back in its sheath and taking a deep breath, "That some explanations are indeed in order. Bring the mage and Captain Thraeg of the Riders here, and I shall awaken my father. I had hoped things would not begin this way... I had hoped..." she stops, sentiment obviously fighting for a place in her words, but losing to the soldier that dominated. She sighs, and begins to climb the stairs to the guest rooms.

Arhlo and his daughter are conferring with the stable hand by the front-door. Though they are shaken, they are unharmed, thanks to the decisive actions of the Inn's patrons. Before anyone leaves on their errands, Arhlo, after standing the table on the raised part of the common room back on its legs, stands atop it and makes ready for an announcement. Clearing his throat, the usually quiet man speaks: "Attention, friends. Though my establishment has never looked worse, my family and I must offer you our sincerest thanks for what you have done tonight. It seems..." (at this he closes his eyes a moment as a shudder creeps visibly down his back) "it seems some among us tonight meant harm to either my patrons, my neighbors, or both. When I opened this place, I swore an oath to the patron gods of the Harpers that no evil would be suffered within these walls. Tonight, I had a lapse in my judgement and vision, and would have paid the price were it not for you all. And so, my point: The lot of you eat and drink and sleep for free. Indefinitely. Would that I had some other treasure befitting those so noble as yourselves, but alas, my services rendered at a total discount are all that may be of use. Please, make this place yours for as long as you need to, and should you ever come through Ashabenford again, know that the offer stands." With that, Arhlo is helped off his table by his daughter. He smiles at her, and they go about the business of tidying up the Ashabenford Arms, starting with the brackish residue covering the floor near the fireplace.

Outside on the street, the air seems vaguely tense. A few townsfolk linger around outside the Inn's grounds, trying to get a good view of what's been going on inside. A drunken farmer, his son, and a local baker woman loiter outside and make inquiries to anyone who emerges.

Meanwhile, Riders and members of the Bears Errant mercenary company can be seen moving through the streets, making preparations and trying not to give away anything to the townsfolk that might upset them...

[Dragonsong]

He could lie, of course. He had worn many names in his life as he had moved from plantation to plantation, keeping up a false life long enough to open the gates from within and bring down his enemies. What did a name matter, anyway? He could be called anything and be the same man with the same scars and the same triumphs. Syllables tumbled on his lips, his tongue ready to spin another falsehood with the ease of slipping on a loose shirt. And then he paused. The truth, a true name, meant trust. He had not really trusted anyone in a long time. Not since he had lost Haldis...

He had taken a risk in trusting her that night, when she'd boldly approached his mistress's manor prepared to spread the joyous word of Lliira. Spies were sometimes sent among the slaves to see which were likely to ferment revolt; those judged dangerous adorned the spiked walls the following morning. But there had been something in that radiant face of hers, a pure honesty and earnest fervor, with which he had fallen in love. That had been trust. Looking at the others, fresh from a battle that had saved at least one life besides their own, he saw in them a little of what she had been.

Trust was a risk, a liability, but also a liberation from the half-life of a fugitive.

"Roen," he finally said, and a grin swept over him wider than any in years. "Roen Ravensperch, formerly of Dambrath, at your service." With each syllable his sense of elation grew, until not even the corpses or the blackened and bloodied floor or the promise of Dark Elves could taint the moment. Within his soaring heart he gave thanks to his Lady for bringing him out of a darkness he had not known he'd stumbled into. "An excellent idea, good sir Kavaren, and a generous one. Thank you." Accepting the hat, the young man settled it down around his ears.

If anything could have warmed his heart further, it was the reaction of Arhlo and his daughter to the battle. To give thanks in such a time, when their lives and livelihood alike had been in danger (and the latter even damaged), was a valuable lesson, and Roen felt a little humbled by them. He only offered a smile and a nod, too moved for words, then turned and headed back into the street. As he passed the threshold, he willed his mind to interface with the hat's magic, bending it to his desire. When his feet his the cobbles, a rotund, five foot tall merchant stood in his place, dabbing anxiously at his forehead with a cloth.

"It's... It's all right," he said, doing his best to disguise his voice even in a foreign language as the crowd outside hurled their questions at him. "A bit of a fire, is all. I'm off to fetch the riders. Oh dear oh dear, what a beastly night." Maneuvering through the throng of concerned people and making his way toward the rider barracks, he fought down a grin. He only wished he'd had such a hat as this years earlier, but perhaps that would've made him reliant. Regardless, he was unlikely to be recognized by any covert associates of the Thayans; he had practiced the art of disguise for over two decades, and this would only make it easier.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia moves across the room carefully, allowing the subtle magic around her to clean the floor and purify the air of any blood, dirt, or smoke before she moves through it, leaving a trail of cleanliness behind her, along with the scent of freshly crushed pine. She makes an effort to move through the most sullied areas of the tavern, and her efforts make a dramatic impact on the appearance of things, though no amount of magic can wipe away the night's deaths.

She looks to Doroga as she walks, and she raise a brow in question, her lips curving into a slight smile. "May I request your company, sir, for my venture out into the evening darkness? I daresay I will feel safer with a gentleman such as yourself at my side than I would if I had only my own senses to rely on." She opens the door, peering out into the night. "The wizard does not live terribly far from here; we should not be gone long."

[TheDivineWind]

Instead of responding immediatly, a wide grin spreads across Doroga's face as he bows deeply, his arms spread wide.

"I would be happy to Perelia Laethia, wizard of Halruaa. Perhaps it will give us the opportunity to talk. I would like to propose an arrangement."

Doroga pauses there in his conversation, waiting to get moving before starting again.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia peers into the darkness for a moment, her elven sight cutting through it far more easily than the humans; something she would have to remedy, if he was to accompany her. "One moment, please." She draws a small spring of faintly glowing moss from her pouch, and with a confident flourish she rolls it between her fingers, muttering a few quiet words in a foreign tongue. After a moment, the moss is gone, with only a faint glow remaining. She then lays her hand, gently, on the side of Doroga's polearm; and with her touch it begins to glow cheerfully, like a torch with no flame.

Satisfied that her retainer will no longer trip over a stone in the darkness and impale her, Perelia looks back to the less-crowded room, nodding politely before heading out the door, her strides long and swift, but still shorter than Doroga's. She waits a moment or two before speaking, her voice quiet and calm in the night air, and she speaks an answer to an unasked, but easily guessed, question. "So, Sir Doroga, you say that you wish to learn magic, or at least it has been implied by your actions. What, pray tell, do you know of it already? Do you have information general, or particular? What do you expect from arcane studies, and what aptitude do you posses for the Art, if you have attempted a spell? I ask not to stymie you, but to know where we should begin."

[Neth]

Neth listens to the introductions, entertained by the sound of the strange names and foreign phrases of courtesy.

At a pause in the exchange, she briefly touches her neck at the base of her throat. "Neth. I am from Rashemen. My grandmother eats figs." She catches herself on this part too late, and says as with an apologetic chuckle, "Sorry. Rashemi joke."

Quite willing to explain, or reveal anything, for that matter, that the strangers wished to know about her, Neth is nevertheless aware the present situation calls for swift action, and beyond a name to call out for aid or alert of danger, other details could likely wait.

As some of the others begin to head out, Neth strolls around to loom near the Thayans bound on the floor, looking pleased at their misfortune.

"Powerful friends or not, we should move them out of here now, I think. Especially if we try to 'persuade' them later, and the curious ones outside may overhear their 'objections'. I still think the tower may be best for this. So long as Arhlo permits us, is this good, do you think?"

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga watches inquisitively as Perelia begins what he suspects are the motions of a spell. As she touches his weapon and it lights up, he has to restrain himself from jumping backwards. He clears his throat and smiles, partially happy that he can now clearly see, and partially to cover up his surprise, and accompanies Perelia.

After she finishes her question, he walks in the silence for a couple dozen seconds, recalling what he can of his time at home talking with the local wizard and figuring how to form his response, his brain still clouded with alcohol and his steps weaving slightly as he enjoyed the relaxing effects of a nice buzz.

"I come from a small section of Lyrabar on the outskirts of town. There I was apart of the local militia and did what I could to protect those in town. One of those other residents was a wizard of no great power, or so he would tell me, whom I enjoyed conversing with. During a few of the battles with the mountain orcs native to the area, I had a chance to see him at work, flinging fire and blue-white stars into the orcish ranks. Afterwards, I asked him about his skill, and eventually about it's capability for defense. Steel and cured leather are wonderful, but think of what one could do if they could turn that fire into a shield, and use larger, more effective weapons at the same time?

I learned later I was thinking small (he laughs). I met with him many times after that, taking notes as he answered my questions. He never trained me in any way except answering my questions. He seemed quite pleased that someone was taking an interest in his wizardry, and in the special tobacco I used to purchase from merchants, and we covered a wide range of subjects.

So, to answer your question, I would think I know the basics. I know that one can, with training, summon up the energy that surrounds us and channel it through formula created with words, gestures, and items which generates a wide range of different effects. That a wizard will record these formula in their spellbook so that they can call them to their mind after they rest. And I've even learned a bit of the planes, though it never got far past the fact that there are a number that overlap our reality... I still have trouble wrapping my mind around how that works.

I tried a few times actually, to call forth a plane of energy in front of me but I never had much luck, and only ever gave myself a severe headache. However, I never gave up and have been gathering what lore I can during my travels. I thought I once caused a spark of light in my hand when I was trying the shield again, but it may have been a trick of my eyes, with all the effort I had an intense headache.

It isn't much, but I find it a welcome distraction from my rigorous physical training regiments like I had in the tavern back there."

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia listened carefully and politely as the young man spoke, and she saw a spark of promise in him; though he clearly did not have knowledge of the intricacies of the Art, the fact that he had begun to master the willpower and focus aspects of magic were good indicators that he would in fact be able to call forth simple spells. And when he mentioned his physical training, she couldn't help but agree that it must have been rather vigorous-

And Perelia cut that thought short, shaking her head slightly in irritation as she did so. She noticed that he has stopped speaking, and she took a moment to collect her thoughts before launching into a casual dissertation on arcane magic.

"The foremost thing that you will have to keep in mind is that this is going to be difficult for you. An elven mage lives to a hundred years before we are allowed to select our specialization, and then it is another ten before we are considered prepared to enter the world; and most mages take longer than that before they actually do so, for good reason.

Your kind, however, pick up the Art with almost uncanny speed, so you should be able to master simple magics in a fairly short amount of time; however, without the proper training and, er, mental fortitude you may find truly profound magic outside of your grasp. Shields and dispelling are well and good, but I must stress the fact that if you wish to rock the earth beneath you and travel between the planes, you are going to have to dedicate years of your life to intense study and training.

That said, if it is combat abjuration that you seek, then it is abjuration that I will focus on. I myself am somewhat of a rarity among mages; a true generalist, a wizard that has eschewed the power of a specialist to retain the ability to draw on all schools of magic. The act of specialization is not one to be taken lightly, and yet most mages do. It is a twofold act; you select a single school that you feel is the greatest of the eight, and you pour your attentions and personal energy into the study of that Art. At the same time, you turn your thoughts and learning away from two other schools that you find weaker or less useful than the others.

The act is more than just a changing of your academic focus, though it is that; when you specialize you create a resonant link with your magical school, at the cost of utterly severing your connection with your two banned schools. You cannot use any magic of your banned schools, including that from magical items, though some powerful mages figure out ways to trick items into working for them regardless. I will also note that you can ban a third school for even greater focus, but I find that to be a bit shortsighted; most schools of magic have certain powers and abilities that simply cannot be replicated by the other seven, without the use of truly fundamental magics, such as the Wish spell."

Perelia takes a moment of pause before continuing; she is clearly enjoying this, and she makes sure to make plenty of eye contact, remembering that her best professors did just that. "I suppose I've spoken enough about that, and it seems to be appropriate to give abjuration some attention. Abjuration, as you know, is the magic of protection; but it is much more than that. It is magic of prevention, and repulsion, and negation. There are abjuration spells that can harm, but they are few and far between, and the harm is always a side effect, and after effect.

Know that if you focus on this magic, you must rely on other methods to harm your foes; and that with such a focus on protection, your offensive magics will be inherently limited. I suspect that you will not find that much of a drawback, with your skill at arms, but some foes need more than a blade to fell; it is for this reason that I use magic to harm as well as prevent harm. Now then, I have spoken long enough. Do you have any particular questions, or would you like me to show you some of the hand gestures and movements used in lesser protective spells?"

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga's eyes light up at the suggestion that she will teach him how to properly cast a spell, but he quickly catches himself and thinks for a moment.

"Defense is the main reason I am interested. From what you talked about earlier, I'm not interested in enchantment or necromancy. The gods and mages more interested than I can deal with the minds and life energy around us. I am a warrior. We use our skills to defeat what is ahead of us. *he then adds slyly* But I will have a skill at hand few warriors ever do.

That said, what are the other schools? I have learned of three so far today, and learned about one from the aforementioned wizard, evocation. That leaves four more to discuss."

He pauses for a few seconds then, grinning, he adds, "Then I would very much like to learn how to cast this shield spell you talk about. Or something easier to start with, if there is such a thing. As my old captain liked to say to over-eager recruits... Orc blood tastes sweeter when it isn't mixed with your own."

Doroga grins, "It's better to start simple and work your way up to the more difficult tasks."

[Keylac]

Ryn ponders Neth's suggestion for a moment, idly puffing away.

"I think we would do better to leave them in here, Neth who's Grandmother Eats Figs. At least until the others return. There are only three of us present, and I'd hate to divide us up further watching them. We can always move them before questioning them. However, you're right that we can better prepare." He nods his head in the direction of Ahrlo, still working to clean up what parts of the mess Perelia's spell didn't. "Why don't you ask Ahrlo if there's a good room or two we can move them too, once the others arrive. I'll get some things setup here."

With a twitch of his shoulders, Ryn rises from his slouch against the wall, taking a moment to tap the ash from his pipe into the fire before putting it away. Moving quickly, he retrieves his weapons, placing them on the Thayan's former table.

It takes a couple of minutes to strip the bodies, both live and dead, of their valuables, piling their equipment on the table next to his weapons. It's but a few moments more work to have them laying out in a row along the wall, putting the live ones on the end, half-hidden behind dead gnolls.

The work done, he sits at the table, taking up his bow and notching an arrow, chair titled back as he watched the prisoners and the door.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia smiles as the bright young warrior speaks; he had potential in him, and the prospect of an apprentice of her own was an interesting one. "There are indeed abjuration spells that are more simple and straightforward than Shield; the most common of which is generally called Resistance. It lasts about a minute, has a standard three-second casting time, and it grants a small edge in avoiding danger and fighting off the effects of spells. It will be the first or second spell I shall teach you.

For now, however, it would be wise to teach you of all the schools of magic; and I warn you, you have asked a verbose person to exposit on a subject that she loves. I will, however, aim for brevity, as Noristour's tower is only a little further along this path. So. You know of Abjuration, and Enchantment and Necromancy hold no interest for you. You have knowledge of Evocation, you say; the magic of explosions, flame, and moving energy.

