[DnD 4e PbP] Crumbling Citadels (IC)

Aegis

Source

It's taken each of you several weeks by now to get this far. Rumors, hints, the help of strangers struggling within the many villages and cities across Faerun, whatever was needed and available to get you this much closer to the location of Aeranath. And even now, so close to your goal, each of you still has no first-hand guarantee that this Citadel even still exists. Many along your paths have warned you against continuing in this search. "The Citadels are cursed! A trap for the gullible," they say, dismissing the notion that there could ever exist a sanctuary from the rippling blue fires of the Spellplague. Honestly, such a sentiment is hardly misplaced; after all, were there not supposed to be seven of these citadels spread throughout the planes? The demise and disappearance of the previous Citadels has certainly done much to dissipate any interest and hope among pilgrims of a safe future.

Hope, however, is far more resilient than most would give it credit for. This is quite evident as you proceed along your steps into the welcoming boughs of the Cormanthor this day. Smack in the middle of the Dalelands and having once extended so far as to cover the entirety of the Dales, the trees of this ancient forest have been spared from much of the Spellplague, in part due to the resurgence of Cormanthyr. Myth Drannor, the City of Song, and capital of Cormanthyr remains protected beneath its ancient Mythal, the flames of the Spellplague testing and prodding the elven magics but having yet to do any worse than the previous years of wild magic that held sway over the ruins. Ilsevele Miritar, Coronal to the elven people for the first time in over seven hundred years, has ruled the reborn City of Song for a decade now, a challenging time given the refugees that have poured into the Dalelands from the surrounding lands. Tensions have begun to run high among the reinvigorated elven people, but those patrols that you have spotted throughout the forest so far have kept to their assigned tasks and still take immense pride in their duties of protecting the larger realm from those that might threaten it.


(This guy's stuff is amazing.)

In the end, whether it is the relative safety of the forest of late or the overcrowding and uncertainty surrounding the refugees within the elven kingdom, all signs that have pointed to Aeranath have brought you and many others to this forest and more specifically, to the Standing Stone which you now stand before. An ancient monument recognizing a moment of peace and the setting aside of differences, it serves that function once again as several groups of pilgrims bound for the Citadel mill about the area. In fact the entire area shows evidence of extended traffic: lingering campfires and trappings of civilization litter the surrounding here and there, occasionally retrieved by the passing elven patrols or rare druid. Many of these groups keep to themselves, each band a self-contained family or story, much like your own, with their own trials and futures ahead of them. Each hopes to find their own way to Aeranath, of escaping the Spellplague and building a new life.

But for now the spotlight remains on your gathering. Whether you have arrived on your own initiative or with a newfound traveling companion, all of you bear the same piece of parchment that has guided your steps. Once it was a magical, portable signpost directing each traveller to the safe shores of the Citadel as if blessed by the Helping Hand Himself. The years of exposure to the roiling that the Weave has experienced, though, has caused the magic to fade and become unreliable. Now existing as a shade of its former self, the best map that you have simply points forward into the Cormanthor's welcoming embrace, hinting of a portal further on and a path that will take you away from the tempest that calls itself Faerun.

OOC Notes: Use this (SlateGray) colour for OOC text, and White/Default for IC text. Mechanical questions in the OOC thread.

Feel free to commence with introductions, or general milling about. There are several groups of pilgrims around, including a number of elven guards and the occasional trader that passes through on the way to Myth Drannor or the various settlements of the Dalelands. Once you are all confident of proceeding, you can Ready Up! to continue following your maps into the forest.

Saurfang

Baran studies the other pilgrims carefully, noticing a disturbing pattern beginning to emerge. In each case, he would closely watch a group or an individual without averting his gaze for several minutes. In this way, he could be sure he would miss no incriminating detail. As he stared straight ahead, he would mutter important observations quietly to himself, all while scratching out notes on a sheaf of paper. Even now he studied a small group of pilgrims, wondering of the curious pattern would repeat itself.

"Pair of dragonborn. One red-scaled, the other green. Discussing matters, seemingly of great import, too far away to hear. Curious tear on the sleeve of red-scaled one's jerkin. Deliberate? Possibly. Some kind of signal, a way to identify allies. Co-conspirators. Both eating fruit...no coincidence. A further part of the code. A passphrase in the form of a seemingly innocent act. Ingenious! Ahhh. They have become aware of my presence. Act natural." Baran smiles a wide, fixed grin and stiffly raises an arm. The dragonborn narrow their eyes at him and move away after a moment, whispering and shooting glances at him.