Let us, then, speak of Conjuration, the magic of summoning and making. But first, I suppose, a minor demonstration may hold your interest." Perelia holds out a hand, and with a quiet spoken word a few bronze sparks seem to form in her palm, glittering gently in the light of Doroga's weapon. She flicks her hand gracefully, and the sparks fly out in a faint shower, rising up a bit before coming down on an area five feet deep and ten feet across, alongside the edge of the road. The sparks, as Doroga can see once he leans forward, have become four-pointed, wickedly sharp caltrops, each glimmering faintly and wickedly in the night. Perelia stands, watching them silently, and after almost half a minute they dissolve back into faint sparks, which themselves rapidly fade.

"That was a Creation spell, a subschool of Conjuration. Other subschools include Calling, which brings a real creature from another place; Summoning, which brings the image and facsimile of a body of a real creature into being for a short time; and Teleportation, which transports people and objects from one place to another, transporting them through the Astral Plane to do so. The Conjuration school of magic is exceptionally versatile, though its forte definitely lies in summoning and creating; powerful conjurers can also bring forth great clouds of acid or poison, and there are some conjurations that mimic the powers of the Evocation school.

The next school of magic is Divination, and it is a powerful school indeed. Divination may be the most important school of magic, in some ways; it is impossible to shut oneself off from the resonant energies of Divination, and when a wizard chooses it as his specialization he need only ban one other school. That said, the Divination school is perhaps the most limited of the eight; it deals solely and entirely with the gathering and discernment of information. Detecting other magic, reading magical writings, scrying, reading thoughts; it all falls under this school. Any wizard worthy of the title can prepare the Read Magic spell from memory, and it will be another of the first few spells you learn, both due to simplicity and because knowing it is an inherent part of the memorization process.

Next we come to the Illusion school, the school of misdirection, figments, lies, and imitation. Illusions can represent nearly anything, and a truly powerful mind can create illusions of such magnitude and complexity that they sunder the thoughts of lesser beings. On a more practical scale, however, Illusion is excellent for combat; the spell I used to protect myself earlier, the one that created four more copies of myself? That was an excellent Illusion spell, Mirror Image, and in my experience it can be more useful than Mage Armor for protecting oneself. Other common illusions are Invisibility, or the creation of false sounds and images. You would be surprise with the number of things a simple illusion can accomplish; imagine, for example, if you came across a pit in the road. After much time and effort, you get around it, and you continue on your way; only to fall into the real pit, concealed by a simple figment only a few feet from a false deadfall. It takes intellect and creativity to use illusions properly, but any wizard that lacks those two things should find another occupation.

And now we come to the last of the eight, Transmutation, the school of change and alteration. Transmutations have two limitations: they cannot create new matter, and they cannot create new energy. Beyond that, however, they are endlessly useful, and I cannot think of a reason to ever ban the school; though, of course, I did not ban any of them. Transmutation can grow you to twice your original size, something you may find uniquely useful with that weapon, or it can make your weapons more deadly or alter your body in some other way. Transmutation can make you stronger, smart, faster, more attractive, and even alter your race or body type, for short amounts of time. Transmutation is not as effective at harming living bodies as some of the other schools, but with it you can literally alter the landscape around you, and you can enhance your own form immensely; I suspect you will find much use in this particular school.

And now, my new friend, we come to the most magical part of this evening. Indeed, perhaps the most magical part of your life; for this secret I now whisper to you is the most important thing that I ever learned. You can specialize and ban, focus on and ignore the different schools of magic, and to do so is well and good. But I tell you now, Doroga; they are all, in fact, one and the same.

Each school of magic is but a piece of the Art, an incomplete and inherently part of a perfect whole. Each school is but a petal of a beautiful flower; and a flower is more than a pile of petals. The stem of magic, the part that is part of each of the schools and yet separate, is known as Universal magic. Universal magic is not well understood, and there are few spells that fall under that title; but the simplest, most useful spell in the world is one of them, and the single most powerful spell in the world is another."

Perelia holds out her hands, drawing back her sleeves to show that there is nothing under them. She then, with an exaggerated flourish, pulls a flower out of thin air, the movement too fluid and practiced for Doroga to properly see what happened. She gives him the flower, and it feels odd; flimsy, weak, brittle, and unlike a true rose should, though the smell of roses fills the air after he takes it. She then leans forward, pursing her lips, and with a gentle breath the rose dissolves into a reddish dust, twirling around the torchlight of Doroga's blade before vanishing into the night. She laughs, a beautiful, clear sound, and then she waves her hand at the road beneath them. The dust and dirt are slowly wiped away from the cobblestones, until a clean circle of glistening stone surrounds them.

"That is the power of Prestidigitation, of the least and greatest spell; the power of little magics, of tricks and minor seemings. Prestidigitation can do nothing that another spell can do, and yet it can do everything that other spells cannot do, everything too minor or simple. It fills in the spaces that other magic leaves behind, you see. Its grandfather, Wish, is just the opposite; it encompasses all of magic, and it can replicate and match the power of all but the very grandest of spells, and it can do more besides. Universal magic takes serious personal power and mental might to wield; aside from Prestidigitation, of course, which is traditionally the very first spell of every apprentice, followed by Read Magic. You have a clear aptitude for Abjuration, so I will mix Resistance into your learning as well.

I will say this, however; while you are learning magic, if that is the path you have chosen, you will not be able to make great progress with your skill at arms. Magical study is very rigorous and very time-consuming, and if you wish to succeed you will not be able to put the dedication into your bladework that it usually takes to become better; though you will have enough time to maintain your current level of skill, especially if you routinely test yourself in battle. Magic can be an amazing supplement to physical skill, but it will take time before it can fill in the gaps that your armor leaves behind. You will find, for a time, that you may struggle to balance your two areas of expertise. This is normal, and natural, and should not dissuade you; I can and will keep you safe until you can do the same for me."

Perelia holds out a slender hand, her movement suddenly formal odd, and you are struck for a moment not only with her age, which is great, but the age of her culture and peoples, the sheer immensity of the history behind what she has told you, the tales and times and tribulations of magic and mages and elves and wizards. She speaks a few words in High Elven, words that almost sound like a prayer, and then after a moment she repeats herself in common. "Will you devote yourself to the Art, and to all the honor and dedication that implies? Will you seek to become one with the Weave, and to use the power of your mind and magic to improve the world around you, and to bring harm only to those that call harm to themselves? Will you promise to not leave my company until I have deemed you prepared, or until you decide that the path of the wizard is not the path that you seek? Will you be my apprentice, Doroga?"

[The Smoking Man]

Noristuor's Tower:

Engrossed in arcane discussion, Doroga and Perelia suddenly find themselves stopped in front of the large demonic statue in the front yard of Noristuor's abode. The gargantuan gargoyle faces the tower, and Noristuor himself stands beneath it with his apprentice at his back, watching the young warrior and the elven mage with interest, not wanting to interrupt the important moment.

A smile flickers across his supremely wrinkled visage, and he leans on his staff as if he has nothing more important to do than to wait for Doroga to respond to the elf's prompt.

OOC:
So basically, no rush! Just wanted you two to know that Noristuor is waiting patiently and will speak with you whenever you are ready.

The Rider Barracks:

As the flustery merchant approaches the gate of the Rider's barracks, his ears are alerted to a frantic conversation going on just within the grounds:

"Attacked?" barks the voice of Captain Thraeg.

"Indeed." intones a tired, old voice. "And in my own god's forsaken tent, no less. Something stirs tonight, old friend. I drove the bugger off, but not before attaining this," (the sound of stretching cloth).

"By Lathander's Light! It looks like poison, friend. Must have been a drow."

"I thought as much, until I fought the wretch. He had the sense to snuff my lamps before attacking, relying, obviously, on my one missing eye to do the rest for him. It worked... I saw nothing of him. But his fighting style... it contained none of the flourish taught at Melee Magthere. He was quick, but he was brutal."

"Indeed..." A long moment passes before either voice says anything. Finally Thraeg speaks up. "I've got our local herbalist inside, preparing healing magic. He'll take care of you, Karpike. Thank god you survived the attack... I'm not sure this defense could hold without you and your mercenaries."

The other voice grunts wryly, and Roen can hear footsteps on the gravelly path leading to the entrance to the main barracks, beyond the gate where Roen stands. A burly figure in heavy armour comes into view through the gate, heading for the door of the building. Thraeg comes into view next.

"Oi, you there! Off with you! Unless you've got a major crime to report, I'm busy!" Thraeg shouts, reminding Roen of his disguise.

The Ashabenford Arms:

As Neth and Ryn speak, arrange the captives, and share a drink with Groban as he helps Arhlo and his daughter with the cleaning, a tall, skinny, well-dressed man strides into the Ashabenford Arms bearing a small horn, on which he sounds three ascending notes, before making an announcement:

"Stand aside and lend your eyes, citizens of Ashabenford! High Councillor Haresk Malorn, Mayor of Ashabenford and Commander General of the Rid -"

The herald is cut off by a brusque shout and a shove as a large, well-groomed man in what can only be described as a work-house-coat emerges from the twilight of the threshold. "High Councillor Haresk at your service." he announces for himself as his herald rubs his bruised shoulder. "Now, Arhlo, you'd better explain what in the Nine Hells 'ave been going on here, or I'll revoke your brewer's license, so help me Tyr." He pauses to catch his breath (clearly winded from the walk from his residence) and surveys the room as he does so. "And who are these grubby foreigners. And why are those other grubby foreigners tied up and... dead. Eh? Cockatrice caught your tongue, Arhlo? Explain yourself, man! Why is an assortment of Ashabenford's most accomplished gossips and gainsayers crawling about my windows and doors long past suppertime, whining about some arcane barfight in what is supposed to be the town's finest establishment, eh? Eh!?"

Arhlo is taken entirely aback. His mouth opens and closes like that of a fish. He looks helplessly to Ryn and Neth...

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga listens intently, his eyes widening when Perelia conjures small metal caltrops out of nothingness, and again as they disappear, considering the possibilities without knowing the specifics. He spends much of the time deep in thought, absorbing what Perelia says.

Conjuration seems useful. Perhaps one could craft barriers with it, though they would be of limited use if they disappear like that. Still, summoning allies to fight along side me and clouds of acid are particularly useful.

Divination... useful to learn about things... Perhaps it could inform on the motions of the enemy, granting an advantage? Or one might be able to scout out a fortification ahead of time, which would be quite useful. I will have to ask more later.

Illusion could prove useful. To trick an enemy into attacking a non-existent target could lessen the burden on myself or others. Hiding traps or passageways could be interesting, but I might have to think about how useful that would actually be. It sounds more useful when planning ahead on defending a position, rather than immediate combat.

Now, there's a school of magic I can have interest in. Transmutation. To make myself larger and more capable, or improve myself physically, or even change into other creatures for a time? I could fly, quite possibly... That will be an important school.

Universal magic seems quite interesting too. I think I will end up learning much about it as time passes, Perelia seems quite focused on it.

Evocation is all destruction and, as she said, moving energy around to create those destructive results. Even without great skill though, I wonder how difficult it might be to use spells to control a battle. Launching fireballs is great, but if that could be turned to a shield, or a wall, it would be an easy step to cover a flank and hurt any who attempted to strike at it. Or those blue stars Bill fired.. what did he call it... a force spell? Those might be very useful.

He looks up to see that they have already arrived at the tower, and all three wizards are waiting for his reply. He hadn't realized they were close enough that the local wizard could overhear their conversation. I looked at each of them for a second, then back to Perelia.

"I would be honored to learn of... what did you call it... The Art from you, and become your apprentice Perelia Laethia, wizard of Halruaa. We shall see if I cannot manage both at once. I enjoy a good challenge *he grins*.

I would like to focus on Abjuration, and deny the schools of enchantment and necromancy. And I will consider your words about excluding a third school in order to further focus on Abjuration. Later, I will have to ask you more of Illusion and Evocation at a later time so that I may fully understand their potential advantages. The advantages of conjuration, divination, and especially transmutation are very clear to one like me.

However, for now I see we have arrived at our destination. *turning to Noristuor* Greetings Wizard. I only just missed your demonstration earlier, if you might be Noristuor. I am Doroga, from Lyrabar of Impiltur. Student of the guisarme, and as of a moment ago, apprentice of Perelia Laethia. My greetings to you."

Doroga gives a small tip of his head in respect to both Noristuor and Perelia as he says their names.

[Neth]

[slightly earlier]

Neth consents with a nod, and laughs at the title he bestowed, resolving to even the score in due time.

She itches a little yet, feeling exposed and trapped, and as though, if any danger was approaching, she'd want to see it approaching, and have situated herself in a secure place of advantage... but she also knew this was mostly from being unaccustomed to urban surroundings, and being a bit of a dexterity disaster, unable to rely on swift reflexes, and completely dependent on ample protection and ample warning to react.

But she was far from voicing any complaints. Not only did they arise from foolish things anyway, but she had put herself in this situation in the first place. If she'd wanted to always be able to watch her enemies from a lookout and be secure in her environment, she wouldn't have left the forest.

And where's the fun in that?

Her staff thumping the wooden floor with her steps, she meanders over to Arhlo, already missing the lovely scent of the pipesmoke that Deepingdale man, Ryn, had been enjoying. If he knew off the top of his head the strongest mint that grew in these parts, he could surely recommend the finest smokeleaf. She'd have to remember to ask.

"Your pardon, Arhlo," she says in a quiet, respectful way to the noble barkeep as he stoops to gather up some charred bits of what might have been a chair. "We have burdened you enough, I think. But we wonder if you keep here any hidden places," she asks, absently gesturing with her hand as she does when speaking a tongue not her first, having the paranoid assumption that she might not be fully understood. "And any chambers with... thick walls, maybe? We might have need of them, if you allow it. I will stay here with the rest to help keep guard until our other companions return, but we would like to know so we can be prepared when the time--"

[now-ish]

The sudden burst of noise is startling, and even after Neth realizes the intrusion is no immediate threat, she cannot dispel the tension in her muscles. Further annoyed by this leader's impatience with Arhlo, she furrows her brow and says firmly, "A child of four could tell you whatever happened here was not this man's doing. Your town owes him, and those you see here before you, a great debt."

Before mentioning anything more, she pauses, allowing Daurily, or the man named Ryn to speak to this commander if they wished. She expected they knew more of his role in the town than she, and therefore what best to explain to him.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia nods silently to Doroga, and though her smile is slight her ears quirk up in a distinctly happy expression. She lays a hand on his shoulder for a moment, still silent, and then she turns to Noristour, granting the wizard a deep bow. "Wizard Noristour, I bring both good news and bad. The good news is that you have little to fear from Thayans; I encountered both the man that fled the demonstration today and several of his companions in the bar, and they initiated a conflict that resulted in the death of their leader by my hand, and the deaths of their gnoll thugs and a Thayan Knight at the hands of several upstanding folk that were in the bar at the time, including Doroga here. We still have two living Thayans, held hostage and relieved of any spell components or magical items.

I would have brought them here, sir, but the circumstances have made it such that it will be far more practical if you would accompany myself and my companion back to the tavern to discuss strategy and to interrogate the Thayans. It seems, sir, that there is a man in the tavern that is sought by the drow in this area, and that they will attack tomorrow to claim him; I see it as possible that the Thayans sought the same man. He is at the tavern, as will be several of the leaders of various lawful groups that seek to protect both him and the township."

She inclines her head, and finishes her short explanation. "I understand that the hour is growing late, but it is of my estimation that the threat is both real and serious, and I can think of no one in this town better qualified to interrogate the Thayans or, at least, to be present at their interrogation, and to help plan our strategy tomorrow. Will you come with us, sir?"

[Dragonsong]

Lending intrigued ears to the conversation happening just inside the gate, Roen thanked the Goddess for his timing. If he could bring the mercenaries defending the town up to speed as well, or at least rely on the captain to do it for him, that would do much for the town's readiness. This talk of another non-Drow foe, however, was worrying; an agent of the Thayans, or yet another party with an interest in invading Ashabenford, possibly to seek out old Herlam as well? The young rogue had an uneasy feeling that he would find out all too soon, and the elation he had felt began once again to drain slowly away.

But there was work to be done, and to be done far from potential prying ears. "Captain, I do have something to report!" Dropping the semi-panicked merchant's voice as soon as he was close enough for the rider to hear a whisper, he spoke again, barely loudly enough to be understood. "It's the brave fool juggler again. I apologize for the deception, but we may be being watched. There has been an attack on the Ashabenford Arms, and not by the Drow. It seems that there are others going after the old man as well." He imagined how strange his voice must seem apparently coming from a throat that could not possibly produce it.

"The other guests at the inn, adventurers by the look of them, were able to defeat these attackers, and we've captured the survivors. I suspected you would know what to do, and could help us plan how to keep Herlam and those around him safe from threats both inside and outside the town. I overheard you speaking with a mercenary who also provides for the defense - sorry to eavesdrop - and I would ask that you both come to the inn with all possible haste so that we may discuss our options." Pausing to take a deep breath, for he had vomited forth this stream of words far faster than was comfortable (whispers eventually drew attention), Roen waited for the captain's response.

[Keylac]

From his seat, feet propped up on the table in front of him, bow still in hand, Ryn watches Malorn make his entrance, and his demands for explanation. When Neth pauses in her defense, looking at him, he decides to speak.

"Grubby is it, and foreigner to boot?" he mused, idly using the arrow to scratch his back before returning it to the bowstring. "You eat something disagreeable for dinner, High Councilor? It's pikestaff plain that Ahrlo did naught at all, at all to warrant you speaking to him in such a way. It's not often that he serves gnolls here, I'm sure."

A jerk of his head indicated the bar. "Why don't you try pulling that rod of office out of your arse and have a drink. We've already sent folk to fetch the Rider's Captain and the wizard Noristour, who asked that these folk" - here the head indicates the two trussed up captives - "be kept an eye on. I'd hate to have to explain everything twice, especially when I'm sure I know not that half of it myself!"

He pauses a moment, before his face turns serious. "You've my word that none died that didn't first try to kill others. My oath to Torm on it."

Solemnity over, the habitual smile returns. "Not that they were very good at it. I know; they tried to kill me first, for some maggot-brained reason."

[Neth]

At Ryn's retort, surprise and satisfaction spread over Neth's face. There were clearly two sorts of authority in any land — the widely-worshipped and the often-mocked; but one never knows when a whole population will get the two mixed up. To hear a man who called the Dales his home speak like this to the leader of a town was a relief. This made it clear to Neth that there lived at least some among these people who saw good sense and despised arrogance.

"What he says is true," she confirms to the councillor. "And when you know what has passed this evening, you will care much less about the reputation of your 'finest establishment'. Or at least for a short while you will forget that you care."

She gestures with a hand to the two captives. "We have dealt with these but there is worse to come. As this man said, when our companions return you will hear all the accounts you wish. But I would ask that you tell your man with the ugly flute to put it away or he will be looking for a new one tomorrow. There must be no loud things; you must send no flock of messengers fleeing from this place in a panic. We are all in danger, and it can come as easily from our enemies as it can from fools. And although we'd prefer to spare them for the enemies, our weapons work on both."

[The Smoking Man]

Noristuor's Tower:

Noristuor nods to Perelia and Doroga, and, after exchanging a few quiet words with his apprentice (who rushes back into the tower), approaches where you stand. "It is good that the Red Wizards were subdued. With some of them left alive, we should be able to piece together what their motives were, and what their presence here has to do (if anything) with the drow and the infamous Mr. Corkwill." He laughs his grating, impish laugh as he withdraws his gnarled pipe and a pouch of tobacco. "You know, Miss Laethia, Doroga of Impiltur, that these are perhaps some of the more interesting events to have happened here in some time?" he sticks his pipe in his beard-shrouded mouth, lighting it with a tiny blue flame that jumps from his finger onto he bed of packed leaf, "You know... I just love to see these things get under way. To meet those involved at the very beginning..."

Before you can ask the old Tiefling what exactly he meant by that, his apprentice comes huffing and puffing out of the tower, with Noristuor's staff and two large volumes under his arm. He hands the staff to Noristuor. The old wizard turns to the large demonic statue that stands between him and his front door, raises the staff, mutters a few words, and the base of the statue turns slowly. The sound of ancient stone grinding on ancient stone fills the tower's grounds, echoing across the nearby Ashaba river. The statue ceases to move when it is facing in the opposite direction as before - out, toward the main approach to Noristuor's property.

"Well then," he says, motioning for his apprentice to follow him and winking at Perelia and Doroga, "shall we?"

Almost back at the Inn, Noristuor stops, turning to Perelia. "Worry not, young mage. I have not forgotten what I had promised you in return for intelligence on the Thayan fools. But first let's see what old Herlam has to say, eh?" he winks, and moves toward the Inn. It strikes both Doroga and Perelia that his manner and energy seem to contrast anything either of you may have heard since coming to Mistledale. Something seems to be invigorating the old Tiefling. Schlep, his apprentice, seems unused to such playfulness and vim, and shakes his head as he chases after his master...

The Rider Barracks:

Captain Thraeg snorts and shakes his head as it becomes plain that it is in fact Roen beneath the cumbersome merchant. At Roen's brief concerning the events at the Ashabenford Arms, Thraeg's face becomes more and more inscrutible; hardening with each new disturbing fact. A true soldier, he doesn't waste time with superfluous questions, instead calling to the sentry by the door to the main building to retrieve Karpike of the Bears Errant double-quick.

He opens the gate and absently squeezes one of the black iron bars as he waits for Karpike to emerge. "You know, Ravensperch... there's something ugly happening here in Ashabenford. Something uglier than blood-thirsty drow, foreign opportunists and blades in the night... No, it's something bigger than all that. Something... something for the sages." His eyes regain their in-the-moment focus as his reverie is broken by Karpike's arrival. The old mercenary comes bearing a rolled up map.

"Figured these might come in handy. Got a map of the Dale and one of the town. No war's ready without a coin for the cartographers, eh, Thraeg? 'Least I think that's how Volo puts it in that one ballad of his... Anyhow, we should get moving."

And with that, the three of you make your way to the Ashabenford Arms, though slightly slower than might have been possible, had Karpike not been the recent victim of an unknown assailant - one that managed to land a blow or two despite the mercenary's many years of experience and training...

The Ashabenford Arms:

The High Councillor throws daggers with his eyes in the direction of Ryn, and then Neth, and then back at Arhlo. "Well then..." he says, as if ready to condemn you all to exile. He takes a deep, ponderous breath. "...I suppose I'll just have to shut my giant pie-pocket until the truth can be expunged from whatever murky proceedings take place, eh? Does that sound agreeable, Lords and Ladies?" with this the faintest curl of a smile plays in the corners of his mouth. He strides over to the nearest table, shoving his herald as he does.

"Arhlo! A tankard! My usual. Might as well finish it off if I'm to revoke your license, eh?" with this another half-smile.

Arhlo laughs the nervous laugh of one to whom even regular joculence does not come naturally, turning and gesturing almost hysterically for his daughter to fetch the High Councillor his ale.

The councillor, having been brought his drink, seems to remember something of dire import half-way through his first gulp, almost spilling it. "And you!" he says to his herald, "You heard the woman. Get that thing out of sight or suffer the wrath of a tasteless outlander!" proving his skill at both placating and playfully insulting simultaneously. He then turns back to his drink, huffs impatiently, and waits for the promised audience with those involved, making impatient affectations of gesture and voice every few moments, just for good measure...

OOC:
So, unless Perelia and Doroga and Roen have anything more to say to commanding townsfolk they escort to the Inn, feel free to describe your entrances to the common room and introductions to the High Councillor. After that, the real proceedings will get under way. Daurily and Herlam have not yet emerged from the upstairs rooms, but some quiet shuffling seems to indicate that the old adventurer will be ready for his public soon.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia nods graciously to Noristour, the motion almost a curtsy, and then she looks back to the door of the inn. "Do not concern yourself with me, master. I have faith and trust in you. Now then, allow me to do the honors."

She then opens the door smoothly, stepping inside and rapping her elven bow-staff loudly on the wooden floor. "Announcing the master wizard Noristour and his apprentice." She steps aside, giving the tielfing the opportunity to come through the door and enter the room.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

With all present, the Ashabenford Arms looks much as it does on a steady night, save that on a usual night the common room is not so quiet, nor are all eyes usually glued to the staircase leading to the upper rooms.

The High Councillor, his herald, Captain Thraeg of the Riders, Karpike of the Bears Errant, Noristuor, Schlep, Perelia, Ryn, Roen, Neth, Doroga, Groban, Arhlo, Tsasha. Save for a quick conversation between the High Councilor and Thraeg, all are silent, sipping drinks or picking anxiously at helpings of Arhlo's stew.

Just as the wait seems unbearable, footsteps can be heard coming from the stairs. Daurily appears first, washed of the stains of battle, looking more the doting daughter than the warrior despite the unmistakable presence of her sword at her back.

"Finally," exclaims the High Councillor, throwing up his hands and standing, "I understand age, m'dear, but this has been ridiculous." Along with their Councillor, Thraeg and Noristuor also stand to receive Herlam.

The old man emerges from the stairs. He stops by the bar to lean and regain his balance. As he does so, glossy green eyes survey those gathered before him. Undaunted, he continues his slow shuffle to the front of the room, where he stands beside his daughter. He is dressed in the (now ill-fitting) remnants of his adventuring days: a mithril cuirass emblazoned with the crest of Mithril Hall; a fine scimitar of ornate design; a cloak of elven make; boots that seem to change colour to match their surroundings; several rings and amulets that positively hum with arcane and divine energy; a thin, knotted staff that makes a surprisingly loud and clear tok with every fall; a compact, clearly well-warded spellbook hanging from a silver chain at his side with an embroidered component pouch to match; a sash of various potions and elixirs; bracers of steel pressed with dragon motifs...

On a younger man, thee things would have inspired awe - but there's something in the way Herlam carries himself... something desperate in his eyes that make him seem pathetic; even more so beneath the layers and layers of adventuring equipment. The man looks to Daurily, who takes a step forward and addresses the room:

"We are... grieved to learn that our presence here in Mistledale has brought about such danger for the good people that dwell here. We had not meant to bring our troubles to your doorstep," with this she nods graciously to Arhlo, "Nor did we mean to upset the peace." this time addressing the High Councillor and Thraeg. "If you will allow my father to explain himself unharassed, it is our hope that... some solution might be found that would see Ashabenford and its people safe, and my father... unharmed. But enough from me. If you would suffer a tired man to recount a story that might illumine present circumstances, we would be honoured and most grateful. You have my word as a Purple Dragon of Cormyr that, should you wise elders deem it fair and right, we will leave you."

Daurily then looks to her father, who steps forward as she steps back. His hands shake as he takes a long several seconds to clear his throat. Finally, with a voice stretched thin by age but retaining a surprising strength and depth, he begins to speak: "I am Herlam Corkwill of Mersember, and I will keep this as short as I can. It is not my wish to waste more of your time. As I do not broach gross impositions on myself, I will not expect any of you to."

"It is my understanding that several parties have made themselves known this night, parties who wish to take something from me. It is true that I have made as many friends as enemies in my lifetime, just as it is true that I have traveled the realms from Cormyr to Amn to Waterdeep, form Waterdeep to Halruaa, from Halruaa to Dambrath and Rashemen and Thay, and from the east back to the Heartlands and the cities of the Sea of Fallen Stars and the Moonsea. I have tread the Underdark, fought for and against many of the greatest powers known to the Realms. I have triumphed and... and I have lost much." He pauses to blink away sentiment, and continues. "Years ago, after I thought my adventuring career all but over, I found myself desperate. My investments were failing, my abilities waned, and I found myself... very much alone. That is, until a friend of mine, the famed halfling thief Fallohar, came to me with one final adventure; one final test of our mettle. Our sources had it that a great and immensely valuable tome of Netherese arcana was being held in the great library at Candlekeep. The book, known as the Karsusian Codex, was apparently a difficult thing to ward - to enchant against thieves and wrong-doers. This, we thought, would be our final triumph. A glory to end all glories. We would steal it - the only ones to steal such a thing form Candlekeep and live! - and gain what power we could from the thing, and then..." he stops, his voice wavering in shame, "And then we would sell it."

This causes the High Councillor to snort wryly while the rest shake their heads. Noristuor seems enraged, and interrupts Herlam before he can continue: "Sell it? The Karsusian Codex? You truly are a madman and a knave, Herlam Corkwill! How could you be so... so deluded as to think -"

Karpike stands and cuts the wizard off. "Not now, Tiefling. We will let him speak first. Let's not go to battle before the enemy's in the field, eh? That's how good people get hurt." He turns to Herlam. "Continue, old friend."

"No. The wizard is right, Karpike. We were damned fools to think we could get away with such a thing. Two of us! Only two, and not to mention out of practice... it was hopeless, but we were desperate. We watched Candlekeep for weeks, collected all the intelligence we could. Fallohar even managed to bribe one of the apprentice scribes into aiding us. When the time came, we thought ourselves brilliant. We made it past Candlekeeps wall, it's first wards and defenses, and into the keep itself without being detected. It was in the inner libram that we were betrayed. The scribe, Yagran, had become scared that we would fail and sold us out to the guards and sages. Neither Fallohar nor I were prepared for the consequences. We fought bravely, but in the end Fallohar was overwhelmed by the guards, and I, badly wounded, fled the fight. Attempting to make good my escape, I came across the Codex itself, and quite by accident. Alerted to our presence, one of the sages had taken up watch by the book, and confronted me as I entered the chamber. The sage, for all his years, bested me in combat, subdued me, and was poised to finish me off. I... I admit that I begged for my life. Whether out of compassion or cruelty, the sage gave me another option. He agreed to let me live, should I submit to a curse." Here he stops again and closes his eyes. He steadies himself on his staff, takes several deep breaths, and continues.