The result was always the same. After an individual or group became aware of his observation, they would react with suspicion! Despite his friendly smile and wave!

Baran fidgets nervously. He glances sidelong at Larsson, finally tugging on the knight's sleeve.

"I know what you said before, but this is important." Baran lowers his voice and his eyes dart furtively around the clearing. "We are being watched," he hisses.

A Dabble Of Thelonius

"Of course we are, Baran. You're staring them down like they're the last mutton joint at dinner."

With a weary sigh, Larsson pushes himself of of the tree he had been leaning against. "Still, you've been right before. Once. You keep an eye, I'm going to ask around. Maybe someone actually knows what they're doing."

Rolling his shoulders, the knight starts to head over to a group of halflings sitting around a bubbling pot. One of them shouts and the rest erupt into gales of laughter. The knights shoulders slump even further and he turns, angling away from them.

Leper

"Rowdy bunch, and good folk," comes Sark's voice to Larsson's ears as the half-orc slips from somewhere in the milling crowd and interposes himself between the merry band and the knight. Shiny livery and fancy crests had meant a lot less the last few years, as desperate people of any standing were prone to desperate acts, and he held no illusions about the camp outside the city being any more safe for his 'fares' than the wild roads.

"You're hungry? The lads will be happy enough to share... if you've got something to throw in the pot," he continues with toothy grin spreading across his face. "Food, spice, booze," he pauses just long enough to look pensive then shoots his gaze towards the direction of the city, weighing the possibilities before he continues, "or coin. They're generous, but not your peasants, nor prey."

His piece said, Sark stands aside, hands free from his weapons as if welcoming Larsson to the circle and every bit of what had just been said was of no more consequence than a half-hearted 'hello' to a stranger on the street. "Do us a favor, chum, and step lightly."

A Dabble Of Thelonius

"I'm just looking for answers." Larsson grates out. "If you have them, I'll pay you. Fine. Or them."

Shrugging his shoulders, he looks around the crowd. "I just need to get to my post."

Leper

Sark's face flashes a brief expression of disappointment. Tymora's bollocks, he mentally blasphemed, Can't win for winning.

Just as the exasperation begins to take hold, inspiration strikes, and he settles back into a stiff and imposing posture like one might slip into a favorite chair by the fireplace. "All right, chum," he whispers, managing to come off as reasonably friendly in spite of his bearing, "I help you, you help me. You want answers? If I don't have 'em, I'll get 'em. In the meantime... I did my job a bit too well, and the lads had a nice, quiet journey. Once they're through the gates my job is over and they'll have not one fine story among the lot of them..."

He slides back between the knight and the boisterous bunch and offers the armor-clad man a wink, "you puff up, look like a hard case... Offended. Like hoodwinking some halflings is something far beneath your dignity. Yes! Exactly like that--fine scowl, sir. Got a friend? Call him over for backup. Ask what you want--but quiet-like. You get answers, my charges get a story to tell, and I get better prospects on the next go 'round."

A Dabble Of Thelonius

Clearly not thrilled with the idea, but all the same recognizing a chance, Larsson gives an almost imperceptible nod. "Fine." Turning, he waves to signal Baran. Predictably, this does not work at all. "Baran," he hisses, "Baran, hey." The signaling wave has become less discreet, but no more effective as Baran continues to compile information on everyone within sight.

"Lady be good...Baran!" he bellows out, finally eliciting a response from the dwarf. As well as most everyone else within the crowd

Turning back to the smirking half-orc he mutters, "My apologies for the scene, but no, I'm sure this fits your..scheme..quite well." It's hard to tell for the scarring, but it seems his mouth twists just a bit further, as if the words themselves are sour.

Aegis

The halflings continue in their rowdy laughter, the prospect of a cook-pot apparently enough to send the merry band into all manner of tizzy over the proper way to prepare a squirrel or small varmint. In fact, while spices seem to be in plentiful supply among the group, squirrels aren't as one of the small men spends far too much time attempting to capture the roaming mammals that seem to taunt the hungry band by retreating up the nearest tree at the first hint of trouble. A pair of gnomes wander over as this is going on and try and offer an alternative to the unsuccessful stew, but all this seems to cause is more disagreement over preparation methods. At the very least, the Standing Stone is a lively place today.