"It was, of course, no ordinary curse..." Herlam goes on to describe how the sage took his journal from him (his most valued possession - his legacy to the Realms) and did something to it. What, he does not know, but he does remember the words the sage said to him before he left Candlekeep that night: "Start from the beginning, Herlam. Prove your life a worthy one - prove that you are capable of redemption, and it shall be yours. Prove that you are more than your shadow makes you out to be. Free yourself from your darkness, and there is no curse. Until then, suffer, and know that should you fail to redeem yourself, your soul will be forever bound to the Materium - that you will never ascend unto the Higher Realms that await all others. Now go."

Herlam then describes the curse itself. He tells of how his memories began to leave him one by one; how his journal, now bound to him by the curse, began to perplex him. Its pages would trade words, switch languages, go blank some days and others would be full of cascading words and even images from his past. He went to the Harpers, the War Wizards, all his old friends, teachers and contacts for help. None could lift the curse. Herlam discovered, with much bitterness, that the only way to undo the curse would be to follow the sage's instructions.

Eventually, he made an attempt, with the aid of Daurily, to retrace his life. This attempt, however, ended in failure. Herlam has grown too old and weak and wracked by the curse to travel. And that is how they came to Ashabenford, where they resolved to find a group of young adventurers (such as he was when he first left Marsember) to take up his mantle and, at least in the name of adventure, set about proving that his life was indeed a worthy one.

After the explanation, Herlam stops to consider something for a moment, his wrinkled brow furrowed. And then: "None of this, it occurs to me, explains why the drow of Cormanthor or the Red Wizards of Thay might pursue me. Perhaps they wish to uncover the secrets of the curse for themselves, or perhaps they think I know something or recorded something of value to them in my journal. Whatever it is, you will have to ask them. All I can say with certainty on the matter is that the curse was most powerful... the working of truly ancient magics indeed." He pauses one last time, ready to make his final plea.

"And so, good folk," he says finally, tears running unbidden down his face, "I ask that you help me, an old fool, to redeem his immortal soul. Please. I... I beg of you... Do not leave me to damnation!" and with that stumbles back onto a stool. Daurily moves to comfort him followed by Arhlo's daughter. Daurily eyes the room for your reactions to her father's desperate plea...

OOC:
Say whatever you like! As big or as small as you deem necessary, but at least post your willingness/unwillingness/reservations about Herlam's proposed quest. You have some time to react, as the important NPCs in the room are still mulling it over and talking among themselves.

Once the declarations for or against the mission are made, Noristuor, Thraeg and the Councillor are going to want to talk about the Thayan prisoners and what to do about the drow attack.

TSM

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga listens patiently through the old man's story, silently amused at the audacity of his desire to achieve glory one last time. A sort of parallel to some of the customers of his fathers back home.

After the old man finished, Doroga speaks up only a handful of seconds later.

"I will help." He looks around at some of the odd looks from across the room, thinks for a second, then replies, "I want to know the story. It seems interesting. It is also an opportunity to make my own. For me, this is an easy choice."

After a moment of silence, he looks over to Perelia and remembers his new position. For a second, he almost begins to speak as if to amend his words, but decides against it, closing his mouth and silently waiting for her response.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia looked to Doroga, her face calm, placid, and she thought for a moment about the man's words. Though he was younger than her, a lifetime younger than her, the man had much the same... mileage, she supposed. He was her apprentice now, both technically and in truth, but his mind was sharp and strong, and she had little doubt that he held more wisdom than she did; insight beyond knowledge had often been one of her shortcomings. She took the knowledge that had been imparted to her, the knowledge of who this man was and what his request meant, and then she smiled.

"I have read tomes and books beyond counting and thought, studies scrolls, listened to dissertations and lectures, observed spellbooks, and communed with my own thoughts.

I learned more about power and magic during the fight we had with the Thayans that I have during any random year of my life. I learned more about the structure of the Weave, of the movement of energy, by actually taking my magic and forcing the world to accept my will as law. I will take up your quest, and I will use it as an opportunity to become the greatest mage this world has ever seen."

Perelia pauses for a moment, and she looks to the others around her. "I would rather not do it alone. The greatest mage is incomplete without the greatest thief, or warrior, or spellsword, or druid, or whatever else you all may become. Let us trace the life of a great man; and, no offense, let us learn how to avoid his fate as we step towards our own destinies."

[Neth]

Of all the wonders locked in Candlekeep, this particular druid would probably be more drawn to its candles. More than one weighted meaning in the old man's story was lost on her. His torment was not. In his eyes clung all the desperation of the unfortunate souls Neth had imagined in her childhood when storytellers in crackled voices summoned their hapless wanderers, shapeless horrors, and faces in trees — until the harmless chatter of midnight creatures in the woods became the whispers of hunting demons, and no sleep that night contained any peace. She'd since encountered her share of frightful things less alive than she, and other products of the darkness, which some Rashemi call "the unfriendly tricks". But she had never heard of words twisting in a book, memories spilling from the head, and a soul bound to where it is now, for the rest of time, unless it can prove it has not lived too foolishly. And what is too foolishly? Haven’t we all been fools? Anyone in this room might've once been careless enough to step on the wrong foot or piss in the wrong stream and ended up like this man because someone was vexed. His was a mighty crime, which may have deserved a mighty punishment, but Neth did not think anyone deserved an endless tortured existence. As she listened to the man's tale like a child by the fireside, her stomach clenched itself tighter, and the thoughts froze her with dread.

After some consideration, Neth speaks. "I am no one of great skill. I know the ones of great skill say this too. But spend a day in the wild with me and you will know it. I am already on a search, though what I seek might come with anyone, friend or stranger at any moment. It is impossible to know where to look, and I may never complete the dajemma. But next to yours, this is no curse. Your suffering is great, friend, and if I can help you somehow, I will do it, whether it lead me to my umathi or away. With the consent of these who have already chosen to take the hunt, I will go with them to help. If I cannot help, I will leave."

"But anything else of this can wait, I think. The drow are approaching. I and others here may need quick rest if there will be new fighting. Is there any trap we can make for these enemies, or do we pass the night and let the battle come?"

[Dragonsong]

Roen listened quietly to the old man's tale, and his mind was drawn further from the impending attack by each word. Herlam had clearly done worthy things in his long life; it intrigued the young southerner to hear his own homeland mentioned, and lands beyond as well. But for a single act, and a failed one at that, this curse had been laid down. Roen could only barely suppress a bark of bitter laughter. Cursed for stealing a book? The rogue had spent his entire life stealing at a minimum. He had led a bloody revolution, murdered a woman in her bed, remorselessly looted the corpses of the fallen.

If this was to be Herlam's punishment, how much more severe would his own be?

"Lady," he breathed, "When the Harpers came, I thought I had been delivered from the land of sorrow. But what have I seen since I came out of that place? Violence, theft, and misery. Where is Your joy? Is there a place for it in all the world?"

In his life, he had met a number of people who claimed that the gods spoke to them. Some said they heard divine commands whispered on the wind or in the creaking of trees. Others had dreams, visions that guided them each night. The priestesses of Loviatar had seen omens in the broken flesh of a whipped slave. Roen had never been so blessed. If the gods had tried to speak to him he had been unable to hear them, or perhaps he simply did not know how to listen. But he had met a woman who had been the mouthpiece of her goddess, who had brought him to Her with her own mortal words.

Haldis was gone now, but those words lingered in his mind in place of the silent deities. There's always joy to find, she had told him, but sometimes we can't see it through life's shadows. But that's our failing, not an excuse. It only means that we have to make our own joy. The memory of her voice, her confidence, her unfailing smile brought a smile to his own face for a moment. He could not hear Lliira, and that might never change, but he had been blessed with a teacher of Her ways. Despite all that had happened over the course of the day, his original plan had been best. Heal Herlam. Bring him joy.

He could not change what he had done. But he could do what he knew he was meant to do.

"Truly," Roen finally said, "life is strange. But I am here for a reason, I know it. I do not think I will become great, or that my story will be told when I am gone. I know only that this is not merely a worthy cause, but the path to which I have been guided, and I will follow it to the very end. I swear on the soul of my beloved that I will do all that I can for you, Herlam Corkwill." She would want that. She would be proud. He could see her somewhere above, her face shining like the dawn, offering him a smile and a nod.

"But I agree, we must think of the Drow for now. We must make certain that they have no reason to attack this town after we are gone, whether because we have moved Herlam and they know it or because they have not the numbers to try again." He punctuated the final statement by pulling out his crossbow, nocking a bolt, and testing the metal point, a droplet of blood falling from his finger to the burnt and stained floor. Whatever his regrets for the violence of his life, he could not stop now. His fighting skill would be needed; by his blade and arrow, a greater evil would be prevented.

[The Smoking Man]

*THE FOLLOWING IS RYN'S NEXT POST, AS SENT TO ME BY THE MAN HIMSELF*

Ryn had long since relaxed his vigilance, at least a degree. The arrow had gone back in it's sheathe, and the bow now lay on the table, with most of his weapons. His pipe and beer had reappeared, and he had sat smoking throughout, as he listened closely to Herlam's tale, face expressionless. When he finished speaking, Ryn listened in turn to the others, idly rubbing his scar in thought. For several seconds after Roen finishes speaking, he remains like that, gazing at Herlam.

Without any warning, he suddenly bursts out laughing. “Truly, you folk are mad! It is the result of spending too much time philosophizing or thinking on magic. Dalesfolk know the dangers of that, preferring to leave that to crazed old men like Elminster, while we remain safely ignorant. We pursue saner endeavors, such as fighting Zhents and hunting mountain lions. I suppose I must be mad too, or else I would never have left home in the first place! Sad, isn't it, that I have been infected with your outlander madness?”

Turning back to Herlam, Ryn grins. “Then again, Herlam here was mad himself, to leave his safe life as a fisherman, become an adventurer, travel to all those strange lands, and – most insane of all – to try to steal a book from Candlekeep itself! So perhaps it is best that we are mad, or else how are we to follow his path?” Here, Ryn nods. “I will help you, Herlam Corkwill, that your tale not end in sadness. Perhaps then it will inspire madness in more young fools, and these realms might see such great folly again! How else are heroes found, after all?”

He leans back, propping up his feet on the table, staring at the ceiling with his grin still plastered on his face: “We're all doomed of course. Probably end up feeding the fishes in the canals of Marsember, if we even make it out of the Dales alive. Or, given Marsember, the eels.”

His grin grows wider: “If we survive Marsember, bandits will see to our end, I'm sure. Slit our throat for a copper, neat as could be. Take our boots in the bargain.”

Wider still: “That's assuming the drow don't get us. Our bodies will probably end up buried in the rubble of the town, burnt beyond all recognition, never to see our homes again.”

Wider: “This is going to be so much fun!”

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

Herlam seems overwhelmed by the proceedings, but waves Daurily and Tsasha away as they move to help him. Arhlo brings him a glass of his favorite wine to sooth him, which he sips at readily.

Daurily moves to the front of the common room to make a brief statement: "Thank you all for your honesty and your charitable offers of help. We would gladly accept it. I know, though, that this mission cannot be undertaken before the Thayan captives are dealt with and a plan is concocted to defend against the drow. Please, allow me to assist in whatever way I can."

And a little later, after much to-and-fro between the High Councillor, Captain Thraeg, Karpike and Noristuor, the Councillor takes the floor. He scans the room again, his left eyebrow cocked in scrutiny and mock disdain. "Well," he says, "As amusing as Mr. Corkwill's tale was, its implications belie its entertainment value. I am not a cruel man... and as such I am not in the business of selling out my town for the sake of an old man. That being said, I am not a cruel man," he grunts a quick laugh, "And I see the the value in keeping the secrets surrounding this man from those who would abduct him. Furthermore, Karpike here vouches for Corkwill's honor, and as much as it pains me to admit, we would likely be enslaved or half of us dead were it not for Karpike's help and that of his Bears Errant. So... work what plans you will, and none here will betray Corkwill -" at this Noristuor snorts loudly and shakes his head "But know that my citizens and my men will not be put in harm's way. Our concern is the defense of the town, and while Herlam and Daurily are here, that includes them." He stops to sigh loudly, wring his hands. "I had better not regret this. Now, get planning."

And with that he strides back to his table to listen to the plans of the PCs. Captain Thraeg, Karpike and Noristuor wait as well.

OOC:
So, things to decide on:
- What to do with the Red Wizard captives.
- What to do about Otythir's encoded letter.
- What the plan is going to be through the day tomorrow, and when the drow attack.

[Neth]

As the councillor retreated, Neth rose from her seat, not in the way of someone making an announcement, but just stretching out of a stifled position. Gyl shook himself off her arm and clung to a nearby chair-back for a perch. He had been huddled far off in seclusion since Perelia mended his wounds, but was then lured back to the commotion upon hearing Ryn's carefree laughter, for where there is laughter there may perhaps be drinking.

After shaking off a minor lapse of fatigue and an unintentional yawn, she glances at the Thayan prisoners and says with a half-straight face, "We have all been rude, I think. All this talk and we never let them say anything. Maybe now is a good time to make a break in our talking and give them our attentions. I know we must be quick with our planning for the drow, but maybe our guests can make it easier for us. Who knows what wise things they might give us if we ask kindly?"

[Keylac]

Still full of good cheer, grin still on his face, Ryn finally looks down from the ceiling, looking at Neth as she talks.

"True, too true, Neth. I've an idea about the drow, as I'm sure others do, but one thing at a time." He seems to ponder the prisoners for a moment, before smiling, evilly. "I think it would be best to talk to them one at a time. Here, Groban, Roen, come with me, eh?"

With that, Ryn puts his feet down and rises. A quick stride brings him to the tied Thayans, and he grabs the man, easily hoisting him up and passing him to Groban. Next, he grabs the the gnoll corpse that's most intact, before turning to the kitchen. "Ahrlo, I've a need to borrow your kitchen for a moment. There's more knives in there." Striding along, grin still plastered on his face, he heads into the kitchen, bringing the gnoll and a chair. Signalling for Groban to put the Thayan in the chair, he motions Roen and Groban away for a moment, and starts to whisper a plan to them.

"Here's what I think we should try, if you're agreeable. Roen, far be it from me to accuse a man, but it seems to me that you've a gift with your tongue and wit. I'm afraid I've no talent for falsehood, being a blunt, simple man from the Dales. If you could be after asking the questions, I'd appreciate that. First though, when I give the signal, make sure he's awake and take off the blindfold and gag, so he can watch me and Groban before we start talking to him."

He then turns to Groban, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Groban, I need you to hold up the gnoll while I "question" it. Pretend you think it's still alive. When we're done with that, just scowl at the Thayan. A great, bowel loosening, titan-worthy scowl. Think you're up to scaring the piss out of him without talking?"

"As for me, once I'm done with the gnoll, I'll just sit here and smile at the Thayan... while playing with some of Ahrlo's knives. Sound good, my friends?"

OOC
So, assuming Roen agrees, I was planning on pulling a Sean Connery from Untouchables and "killing" the gnoll for refusing to talk before he (with his good charisma) questions the Thayan. I realize that I don't know what the letter says, but I figure Prellia can tell us soon enough, and we can ask more pointed questions. The others can go ahead and question the woman why we're doing this, and then we can compare their stories, or we can wait till the man has spilled his guts. Sound good? :smallbiggrin:

By the by, if I seem like I'm rushing it, it's because I don't want to delay folks while I'm away from the computer.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia watches Ryn's rapid improvisation with a faint smile; she was glad that the man had gone into action before her, because she had intended to simply torture the captives. They were malignant, malicious, and cruel; she knew that to be true, for the deepest creeds of the Thayans taught that such things made one strong, that such things were the heart of magic.

Perelia could have spat. It was such a horrible fallacy that it sickened her to think of it. It poisoned the hearts and minds of mages of such potential, to have that evil forced into their thoughts and hearts. And it was evil; perhaps not the profound evil of the hells, but a poisonous, vile evil all the same. She would have lost no sleep in bringing pain to the Thayans, given that it was for a just cause and with good intent.

Ryn's ploy, however, was cunning, and it would keep the blood off of their own hands, if only metaphorically speaking. It also gave her some time to discuss a more important matter with Noristour. She went to the old wizard, Otythir's encoded letter in hand. "Sir, I have some small skill at the decoding and translation of obscure texts, but this defeats me; all I can get out of it is the names of Herlam and his daughter, and the words "Thayan", "drow", and a few other smatterings. Could you look upon it yourself, to see what you can determine?"

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

The young Red Wizard is most pliant... shivering to the very core of his being with abject terror. It seems Thayan discipline will work in your favour in this instance...

The High Councillor, Thraeg and Karpike watch with amusement as Ryn's interrogation is put into effect. Groban is entirely willing to help as directed.

Noristuor looks the letter over for a moment. He frowns. "Perelia, thank you for this. It will certainly shed more light on the situation... Let's see what I can do here..." With that he places the letter on the table, flattening it very carefully. With the overly curious High Councillor looking over his shoulder, Noristuor removes a small, finely cut gem from his robes, and begins to scan the parchment using the gem as a sort of lense. After a minute or so of this, he replaces the gem and dips his gnarled fingers into his spell component pouch, removing some black chalk and a dried mushroom, which he crumbles together in his hand while muttering something in an old dialect of Draconic. As the powder form his hands begins to spread over the parchment, the letters rearrange themselves to the beat of his arcane intonations. Soon, the letter looks like this:

Letter to Otythir:
Otythir,

It is indeed good news! Herlam and his daughter are largely unprotected. Ripe for the picking in a town without walls or towers. Truly, Lolth smiles upon us.

Though I am not ignorant of the Dalelanders' opinion of Thayans, having you and trusted members of your enclave in Ashabenford before the attack would be preferable to my drow agents, who, as you know, would be overwhelmed and killed on sight. Not only that, but my people will be busy wresting control of House Jaelre's holdings in Cormanthor from them, for use as a base of operations.

Should we fail to route the Jaelre, it is up to you retrieve the book and the old fool Herlam, and bring them to our agents to the northwest. Should we succeed against House Jaelre, your presence will still be useful. Position yourself near Herlam and his daughter. When we attack, you must disrupt the Mistledarrans' defences and make Herlam available.

I don't think I need to remind you how delicate our situation is. As far as conspiracies go, this is indeed a rare specimin... not only must you keep our plans safe from your Masters in Thay, but be constantly wary of our other, older foes – the real rivals in this deadly game.

Though my spies are everywhere, it is always challenging to know what our true enemies are ever planning. Their actions are as inscrutable as the stuff they're made of.

You mustn't take this as sentiment, Otythir, but I need you to be careful. There's no guarantee that my people will be able to tell Herlam from the other surface-dwellers should you be found out.

And remember, friend, that once you and I are together and have the Codex and the Key, neither the squabbling of drow Houses nor the scheming of your Thayan masters will be enough stop us. It will already be too late. But remember also what consequences we will reap should They be allowed to snatch the Book and Key out from under us. Now is the time, Otythir, and my city's twin penchants for violence and power will surely work to our advantage.

My spy is in Ashabenford now, not that I suspect you of treachery. Know that should you fail and wind up dead, I will know about it, and I will come for you, Otythir. I will place you at my right hand when I ascend. I ask that you, at the very least, make some flashy display so my spy knows where to look for the old man.

I hope you have strong bodyguards. You will need good expendable bodies for the violence to come.

- G.

PS: The attached spell might come in handy should our enemies make their presence known in Ashabenford.

Noristuor seems troubled that the message implies a larger conspiracy... One that implicates two groups as diverse as the Drow of Menzobarranzan, the Red Wizards and a mysterious third group. "Perhaps," he says finally, scratching his wiry beard, "Tomorrow's attack will yield either more information or prisoners who will yield more information. Either way, the letter has a tone most ominous... And who is G.? Powerful, who- or whatever it is..."

OOC:
Feel free to make any knowledge checks you like about specific things mentioned. For ease's sake, let's fast-forward through the sharing of the letter and say that everyone in the party takes a look at it (unless Perelia wants to hide it from anyone in the room for whatever reason).

[Dragonsong]

Perhaps Ryn would have made a better devotee of Lliira than Roen himself. The young rogue had to admire the man's calm ability to laugh at the situation. His plan, however, was less agreeable than his demeanor. Roen was glad, at least, that he had no intention of actually torturing the Thayans; harming or killing an evil foe in battle was one thing, but an ex-slave from a nation in thrall to Loviatar knew all too well what a terrible deed it was to cause pain to the helpless. A cloud of deceit, however, was practically his home away from home, easily to slip into whenever necessary. He would go through with it.

As the Gnoll was "executed" for his failure to talk, Roen left his face nonchalant and made his way over to the young wizard. He drew up a chair and straddled it, resting his chin on the back and loosing a great sigh. "Well, it looks like they're down to you; those fellows have gotten a little overzealous. Now, they know that you're the last one, so they won't kill you. No, they need you. But that's not a good thing." The Dambrathan rested his head on one hand, as if deep in thought. He recalled all too easily the tortures inflicted upon his fellow Shebali, but he'd never thought he'd actually put such knowledge to good use.

"They'll probably start with the fingernails, then break the fingers, smash the kneecaps. They're brutes, you know, and your little skirmish damaged their property. And if, by incredible force of will, you still don't talk, I imagine they'll give you to the Rashemi lass over there. I'm told her people have a bone to pick with yours." Roen leaned in close, his face inches away from the Thayan's, the smell of the youth's cold sweat filling his nostrils. "The fact here is that I'm your only out. There's not a scratch on me from our little fight. I don't care about revenge, and I've nothing against Thay."

He kept up his stream of words, moving his mouth to whisper into the Red Wizard's right ear. "I can convince them that you're worth keeping alive and in one undamaged piece. Frankly, I want to. You see, I'm from Dambrath. I was a slave there, and after being tortured myself, I don't like to see it happen to anyone. But they barely know me; they won't listen to a moral excuse. I need you to tell me something useful; the more, the better my chance to persuade them. If you do, you've got my word as a man who's been where you are that I'll stop them from hurting you. I couldn't do anything for that Gnoll, but I can save you."

Roen leaned back, trying not to feel dirty. "So, tell us everything you know. Who is your master's ally, G, who wrote this letter? Who is this rival "They" with whom you are racing? Has the spy made contact, and if so, who is he or she?" The young rogue turned to look around the room, then turned back to stare at the wizard again. "You would be wise to answer these questions, and any that these others may pose."

16 on Bluff to convince the Red Wizard that it's in his best interest to make himself useful to the group. (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13695034#post13695034)

[Neth]

After pulling away the bindings from the Thayan woman's head, Neth crouches down to the floor nearby, a bit to the side of her. Gyl had flown into the kitchen and returned again to perch on the table nearby after fetching a few olives about the size of eyeballs, and begins to leisurely peck at them while clutching them in his talons. Neth, appearing amused and appreciating this rare opportunity, gives the woman her full attention, and a strange grin that spreads across decades of contempt. It would probably have been enough to stare at her like that for a while. The woman could likely call to mind a great number more wicked things her people had done to the Rashemi than Neth even knew about. But for the sake of speed and entertainment, she begins to speak casually, with mockingly serious inflections and generous dramatic pauses.

"There is a thing they say in many lands," she begins, easing into a more comfortable seated position. "It is different wherever you go, but it means the same. In my land we say it like this: 'What you do to someone — and what you want them doing to you — should be the same.' So it is very easy for me to know what someone from Thay would like someone from Rashemen to do to them. You have given us many lessons in that, and we have learned.

"There may be some who would not do this duty for you, and repay you differently. But most druids you meet, I think, will say how important it is to them to help restore the Balance whenever they can. And with you, I will be very glad to do this.

"You probably are thinking that if you tell me something I wish to learn, I will treat you differently. But these are very little secrets and little bloodspills here. It is my burden to give back what my people have been unable to give all these long years. What can you say tonight that will outweigh this?"

After a few moments of inspecting the woman's face, she speaks again. "But I think, if it turns out you are not really enough like your people at all, then perhaps you are not one I must repay. So, if you would like to prove this now with your words, you may. Tell us, if you wish, what a Thayan would not want to tell us. And this maybe, will convince us."

Neth then specifically mentions similar things to what Roen asked the young man, such as who penned the letter, who are the 'older foes', what the woman may know about the spies... as well as where the drow plan to attack from, and with what numbers.

As explained to me by TSM (because I am new and therefore dumb):

having neutral alignment [:smallsigh:] ...
+ reasons to deeply hate race of oppressors [:smallyuk:] ...
= willingness to inflict pain on captive [:smallamused:] ...
= not actually bluffing...? :smalleek:

roll for intimidation:
(1d20+2)[14]

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga watches quietly. There was a lot more in play here than he had understood. An attack from Drow was imminent and they seemed to be after some book of power, one that the wizards present seemed to recognize. The others spoke of tactics and of gathering information in preparation.

He also had learned that his new Master had a well nurtured dislike for the Thayans...

Well, I suppose that isn't surprising, from all that I've heard about them...

He listened a bit longer, than made his way over to Herlam and stood next to him for a quiet moment before leaning over on his guisarme.

His deep voice rumbles low from his chest, "It would seem like everyone has become quite animated, Mr. Corkwill. All in motion and excited for the action that is to come. I can smell the blood of tomorrows battle in the air... though perhaps it is the Gnoll blood still lingering about. There will be much going on, I suspect. And a lot of chaos accompanies battles such as these. More so with creatures of cloak and dagger like the Drow.

I believe I will take it upon myself to aid in your protection, and the protection of what you know and what those aligned against us seem to seek. I suspect they (motioning towards the others in the room) will do their best to protect you, but they will be needed to fend against the coming attack. It is my opinion, that when fighting against a group specialized in stealth and subterfuge, ordered plans tend to unravel quickly. I think I would like to be the glue that will hold the strings together where they might fray.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

The young wizard is unable to resist the urge to spill his guts in the face of the fearsome (and apparently ruthless) adventurers that have taken him into their custody. Roen can see that he believes he just watched the Gnoll die, and that he believes everything Roen has told him/threatened.

"I... I..." he fights back the tremors from his voice (a necessary trick for mages trying to cast spells in combat), and steadies himself enough to say, "I am not... privy to all of Otythir's machinations.... Ilnstreth, she knew; the wizardess..." he glances frightfully in the common room's direction before returning his gaze to Roen, "She knew more. All I know is that we were supposed to wait for the attack. The Knight and her disguised mercenaries were to offer their blades to Daurily and Herlam, and when the attack comes, we were to take advantage of the chaos and... and take them..." he stops again, swallows hard, "I was told nothing more of the plan... I don't even know who our real allies and enemies are in this venture. I was taken on as a last minute favour for my father from Otythir... You... you must believe me!"

Meanwhile, in the common room, Ilnstreth glares defiantly at Neth. As the druidess says her peace, however, Ilnstreth becomes clearly frightened of what the Rashemi is capable of. Memories of Rashemi border-raids seem to flash behind her eyes, and suddenly her cold features melt into fearful abandon. "It's... It's Herlam we wanted. Herlam and his book. Otythir, the fool, had allied us with someone powerful in Menzoberranzan, the great drow city of the northwest. This individual promised Otythir and I great power over our countrymen and rivals should we deliver to him Herlam and the book. Other than that, I know little. Save one thing: There are others after these things... A powerful force.... Not... of the Realms, entirely. Something dark. Shadows. Shadows and those that revere them." she shivers, less at Neth and the current circumstances than at the things she describes, "Otythir's ally form Menzo... he sent us a spell to aid us should they appear. Other than that..." her face hardens again, "I know the identity of the drow spy in Ashabenford. I wish to negotiate for this last piece of information." with that she stares at Neth, waiting for a response.

Near the bar, Herlam looks up from his tremors to Doroga. "Young man," he says shakily, clearly drained, "I admire your honour and courage, and should circumstances allow for such, I would be proud if you fought by my side. The gods know, I fear death now more than ever given the nature of this damnable curse..." Herlam's eyes burn with anger now, and Daurily stands him up and they make towards the stairs.

She looks to Doroga before they leave altogether and says, "Thank you, sir, for all that you have done. Please confer with my father and I again tomorrow morning as to what our part of the defense plan shall be. We will cooperate completely. But now, I fear, my father must take rest once more. Good morrow to you." And with that climbs the stairs with Herlam.

OOC:
So between the Letter, the two prisoners, the drow threat, and Perelia's knowledge checks (not yet shared), you guys are able to piece things together quite well so-far. One of the only remaining questions is the identity of the spy sent by the drow (see letter) to help should things go wrong for the Red Wizards (already happened).

Also, excellent interrogation RPing! :smallsmile:

TSM

[Keylac]

Grinning at the Thayan in the chair, playing with Arhlo's knives, Ryn listened with appreciation to Roen's little speech. Little drops of blood from when he'd slit the gnoll's throat flicked up in the air whenever he tossed a blade. He made sure to fling an occasional drop at the Thayan, subtly. It made for a nice little touch, he thought, though Roen probably could have convinced the lad without any help at all, after a speech like that.

Standing a few feet away, Groban's glare was perfect. Ryn was quite convinced that the Uthgardt wanted nothing more then to rip the Thayans head off, and he was sure the Thayan had figured that out. What Ryn still hadn't figured out how he was going to explain that they weren't going to do that. Maybe he'd just let Roen do that part...

After hearing the Thayan spill his guts, he stood up, still grinning. "Well then lad, I'll just go and see if the woman is still alive. Might be that the Rashemi hasn't slit her throat yet, if she's after being in a good mood." With that, he starts to slowly saunter from the room. Stopping at the door, he turns back "Course, if she has, well then you didn't really tell us much of use, now did you? Best be thinking on that lad, cause right now, I'd not be inclined to listen to Roen here if he tries to plead your case. Not after you lot set me on fire like that. Maybe you'd better think of something else you can offer him, make it worth his arguing with me, eh?" For a brief moment, his grin changes, losing none of the humor, but becoming almost feral. Then, he steps into the common room.

Whistling softly - yet still badly off-key - he walks over to Perellia and Neth, softly telling them what the man had said. Upon hearing what Neth had to say about the wizardess, he ponders for a few seconds before turning back to her. "This ones your fish; land it as you will. If you need me to do anything, just ask. I'll stay out here for a time though. I've a notion that the young wastrel we've got in there would prefer not to see me for a bit."