Leper

Sark glances over his shoulder for a minute, sizing up the gnomes briefly before dismissing them as no serious threat... yet. Shame. Worse yet, the prospect something other than 'trail ration stew' has distracted his halfling charges from his attempt at 'gallantry.'

He cuts back to the knight before him trying to mask his dejection with a torrent of amused flippancy, "Frankly, it could be going better. Which one's Baran? Think he'd be all right with a good sock in the jaw for the cause? ...that looks a lot like a 'no.' Buy him a beer after? Still 'no.' You're doing great on the scowling--do any theatre? No?"

A Dabble Of Thelonius

After a long pause, Larsson's mouth twists slightly. "Actually, that I might like to see."

imafrog

A loud shout from behind him draws Leander's attention away from the elven guard. Seeing his half-orc companion in the direction of the noise the half-elf thinks to himself...of course what else could it be. "Uh, I need to go..." with that Leander ends the conversation and briskly heads towards the commotion. "Sark! I leave you alone for five minutes and already you're scheming?" Leander points accusingly at the rogue with a long-stemmed pipe of polished ironwood as smoke wreaths about him. "I know you're bored, this isn't exactly a meccha of....whatever it is you are fond of...but the people here have journeyed a long way and are weary. Leave 'em be.". Turning to the armored man next to him, "Don't listen to any of his suggestions. He's a penchant for getting himself and others into trouble."

A Dabble Of Thelonius

Larsson throws a glance over to where Baran still sits, cataloging the vast conspiracies no doubt be played out in the camp.

"Yeah. Know the type." He thrusts his hand out at the other half-elf. "Larsson. Hospitaler. What do you hear about this Citadel?"

Leper

Sark responds in rapid fire to his companion's jibes, "never stopped, of course I'm bored, everything, I think they'd like a show--this gent just said as much," he pauses only long enough to motion at Larsson, "and only if 'trouble' is code for 'barmaids.'" Judging by his face, the half-orc is mortified by what he sees as wild and unfounded slurs upon his character--save the last. "If it is, then you've likely hit on both your most accurate euphemism, and most accurate accusation against me all in one go. A red letter day for you, turn-key."

Seeing that his mock-heroism isn't likely to pan out, he leaves the providing of any useful information to Leander. No free rides today... unless that barmaid thing pans out again.

Lord_Asmodeus

Standing close to the tall silent figure, Hallow Preest, Antigone spread her arms wide and stretched, letting out a sigh of contentment. "It feels good to be in a forest again Hallow, and this one is so large, it reminds me of my home in the Feywild. A bright clearing filled with strange and wondrous people from all over the land. It brings back so many memories... though this time, most of them have not gathered to see me." Antigone smiles at an attractive passerby.

Stretching out her long goat legs next she studies the crowd, she notices some sort of commotion, and around it, a cooking pot filled surrounded by wee folk. Pointing to it she tugs lightly at Hallow Preest's shirt. "Oh, a cooking pot. Perhaps if we were to share some of our own bounty, and I some music, they would let us join them in a meal?"

Not waiting for an answer from the figure, Antigone begins to stride towards the Halflings and Gnomes, waving towards them as she nears.

Saurfang

Baran finally catches up to Larsson, having finished a detailed study of what appeared to be a happy and weary elven family. Baran shakes his head and suppresses a shudder. In fact, the two parents were disguised drow from Menzoberranzan, and that meant their "children" were vicious halfling killers, enslaved wholly to the dark elves' will.

"No need to shout, Larsson, I was just finishing up," Baran mumbles as he approaches, putting the finishing touches on a sketch of a toothy halfling assassin. As he looks up from his notes, he's startled to see that Larsson has company: a well-dressed orc and a half-elf in a dark coat. Instantly, the dwarf's eyes narrow. The way these two carry themselves... they both possess an air of ease and confidence that is common to the trained fighter. Indeed, the half-elf sports a glaive, and the half-orc a sword--although Baran is sure that the green-skinned man has knives tucked hidden about his person. Were their enemies finally making a play? If so, they'd soon see what a Keeper of the Nine was made of.