[Neth]

"I know the identity of the drow spy in Ashabenford. I wish to negotiate for this last piece of information."

After having listened intently to every word, and with great attention to the ones she didn't recognize, at this final defiance, Neth chuckles. Before she answers she turns her head to the whistling that approaches from behind, and listens with equal delight to the mischief of the kitchen crew. Giving Ryn all the details the woman had released, and mentioning the one she withheld, she nods to his response, smiling with praise and amusement, and turns again to the woman.

"I don't know if your asking comes from courage or stupidity. But I know when I have many years, I will not tell my children how the captive Thayan shakes with fear and says all, but how the captive Thayan shakes with fear and says all, and then they want to trade."

Managing to refrain from laughter, she says with a gesture to the companions nearby, "I and the rest can bring you the same misery we could a moment ago. You have something we want. Why would we trade if we can take it from you? If your plan was to make me laugh and hope for mercy, you have yet ten thousand jokes to tell before you find it. But I am curious, at least. What do you want us to give you?"

[TheDivineWind]

After Herlam walks away, Doroga returns his attention to his companions. As he does, in one of those odd moments of silence, he overhears the Thayyan sorceress begging for her life and leveraging information in exchange.

As Neth gestures towards everyone else, Doroga doesn't quite catch what is said, but an idea creeps into his mind. He nods at Neth's gesture as if it was a cue, and picks up his weapon, walking towards the sorceress and Neth.

"Ahh, has she finally offered her life for information? Likely lies and betrayal. Whatever she has to tell us would likely get us killed sooner than aid us, and anything useful we could probably learn on our own."

Doroga lowers the edge of his guisarme to her nose, letting the razor sharp edge peel back the barest layer of skin. As her attention is focused on the blade, he looks slyly over to Neth, and winks.

"I say we just spear her on a pike at the edge of town, to serve as a warning of those that would attack tomorrow."

Using Intimidate to aid Neth's interrogation: (1d20)[4]

Well, damn it all. The forum roller is taking it out of my hide these past weeks! :smallbiggrin:

Hopefully I haven't made your task harder. :/

[Dragonsong]

Roen clucked his tongue, deep in thought. The young wizard didn't know much; it wasn't surprising, but it was disappointing. He could only hope that the other prisoner would prove to have more information. Regardless, appearances had to be maintained, no matter how dirty it made him feel. "That's not much to go on, but I'll do what I can for you. For your sake, I hope it's enough." He had no intention, of course, of allowing any harm come to the Thayan, but he was reasonably sure that his new companions would agree. Still, what would they do with the two in the end?

Even knowing as little as they did, it could be dangerous to have them running loose.

Moving over to the bar, Roen waited patiently for the second interrogation to conclude. It was time to make plans using what little information they had. He could only hope that such plans would prove sufficient; he did not intend the following night to be his last, but knew in his heart that it might well be...

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

The plot thickens and thickens...

As does the pot. The pot of tea Arlho put on for the non-drinkers among his patrons before the melee that saw his floors greased and burned, his daughter scared and his local representative screaming at him. As forgotten as the realms of Netheril and Athalantar, the tea would continue to steep into an opaque sludge until the next morning.

Meanwhile, the drow threat was to be addressed, now that our heroes and the important folk of Ashabenford were all gathered together, as educated as they could be on the murky machinations of their enemies. Ilnstreth the Red Wizardess, in a desperate bargain for her life and limbs, agrees to give up the name of the spy the drow have in Ashabenford (the one that was to take over for the Red Wizards should they fail) to Neth. The name? Fuad the Scar. The description? Unknown (unless you happen to be Ryn or Doroga). In return for Fuad's name, Ilnstreth is promised imprisonment without torture, solitary confinement, chains, or a life sentence. Other than that, it's all up to Captain Thraeg.

((INSERT RYN'S DROW DEFENSE PLAN HERE))

OOC:
Discuss the plan itself in the OOC thread, and we'll move ahead in the IC thread as if everything's been decided upon.

Partly because of a brilliant suggestion of Roen's, and partly out of the tiefling mage's latent malice gene, Noristuor agrees (with a smile) to take on a second apprentice... the young Red Wizard, whose name is Gilb Grimthon. Schlep seems less than impressed with his master's choice, but relents nonetheless.

The town's leaders agree to work with the PCs as necessary, and all outstanding introductions are finalized. Arlho and Tsasha show everyone to their rooms on the second and third floors of the Ashabenford Arms. Perelia, Doroga and Roen are given second floor rooms close to double suite being shared by Daurily and Herlam. Ryn, Groban and Neth are each given third floor rooms. All rooms in Arlho's establishment are of exceptional quality, especially those given to the six who just saved his Daughter from witnessing the unjustified murder/kidnapping of an old man.

Everyone sleeps heavily, weary from the excitement of the previous day. In the early hours during sunrise, Roen wakes up to what sounds like the telltale clatter of a small rock being thrown through glass in a nearby room. The sound is not followed by anything else audible.

Though oblivious to the sound, Perelia is just getting ready to start the day, having completed her elven night trance and spell preparations, finishing up by repeating the words of Draconic she will need for the castings. Neth, meanwhile, is sitting at her window (on the opposite side of the building from the sound), communing with the sunrise and working the intuitive strands of her nature magic through her soul's depths.

Everyone else continues to sleep as Arlho dumps the pot of stinky "tea" from the night before into the stock pot on the woodstove, yawns, and shuffles back to his quarters in the dark but spacious and finished wine cellars beneath the tower.

OOC
Roen: only you hear the sound. You can't tell where it came from exactly, except that it came from the other side of the hall from your room. That side of the hall houses: Daurily and Herlam, Doroga, and Perelia. Doroga is right across the hall, Perelia is to the left and Herlam/Daurily is to the right. It's sunrise.

Note: If Roen makes a commotion instead of investigating all stealthy-like, everyone can roleplay waking up instantly save for Ryn and Groban, who not only are on another floor, but are hung over as hell. :smallbiggrin:

[RaggedAngel]

For Everyone:
I really meant to share this "last night" in game time, but real life intervened. This is information that Perelia would have freely disseminated to those that she trusts (the PC's and Daurily):


The Codex is referring to the Karsusian Codex, which you already know a crap-ton about. This roll combined with the knowledge roll for "the Key" lets you know the following: that for the Karsusian Codex to render up its secrets, it requires a Key in the form of some kind of ritual or energy. It is not a physical Key, nor is it a simple spell. Something else unlocks the Codex's powers... though what exactly, you do not know.

As for the history roll, you glean from that the city referred to must be Menzoberranzan (sic?) the famed drow city in the Underdark to the north west. House Jaelre (referred to in Otythir's letter) is an outcast house that had recently taken up residence in the Cormanthor forests and taken to raiding Mistledale and other Dales. The letter seems to imply that the drow of Menzo are in the process of finishing off House Jaelre and taking over their above-ground base of operations in Cormanthor... apparently for the purpose of better tracking and capturing Herlam Corkwill...

I apologize for not working that into a more descriptive IC post, but at this point I don't want to hold things up any further, and backtracking would do just that.

[Dragonsong]

Greatly pleased with himself in finding a nonviolent solution to the problem of the young Red Wizard, relatively confident in the plan his new companions had drafted, and extremely curious about what a bed felt like, Roen fell asleep almost immediately and slept soundly. Days of walking and camping in the wild were hardly new to him, but the soft folds of a mattress were like nothing he could have imagined; it was as though the exhaustion of an entire life of working himself to the bone and then sleeping on hard-packed earth floors or the secure but unyielding roots of trees had caught up to him.

Though he might have slept the sleep of the rocks and the dead, old habits died hard with him, and in spite of the feeling that he would be content never to move again he lay with an eye and an ear open. Thus it was that he heard the sound of breaking glass and was awake in a heartbeat, adrenaline instantly driving both sleepiness and any sense of comfort from the bed out of his body. It wasn't in his room, but he wasn't out for himself alone; if Herlam, or any of the others, was kidnapped or murdered, he would never forgive himself. These people had not lived as he had. Only he could be expected to keep watch.

He cursed himself for removing his mithril shirt, though it would have entirely ruined the feel of the mattress; he had worn it at every moment save when he bathed during his years in the wild, and often such precautions had saved him. A bed was clearly one of Shar's tools, he decided, lulling the weary into vulnerability through comfortable darkness. But not all of his precautionary measures had been cast aside; his loaded crossbow sat within easy reach, and he'd kept his dagger hidden in the folds of his nightshirt. It was well that no grateful and amorous young lass had come to him in the night; he would have spitted her out of reflex alone.

If there was one thing Roen hated that he often had to do anyway, it was going into a potentially dangerous situation without any foreknowledge of what he might find. Had some sort of projectile been hurled through the window, a vial of alchemist's fire or noxious gas? Or perhaps a small but vicious creature? Or would he merely find a threatening note tied around a rock? Or even a love letter? Whatever it was, he had to find out. Easing himself out of bed without a sound, for he had carefully checked where to put pressure on the wood without causing it to creak, he took up his crossbow and crept out of the room on the balls of his feet, searching for the source of the noise.

Move Silently for Roen. (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13737911#post13737911)

[The Smoking Man]

Chapter Two: Day of the Drow

Roen: With nary a sound, the door to Roen's room opened. In the hall, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone else's door was closed, and no one walked around. Though some minor creaks in the floorboards above signed that some of Roen's new companions stirred in the third-floor apartments, the rooms in front of him were dead quiet...

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga lay sprawled out, his night shirt partially open, his bottoms nearly slid below his waist as he moved about in his sleep. Deep long snores reverberate the windows slightly.


Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz***!!!

He sat up with a start, coughing and sputtering as a bit of spit flies down the wrong pipe. As the coughing fit dies down, he rubs his eyes and blinks, looking around his room, a bad taste in his mouth from the previous nights drinking. His left eyelids stick slightly as he attempts to blink again, and his hair is sprawled across his head, standing in every direction imaginable.

*YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWN*

As he moves about his room, getting himself cleaned up in the bucket of fresh water in his room and putting on his clothes. The ale finally passing through his system as a finely aged gas, Doroga begins to cry out.

"By the GODS! What was in that Ale!" The gripes and grumbles continue as he dresses himself, and he heads out into the hallway as he finishes packing up.

BTW, I wanted to sell that masterwork shield too, or at least see if I could get a good price for it. How much could I sell that special shield? :o

[Dragonsong]

"Damn," Roen muttered, staring around at the closed doors. It was never simple, not even once. How was he supposed to know which room the sound had come from? It would take too long to check each room stealthily; the noise might have signaled the beginning of a murder, and he couldn't take that risk. "Is everyone alright," he loudly called down the hallway, feeling extremely foolish as he disturbed the early morning silence in no direction in particular. "Check your windows!"

He hoped he hadn't bothered everyone for nothing. That would not endear him to anyone.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

There is no response from the rooms, other than the emergence of Doroga. The two of you stand in the morning light seeping in from the windows, listening intently. Nothing sounds out of the ordinary, but no one responds to the question from Daurily and Herlam's room...

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia takes a long, full hour to prepare her spells, as is customary. She focuses on her breathing, keeping her mind and body still and relaxed. The day before had been a rush, violent and full. This next day would be just as harried, and likely more so; though they had a plan, it was sure to not last through the first encounter with their foe. No plan did, and she should know; planning was the hallmark of a successful wizard.

And so she did what every wizard should do when faced with turmoil; she prepared. She gathered what she knew about her day to come, and then she began to forge in her mind the structure and framework of the spells for the day. First came her cantrips, the small and simple pieces of magic that were the bread and butter of most less experienced mages. Prestidigitation was the first spell she memorized; that page in her spellbook was heavily-thumbed and studied, and the margins were nearly black with her personal notes and thoughts. It was an endlessly versatile spell, and though it had no combat potential its utility was unmatched: cleaning, coloring, scenting, lighting wicks or making windows opaque. She built in her mind the elegent, simple structure of the spell, and she knew that it was firmly entrenched in her thoughts to the degree that she could use it endlessly through the day; such a thing was difficult to achieve, though all wizards picked up the trick sooner or later.

Next came Detect Magic, which would afford her some ability at seeing illusions and at determining what items were magical or mundane. Then Light, because her foes would be better equipped for darkness than herself, and far more prepared for it than the muddy-eyed humans. And finally, a spell to protect her and one that could help change the flow of battle; Caltrops, a simple but effective conjuration that could hamper or harm heavy-footed foes, like any thugs the drow may have with them.

With the small, simple mental architecture of her cantrips tucked away in her thoughts, Perelia turned the pages of her spellbook to her first-level spells, which would do much of the heavy lifting throughout the day. Disguise Self, to make herself an image of the old man or his daughter. Grease, because of how effective it had been the day before, and because the drow had no ability to resist conjuration effects. And finally she prepared Protection from Evil and Mage Armor; while she could use her bow or wands for offense, nothing would serve her so well in a long fight as a solid defense, both against blade and against magic.

Then she turned to less-worn pages, and each spell in this section of her book took two of them. The mental framework she was constructing now was far more delicate, more intricate; for her power to flow through it correctly she needed extremely focus and concentration. She had spend a year or so preparing second level spells, however, and she was beginning to get quite the knack for it; her progress had speed considerably. She prided herself in her magical versatility, but for the day to come she focused on the conjurations that she knew; it was common knowledge that the drow had the ability to resist magic targeted at them directly, and the only indirect combat spells she knew were all conjuration.

Glitterdust, to blind and foil any illusions or invisible foes. Web, to entangle and entrap, and to allow them to take some enemies alive for questioning and interrogation. Summon Swarm, though it was distasteful, was a brutally efficient combat spell, and it would last as long as she needed it to. She would have to be careful, however; the swarm was uncontrollable, and would kill until she unbound the magic keeping it active.

And then Perelia did something that would make even experienced wizards turn their head. Something that would make Noristour question her intently, should he find out. She prepared an empty space in her mind, a space ready to be filled with any spell that she knew. She filled it with a pure structure, a mental space that could be collapsed or expanded with infinite flexibility into a spell-frame in seconds. It was the culmination of her life's work, and the true validation of all of her effort into seeking the commonality of magic. It was hers, and she was proud of what she could do with it.

Perelia was coming out of her trance and preparations when she heard Roen's call. She turned looking to her window, and she quickly began to dress and prepare her body to match her mind. The plan may last a very short time indeed, if the enemy was already at their gates.

[Dragonsong]

Roen paused a moment, but no one came to his aid. He frowned; again, it was up to him. What was more worrisome, however, was the complete lack of sound from Herlam's room. He'd recommended posting a door guard, but it had been foolish of him to forget that the window might just as easily be breached; he himself had certainly used that tactic when possible. Perhaps it was nothing, but circumstances were adding up to give him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was time to act quickly and decisively. He'd wasted too much time already, and if Daurily skewered him for catching her in her undergarments he would at least die knowing that they were safe.

Leveling his crossbow, he crossed to Daurily and Herlam's room and kicked the door open.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

Perelia: Glancing out of your window and checking for untoward sounds, you sense nothing out of the ordinary. Other than Roen's call, the Inn seems as silent as any inhabited Inn in the morning. And then a thump and a bang from below, like a door being kicked in. Someone was acting...

Roen and Doroga: Roen kicks the simple wooden door in without issue. What greets the two men's senses, however, is less mundane by far.

A near-complete blackness seems to have embedded itself in the room, like a solid ink almost, rather than a simple lack of light. Both Doroga's and Roen's ears hum with the unnatural silence of the emptiness before them. Something - the darkness - is inhibiting all sensory perception in the suite where Herlam and Daurily stay.

Just as Roen is about to cross the threshold, the inky darkness vomits forth a human form, whispy strands of shadow clutching at the body like frayed string, coiling back into the room as the body falls at Roen's feet.

It is Daurily, sword in hand, armour apparently kept on from the night before. Her skin is pale and blue veins spider through it. Her hair is streaked in white where yesterday it was dark. She breaths, but is unconcsious.

Something has found its way inside the Ashabenford Arms...

OOC:
So, Roen and Doroga are by the door. Anyone who's awake in or about their rooms heard the slam of the door and the slump of Daurily. Ryn can make a listen check for same.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia busts out of her room, heading towards the sound of the shattered wood just in time to watch the hardened mercenary fall to the group, plummeting out of...

Shadows. She fell out of a wall of pure darkness, darkness which could only be magical, which could only be malicious. Perelia thinks immediately to the conversations and writings of the previous day, and she understands what is happening. "The drow have allied themselves with creatures of shadow, creatures that were terrible enough to inspire fear in their leader. He was given a scroll to fight them off, should things go awry. I had intended to inscribe it into my spellbook once I had learned enough to cast such magic, but we cannot lose them this way."

She draws out a long scroll, scribed in a spidery hand on fine vellum, and she walks towards the door, holding the magical parchment out in front of her like a writ of passage. She begins to call out the words of the spell in a ringing, strident voice, her brow furrowed in concentration. She shouts out the final words of the magic as she reaches Daurily's fallen form, and with those words comes a light so powerful and pure that for a moment there is nothing but white light and arcane might, flooding through the inn like a wave, casting no shadows in its wake.

She deals 23 untyped damage to any shadow creatures in 30 feet and dispels any shadow or darkness spells that have a caster level of 9 or less.

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

Perelia, Roen, Doroga: The great light issues forth into the blackness, at first creating only a small puncture in the arcane shadows. The three of you have the strange sensation of seeing a three-dimensional hole in darkness, somehow lit slightly from the sunlight spilling hungrily into the room from the hallway. The emanation then begins to eat away at the greater bulk of the stubborn darkness.

The room is illuminated in an inky blue-grey that begins to clear up into more natural light... you can make out the forms of three undulating, black bodies, vaguely humanoid, all terminating at the same small sphere of utter black on the floor. Around the plum-sized trinket emanating the three shadow creatures, shards of broken window lie, almost invisible in the receding gloom.

As the spell takes full effect, the creatures squeal, undulating around their source like pain-wracked snakes tied together at the tail. Sheets of shadow-stuff peel from them and flicker into nothing, making them seem less substantial. They turn to the door, screeching rage in hallow tones, tiny eyes of pure white pinched in demonic frenzy. They stretch from their source beneath the broken window toward the door, like raving fingers of sheenless obsidian.

Herlam lies on a bed in the left third of the room, motionless. Now that the gloom is lifted you can tell that his eyes are open. You cannot say whether he yet lives or is dead. You have bigger things to worry about...

OOC:
Perelia, Doroga, Roen: Will roll initiative early-ish tomorrow before I go to work. If you get a chance before then, feel free to roll your own!

Everyone: Just a note/warning: this combat won't be a protracted, important battle. A couple rounds at most will likely do it. Want to keep things moving. The important bit of this is what happens after the fight with the shadow creatures.

I know it's bad to metagame for your players, but I did so this time in the interest of assurance that things are moving along.:smallwink:

[Neth]

It was some time before Neth understood all was not peace and tranquility this morning. She may have been awake, but being submerged in such a heavy state of morning preparation, she'd actually have been more useful had she merely been aslumber.

Perhaps in the woods, with less to distract, a significant arcane disturbance might've given a good druid's skin a shiver. But to concentrate divinely, this less-than-good druid had carelessly pushed even audible sounds into a far away dreamy-land-place. Well, why not? With so many others on guard, surely all would be well if she spaced out for an hour. And Gyl was keeping watch, wasn't he? Besides, it was hard enough to concentrate in these congested surroundings. Even when all was silent, the trappings of civilized areas pour forth a clamor all their own. She could hardly be expected to notice a small blip on the arcane radar when the town was already saturated with the dull purr of countless little trinkets, bindings and charms, along with the cold humming drone of metalwork that made itself heard in every little corner of every little room.

Thus it was that Neth proved useless while the danger made itself known. Gyl seemed to sense something peculiar, but not at all what, so couldn't do much but behave with clear agitation and make a cooing, croaking kerfuffle, which served no purpose but to make the druid assume he was hungry. Or playing one of his "oh there’s something dreadfully amiss, but I can’t for the life of me explain to you what it is" kind of games. It wasn't until the commotion from the other side of the building became suddenly quite loud, and the irritated owl began doing cartwheels across the window sill, that Neth finally snapped to her feet, fumbling for her staff and shield.

"Vlagugu-tik-tik," she cursed under her breath, (allowing herself the freedom of one of the more potent Rashemi expletives whilst there were no foreigners at hand to laugh at how ridiculous it sounds.) Dazed and stupefied, and entirely at a loss for what kind of danger might be afoot, she flung the window open, and let Gyl leap out to take a look at the other windows of the inn, and whether there was any disagreeable characters lurking outside. She is now poised with her ear at the door, attempting to detect any informative and/or forewarning sound before making another stupid mistake this morning, and bursting out her door into the loving arms of a dire rat army, or some other such unfavorable demise.


Neth listen: (1d20+5)[19]
Gyl spot: (1d20+6)[11]

I know this will likely be useless, unless the view from outside Herlam's window reveals something new. Assuming not, I apologize for being unhelpful (again). But this is probably what she'd do, on the other side of the building, and not knowing what's going on, and whether she'd best make her way out the window or what.

I'm excited for what the mini-battle will reveal, and if Neth hears nothing immediately beyond her door, she may possibly arrive in time to assist. Till then, stab them scary things! :smallbiggrin:

[RaggedAngel]

Several facts coalesced in Perelia's mind as she stared at the menacing creatures in front of her, and she realized that she was in serious danger for her life; more importantly, if she used too many of her daily resources now, she would be put in a bad place for the evening, when the drow were supposed to attack.

She took a step back, letting out a shout for help as she did so, and then Perelia did the one thing every wizard does at one point or another in their lives: she drew her wand, leveled it, and then cast Magic Missile at the darkness.

She draws the 9-charge wand, deals 7 damage to the center shade, and takes a 5ft step back.

[Dragonsong]

"Damn," Roen hissed. What had he gotten himself into? Not even two days in this town and he'd already encountered far, far more sorcery than he cared to. Though he worried for Daurily, and briefly considered dragging her out of harm's way to see if he could revive her, he knew that he would only be leaving Herlam and his new companions to face the vile... whatever they were alone. He sent up a prayer to the goddess as he took aim with his already-raised crossbow and opened fire, taking only a single shot; the things looked elusive, and two missed bolts were no help compared to a single one that struck home.

Sudden as his entrance had been, he would immediately have sought a weak point on any other target while they were too distracted to guard themselves. But where does one shoot to pierce the vitals of blackest night?

22 to hit, 9 damage! (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13779620&posted=1#post13779620)

[The Smoking Man]

Roen, Doroga, Perelia: The central of the three shadow demons absorbs Perelia's bolt of force and seems writhe and shake for a moment, bursting like a mixture of ink and smoke. The two others surge forth, paying no heed to their fallen kin.

A second one takes Roen's bolt in what passes for its head. It seems to loose structural integrity, and dissipates in the half-physical manner they are wont to. The third streaks forward, looking to Doroga. It's white eyes catch the warrior's, and it almost seems to smile. Doroga gets the distinct feeling that the thing knows he had pledged himself to Herlam.

It's mouth opens and tongues of inky darkness shoot out at lightning speed in a straight line for Doroga's neck. The streams of shadow take hold, and seem to choke some of the essence from you. You feel cold and weakened, like something's been taken...

The tongues retract, and the thing makes ready to dodge whatever attack comes next...

OOC:
So, the breath weapon of this scary shadow demon has done 3 temp. con. damage, effectively lessening your current HP by 4 and your Fortitude by 1, etc. :smalleek:

But, on the plus side, Doroga may now act! :smallsmile:

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga staggers back as he feels his body... change. An old knee injury ached now instead of after 10 minutes of fighting, he labored just a bit harder to breath. As if he had aged and suffered a minor sickness all in the last few seconds.

He snarls and whips his weapon forward, initially into the gut of the shadow, but then diving down and sweeping outward, hoping that some of the insubstantial thing would catch his weapon.


Touch attack for trip: (1d20+9)[22]
Opposed Str/Dex check: (1d20+3)[6]

If successful, then:
Attack roll: (1d20+9)[17]
Damage roll: (2d4+4)[8]

By the gods, to hell with this dice roller!

Inevitable counter str check: (1d20+3)[19]

[Keylac]

Ryn stood up from his seat next to the fire, stretching to relax the muscles. He'd spent the night in the inn's common room, after a short nap, working on his equipment. His clothes were mended, his weapons freshly honed and cleaned. All in all, he was ready for another bloody, violent day as an adventurer.

Sometimes, he wondered why people insisted on trying to solve problems in the dumbest manner possible. Ah well. At least he was better at it when they tried.

Picking up his mug of strong tea, he decided his companions had been asleep long enough. Whistling softly, so as to not wake anyone, he went up the stairs to the second floor. Turning the corner, he catches sight of most of the others.

Apparently, there had been trouble. Perelia, Doroga, and Roen now stand outside the door to Herlam and Daurily's room, weapons and wands in hand. Daurily herself lays at their feet, breathing, but otherwise looking... drained, he supposed. From clues in their posture, it's obvious that the threat is gone, but that the small crisis isn't over yet.

Pausing to think for a moment, Ryn takes a sip of his tea, then calls down to them.

"I'll just go get Neth then. I gather that she'll be needed here." With that, he turns to the stairs leading up to the third floor.

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia quickly kneels beside the wounded woman, holding one slender hand above her mouth, trying to feel for any signs of breath or life. She looks to Herlam, and she calls out, supremely frustrated. "We need a healer! Divine magic, for this is not a mundane injury; I don't think standard healing will even work on them in this state, not after seeing them drain Doroga."

She then glances to her apprentice, still feeling for signs of life. "Are you alright? Have you grown any weaker or fainter since the initial contact? If you're going to progress to this state, we need to act swiftly to attempt to stop it. We're going to need everyone on their feet tonight, which is likely why this attack occurred."

She gets a Heal result of 15.

[TheDivineWind]

At the mention of the attack, the adrenalin from the fight wears off and he again feels the weakness the shadow-thing's attack imparted upon him.

Doroga grunts at Perelia's questions, "I'll be fine. It feels like I aged a couple years, or like what some of the Orc's poisons will do to a man for a short time. I don't think I'm in any immediate danger."

Staggering for a second, he balances on his weapon and walks across the room to Herlam, kneeling to inspect him for physical wounds.


Heal check on Herlam to figure out what is wrong and if he's still alive: (1d20+7)[8]

... You know what, I'm just going to stop freaking rolling for awhile. :smallfrown:

Comedic effect edit:

I've seen things man. So many things. So many 3's and 4's... even 1's and 2's maaaaan. *rocking back and forth*

[The Smoking Man]

The Ashabenford Arms:

Having gathered Neth, the intrepid heroes attempt to figure out what's wrong with the Corkwills. Daurily flutters awake, colour returning ever so slowly to her face, though she seems largely out of it. It seems she was thrown from the fight before the shadow demons could do any lasting damage.

Herlam, however, is a different story.

Though distracted by his own ephemeral wound, Doroga manages to glean the bare essentials of Herlam's state... It seems the old adventurer is, well... dead. His eyes are open and an indifferent expression covers his face like a mask. He is pale, much more so than the previous night, and Doroga gets a distinct feeling that what happened to him happened to Herlam also.

Before any of you are able to react to the terrifying revelation of Herlam's death, Arlho, whose presence had gone undetected til now by the distracted adventurers, lets out a high screech. He drops his morning tea. The cup shatters on the worn wood. Everyone follows the man's eyes into the bedroom:

Behind Doroga's crouched form near Herlam's bed, standing and matching the corpse's indifference is... another Herlam. This one is translucent, difficult to focus on, even more so when shafts of sunlight bleed in through the shattered window.

The apparition turns to regard the bauble that emanated his assailants. Ghost Herlam seems to grunt, though the sound is barely audible. He turns again, slowly making his way to the trunk at the foot of his corpse's bed. He reaches inside, through the wood and girded metal, and pulls out - as if it too were a ghost - a large, stained, leather-bound journal. The apparition smiles faintly, turning from the room.

The ghost stops roughly in the middle of the party. It turns slowly to look at each one of them, including Groban, who has since rushed onto the scene (nearly completely naked). The look he gives each of you is intense, as if he were making certain of the sincerity of an oath you had all sworn to him. He holds the journal above his incorporeal head...

...and then disappears. The journal of Herlam Corkwill slams onto the floor, roughly between his ailing daughter and Arlho's ailing teacup.

Arlho faints, falling slack against the wall. Daurily screams a weakened version of what would, at the best of times, be a fearsome, melancholic war-cry. Her eyes flutter closed again, pushing away two small streams of tears that flow down her gaunt, pale cheeks...

You all know what you must do...


***

The White Hart Inn:

Despite the shock of Herlam's death, the plan remains largely the same. Ilnstreth, the Red Wizardess prisoner, helpfully informs the PCs that the shadow demons were not sent by the drow, but rather by the Others mentioned in the letter found on Otythir... someone rivaling the drow in their quest for Herlam. This means that the plan will still work, with the help of some death-defying illusions from Noristuor and his apprentice.

All goes according to plan through the day: The meetings are called; the right words fall into the right ears; the scouts report the expected drow movements close to the town; the sparser side of the river is depopulated; the Rider Barracks and Noristuor's tower are turned into small fortresses; "Herlam", Daurily and their escort are moved into place; night comes; the escort retreats from the soon-to-be-ambush zone; the party takes final positions as the last light of the sun fades...

The air in the White Hart Inn, though abandoned save for Herlam's Heroes, is electric with anticipation. Soon, the telltale sounds of the drow attack can be heard: soft footsteps between the buildings, followed by flashes of arcane energy and the calls of Rider and mercenary squads charging into the deadly shadows.

A few minutes into the siege of Ashabenfort, the door to the White Hart bursts open, and in stride a contingent of drow outfitted for war: A priestess of Lolth leads them, followed closely by six drow soldiers who form a wall with the priestess in the middle, obscuring the two mages that come striding in after them...

OOC:
So, here's the first encounter. It's a doozie. The common room of the White Hart is about 60 ft. long and 40 ft. wide.

Now, I know you all wanna get cracking, but I'd like to extend the following offer: the first one to draw up and post a quick map gets to decide what the battlefield consists of! :smallsmile: This accounts for the fact that you guys had all day to plan and prepare. There are any number of tables, chairs, barrels, etc. to work with , as well as any other mundane item one could find in a large town. If you like, you could even have it take place in a room/couple of rooms on the second floor (keeping in mind the dimensions of the building stated above).

If I don't get anyone interested in setting up the battlefield, I'll draw up something quick myself and post it. Until then, kindly list all the buffs/illusions etc. active at the beginning of the surprise round. Also, since we've got a wee bit before combat proper, kindly roll your initiatives! Anyone who fails to do so before the start of the fight gets rolled by me (Doroga, you might just wanna wait :smallbiggrin::smallwink:).

I know this was all very rushed, but I think some action will help liven things up a little 'round here. Expect some more RP and decision-making after the night of the attack.

Thanks!

OH YEAH!: Doroga, you get one Fortitude save each hour to heal the CON damage. You heal it at 1 point per roll. You have 12 rolls (not even you are hated by the dice gods so much as to fail with that many chances :smalltongue:).

AND: A successful Heal check from Neth will give Daurily the same chances, though she was hit for more CON than Doroga, so she may yet sit out the fight.

FINALLY: Anyone who wants any special preparations etc. done during the day before the fight, let me know and I'll let you know if you can accomplish them.

TSM

[Neth]

Neth had become somewhat distracted after having made close acquaintance with the spider spinning himself a web under the table where she huddled. But even before the drow footsteps clattered into the building, Gyl heard their approach and squawked at her from his perch above the door. He huddled protectively over his bucket of Alchemist's fire, and every so often swiveled his owl head lazily around to check on his other bucket sitting on a rafter across the room, filled with water just in case the flames were not on their side. The last brawl had effectively taught him the painfully literal meaning of 'backfire'.

Being mindful to avoid the unfamiliar mass of thorns and spikes grown out from the end of her staff, Neth carefully shifts her position to be ready when the enemies appear. Just before they do, she takes a brief glance out at her companions — the two impostors, the others hidden, and the chair that was actually a Ryn — confident in their ability to work as a unit, hopeful for her own chance to be useful, and grinning in anticipation for the madness to come.

As the drow burst into the room, Gyl leaps up with the first bucket and tips out a surprise splash of burning welcome from above the door. Neth steadies her hands and mumbles a few syllables, but waits just a moment long enough to let her companions launch their own surprise greetings, before letting a modest wall of black smoke poof into existence before the noses of the lined up soldiers. She then waits hopefully for a few faces of dismal queasiness to appear as they stumble through the black curtain, and readies her staff for any who decide to squeeze out the clear opening on the side nearest her.


Shillelagh is on the quarterstaff, and Resistance also cast just before combat, to last one minute. Gyl dumps Alchemist's fire directly above the door, and the Wall of Smoke stretches almost across the room, but doesn't quite reach. There are openings on either side, where she's hiding, and by the far wall. Hope this is okay... it should help disable them a little, perhaps? But it won't obscure anyone's vision until after they've done their surprise action! :smallsmile:

edit: If Perelia is casting glitterdust to detect anything invisible with the group, we should be able to see the result of that before the smoke begins, right...? :smalleek:

[TheDivineWind]

Gotta admit, I've never come across a group so dedicated to burning down their own stronghold. :smallbiggrin:

Doroga was smoldering with anger. He had made a pledge and he had failed Herlam because he had not guarded the room from the inside. He had slept when he should have been attentitive. The thought brought fury to him in a way he had rarely experienced in his life. It was on this his mind was focused as he hid to the side of the main door, outside of the main areas of effect for the spells that would be slung about. He had taken elaborate effort to hide himself in a dark corner behind some spare furniture, creating a means for him to move quickly out from his cover and into the fray had also taken a degree of forethought.

He had explained his plan for himself, when he originally came up with the idea, with Ryn and the others and suggested that he should strike early on. After hearing ideas from the others in his company, he had a change of mind. Not only was the initial attack already planned out, it would likely catch him in the crossfire if he simply dove after the first drow through the door. Instead, Doroga decided to wait, hidden in his cover, until the Drow mages made themselves known.

So he crouched. His knees aching from staying undercover for so long. He had been there for nearly an hour now, and two hours before that, waiting for the strike. He wasn't skilled enough in stealth to hide himself quickly, so he had needed the time to prepare his spot, and the aid of others to make sure he blended in properly. The Drow had the ability to see in the dark, so he couldn't use the shadows to his advantage. He had included cover from spare tables and chairs, as well as some spare wooden planks.

After the first few waves of fighters, he figured, the mages would come in, or be attacking from outside. He couldn't bring himself to find a position on the roof or the exterior of the building for fear of being detected too early, or not being close enough to help his companions in an emergency. So the spot in the corner by the door would have to work. Either way, he could hit the attacking group from the back, and hopefully take down a couple before he is even detected and attacked.


Take 20 on a hide check: [27]

[Keylac]

Lounging against the wall in the main room of the White Hart, Ryn contemplated being a chair.

He didn't have a lot else to think about. Today had been busy, but he was no stranger to manual labor, and had a lot of time to think while helping setup defenses. Then he'd had over an hour of waiting upstairs for the decoy "guards" to leave, before moving downstairs and taking his position by the door, covered by Perelia's illusion.

He'd thought about Herlam, and how he died, so soon after being given hope that he might escape his curse. Worse, Ryn new little about the creatures that had killed him, or their masters. He didn't like knowing so little, especially when they might come after the others - or Daurily, more likely - next.

He'd thought about the plan he'd devised to bloody the drow, in hopes they would leave the town alone. He wasn't sure if it would work, but he'd long since gotten into the habit of taking more risks, exposing himself to more danger, to keep other folk safe.

He'd thought about his companions, and what little he knew about them. He hadn't had time to hear their stories, find out what life was like where they came from. He was looking forward to that.

He'd even spent some time dwelling on Faud the Scar, wondering what had made the man turn on his people. Hate, Rage, Jealousy, Love? Probably money; that was the most common. At least he no longer felt bad about crushing him in the Melee.

Now, bereft of other things to think about, he contemplated being a chair.

He didn't think he'd like it very much. Being made of wood wasn't so bad, and he supposed he could put up with people sitting on his lap all the time. But to be stationary! To never go anywhere, do anything... that would be awful beyond belief.

Yes, Ryn decided, he was much happier being a person than being a chair.

Finally, he heard the attack on Ashbenford start. Banishing thoughts of furniture from his mind, he rolled his shoulders, stretching, as he prepared for the drow's arrival. They tromped in soon after, never seeming to give the chair that was Ryn a second glance.

For a moment, Ryn debated the merits of Priestess versus Mage. Normally, he'd want to kill the priestess first, out of principal, but then again, she might know something. Especially since the letter they'd taken from Otythir, Red Wizard of Thay, had seemed to indicate these weren't surface drow, and she would probably be in charge then...

With a mental shrug, Ryn surges away from the wall, all thoughts of furniture banished as he summoned a battle fury. He brought the greatsword down in an overhand blow down at the nearest mage. He seemed quite surprised; Ryn didn't blame him at all. He was, after all, quite the unusual chair.

OOC
I'm going to use my Standard Action to attack (with Power Attack +4) the Mage closest to me, after using a Free Action to Rage.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13862351#post13862351)

Rolling Attack (Power Attack +4) versus Drow Mage: (1d20+7)[10]

Rolling Damage (Power Attack +4) versus Drow Mage: (2d6+17)[26]

Yeah.... I'm glad he's Flat Footed; gives me a least a tiny chance to hit... if he's not prepared... Ah well. At least I should have their attention :smallbiggrin:

[Dragonsong]

It is difficult to play the role of a man who had just died, particularly if the man was someone you had come to care about. For Roen, despite all his years of training in subterfuge, it was nearly impossible. He seethed with rage, rage at the shadow-things and those who sent them and his goddess and himself. When Haldis had told him that there was joy out in the world that even he, a slave beaten every day, could find, he'd assumed that she knew because there was plenty of joy where she came from. That explanation now filled him with only bitterness.

He loved her with all his heart, and he always would, but he was beginning to think once again what he had thought when he first met her: she was deluded. In the time since he had begun to listen to her talk of the goddess of joy, he had lost her, his family, his allies, and any chance of returning to his homeland. When he'd gone far away from joyless Dambrath he had found criminals, power hungry wizards, merciless raiders, and shadow beasts that murdered old men. The world was bleak, that was the truth of it.

But there had been many times before when hiding his emotions had been necessary, and almost impossible was not the same as impossible. When the Drow burst into the inn, he initially made a show of surprise and fear, leaning against "Daurily" as he thought the old man might have. But when the alchemist's fire fell, cutting off access to the door, that feigned panic fell away and was replaced by a cold smile. "Surprise," he hissed, his voice full of venom. Then he raised his crossbow.

He remembered feeling like this, before Haldis came into his life. Desperate to hurt someone, to make someone else feel the pain he felt inside. The difference was that he could do it now. Remembering the priestesses of Loviatar, the feel of their lashes on his back, he set his sights on the female Drow leader and fired twice in rapid succession (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13891788&posted=1#post13891788), taking advantage of the surprise to aim for the kidneys; armor tended to be thinner there to allow mobility, and it was a nasty place to be hit.

He'd never been good at saving people; what had happened had only helped to prove that. But by the gods he was good at killing people, and whatever guilt he had felt for this skill before had burned away in the fires of his rage.

[The Smoking Man]

The White Hart Inn:

Perelia's glitterdust reveals nothing in the area of the Common Room of the WHite Hart as the drow make their entrance.

A general murmur of alarm goes up among the drow party as the dancing lights move about them. The two mages and the priestess seem unaffected, though the soldiers all struggle with sudden blindness. Though confused and blind, they maintain their discipline.

The topmost mage, arrogant in his violet and black Sorcere robes, did not seem so imposing when alchemist's fire and Ryn rained down upon him. The alchemist's fire did some damage, but Ryn's wild strike had missed. He stepped back, and, overcoming the searing pain of the alchemist's fire, launched a spell into Ryn: a scorching ray, that misses the warrior and scorches a hanging tapestry on the wall behind him.

Doroga is in good position to attack either the second mage or a soldier (#5 soldier, in order from top to bottom).

Roen's bolts fly true, striking the sturdy priestess of Lolth in the chest and abdomen of her armor. She quails, not yet defeated, raising her fearsome whip to point at Roen. For her part, she casts a loathsome curse upon the rogue: Mark of the Outcast. As the spell takes effect and Roen feels his mind relenting to the demonic forces behind it, a hideous, black mark crawls across his face, embedding itself, making the skin there feel numb and cold. (Roen now takes -5 to Diplomacy and Bluff for the duration of the spell and a -2 on AC. Spell lasts until dispelled).

The second mage, enraged at the unexpected ambush, casts a flaming sphere above Perelia's head. She manages to dodge its first pass, but the roiling flame continues to hover...

The wall of gaseous shadow appears at the behest of Neth, who now stands ready by her hiding place.

A blinded drow soldier (#3 in order form top to bottom), seemingly in control despite his hindered state, makes a careful swing for Ryn, which manages to get within the warrior's defenses, but alas, misses anything save a strap on Ryn's armour.

The rest of the drow soldiers remain stationary, taking up careful defensive positions until something can be done about their blindness.

OOC:
- NUMBERING ALL NPCs FROM TOP TO BOTTOM BASED ON THE MAP
- Mage#1 has been hit with alchemist's fire. The priestess dodged her splash damage, and Mage#2 took his one point of fire damage.
- The Priestess has been wounded quite profoundly by Roen's anger-shots, and has subsuquently cursed him with Mark of the Outcast (from FR: Underdark).
- The Soldiers have been blinded, but it appears that at least a few of them have been trained in Blind-Fighting (being underdark creatures, after all). This allowed one to attack Ryn, but missed anyway.
- IT IS NOW THE PARTY's TURN! DOROGA: Please post your readied action as quick as possible so it can resolve before everyone does their next round's worth of stuff.
- Thanks folks! Expect me to be keeping up with this combat regularly. I'm trying to right my schedule so there will be no more ridiculous delays. If I missed anything please let me know and forgive my oversight.

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga spots the mage, watching carefully as he completes the motions that bring forth something that looked like an animated ball of burning sponge. As soon as the smug satisfaction of a spell completed crosses the drow's face, Doroga snaps forward his Guisarme and goes to hook the unsuspecting mage's feet out from under him (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=13913449&postcount=153).


aaaaaand if that fails (likely. Screw you dice gods)
http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=13913466&postcount=155 (My counter roll to avoid being counter tripped.)

[RaggedAngel]

Perelia takes a quick step back, moving away from the burning sphere, though she knows that it will have little trouble avoiding her. She looks to the opposing mage, and her lips curl up in a distinctly chilling manner. "A battle of magic, is it. Well. Magic it will be." She slips a piece of red cloth out of her spell component pouch, and with clear, clean words she begins to enunciate a spell of summoning.

Summon Swarm has a 1 round casting time. She's making spiders.

[Dragonsong]

Taking a grim, bloody satisfaction in the effect of his first two shots, Roen hardly saw the retribution coming. Suddenly claws of darkness scrabbled at his mind, opening his head as if shattering a wooden crate and drinking the warmth within. He felt alone, despised; it was a feeling he had grown used to at times in his life, but this... this curse dragged them all up at once, leaving him dizzy with remembered sorrow. Yet it did nothing to temper his hate, and he loosed again (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13938659#post13938659), aiming at the source of the spell in the hopes of ending their little duel once and for all.

He doubted that a single bolt would do the trick, but aim had become important now that she new he was dangerous.

[TheDivineWind]

Doroga curses and turns his attention to the drow warrior in front of him, first dipping a bit and then sweeping his weapon around in him a flourish, bringing it into a short haft grip and whipping it across the drow's knees in an attempt to trip him.


Touch: (1d20+9)[20]
Str Check: (1d20+3)[13]
(counter ;_;): (1d20+3)[13]

Hit roll: (1d20+9)[15]
Damage: (2d4+4)[6]

Better rolls this time!

[Keylac]

Ryn sighed to himself. He kept missing people, and frankly, it was getting annoying. Here he was, a well trained warrior, and apparently any schmuck mage with a spell on could manage to evade him.

On the upside, he thought, stepping forward and bringing his blade back around, no one dodged forever. He'd pit his endurance against the mages any day.

OOC
I'm still not sure if I should be posting, but everyone else is anyways, and I'd rather not contribute to the slowdown, so here goes. :smallsmile:

Another attack, this one with no Power Attack. Maybe I can actually hit him then :smalltongue: This is against the same target and before, unless Doroga is attacking him, in which case I'll switch to the other mage.

Rolls (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?p=13942620#post13942620)

Rolling Attack against Mage: (1d20+11)[23]

Rolling Damage against Mage: (2d6+11)[15]

Damage included +2 damage versus Favored Enemy: Arcanist, so if he's only pretending to be a mage, damage is 2 less.