Baran stomps the last few steps, jabbing a finger at the two men. "Alright, the jig is up. You should tell your spies to be more careful. I've got a list of their descriptions right here," he waves a sheaf of paper at the two slack-jawed men, "so you might as well write these operatives off as useless. The Nine knows who they are now, and we know who you are, too. In fact, there are, um, agents in the trees right now, perhaps ten--twenty--of them, training their, ah, crossbows on you. You'd better be on your best behavior." The dwarf elbows Larsson sharply and gives Larsson a wink. Larsson draws a breath to speak, but without missing a beat, Baran's tirade continues. "Now, if you're after this," he brandishes the scrap of the map to Aeranath, "you're simply not going to get it. Time to answer some questions before we pepper you full of arrows! Who do you work for? The Arcane Brotherhood? You like like Luskan scoundrels to me... Or perhaps you're vile worshippers of the Dragon Cult!"

Red-faced, Baran pauses to take a breath and notices the pack of halflings around the cooking pot, staring hungrily at he and Larsson. He pales. "By Moradin's beard." He points a shaking finger at the halflings. "Cannibal halfling killers!" The dwarf turns to the half-orc and half-elf, his voice both brave and tremulous. "If we're to meet our end today, then I'm prepared to meet it. But know this: we won't talk, even if you have your halflings gnaw our legs off. A Keeper of the Nine keeps his secrets." Baran sticks out his chin proudly and plants his staff, finally lapsing into silence.

The effect is ruined by a squirrel clambering up the staff, which Baran hastily shoos away.

imafrog

Leander is about to introduce himself when the a blue-eyed dwarf steps forward babbling about spies and operatives. Several times he tries to interrupt but the dwarf simply continues his tirade leaving Leander to puff worriedly on his pipe. When the dwarf finally stops, Leander raises an eyebrow and exchanges a glance with the half-orc. Sark simply shrugs his shoulders a bemused look on his face. Leander takes a glance around the camp, confirming his doubt about the 'agents in the trees' and then focuses back on the dwarf. "I think you are.....confused." The half-elf turns to the hospitaler who has managed to bury his hand in his face while still holding out the other in greeting. Leander grasps his hand and introduces himself and his companion. "Leander Drakos and this is Sark Bowrake. Nice to meet you. Your friend(?) is uh.....crazy. Anyway, you are heading for the citadel I take it?"

Aegis

"I'm telling you, we need some pepper and a side of potatoes for squirrel..."
"Poppycock! It's well known that the best thing to include with small game is a hearty stew of vegetables and ample seasoning. Your 'potatoes' may as well be chunks of tasteless rock."
"Tasteless...rock? Why...as if you knew how to cook anything more complicated than bread."
"Do you two plan on cooking any time soon, or am I going to have to survive on berries and oak leaves?"
"If you want to eat, then tell Bobbin to stop wasting time and catch us the main course. Otherwise, shut it!"

The bickering of the halflings can be heard from quite a distance, but only becomes more incessant as soon as any of you begin to approve the fire. Several small-folk linger around, arguing over the best way to cook a stew while at least a pair more wander with purpose through the nearby woods, unsuccessfully trying to catch some squirrels. Several of the nearby elves keeping watch on the area are clearly amused, though they keep to themselves as they find the bickering mostly good-natured.

The attention of the halflings then turns to regard Antigone as she strides up with a raised hand. First they smile and blush, arguments evaporating in the air as fast as snow in a volcano, but then their eyes stray first to her horns and then to her legs and smiles turn to visible concern.

"Err, uh, hello there miss," stammers out while whispers are quickly exchanged between the bunch, though not concealed very well.
"She's one of them devil-persons isn't she? Oh dear."
"What can we, uh, do for you today? Our stew's not quite ready and we don't have any uh me...me...meat."
"Idiot. Tieflings have tails, does it look like she has a tail?"
"She's got horns, doesn't she? And those legs!"
"Ugh, don't remind me. I could go for some goat right now."
"We'll have squirrel though! One of these days, if we can catch it. You're welcome to um...some stew I guess? Unless you're not hungry, are you?"
"Please don't eat us."

Lord_Asmodeus

Antigone laughed lightly and put on her most disarming smile, unfazed by the whispered concerns of the halflings. "Such concern, I will not eat you. I did not know we Satyrs had such a reputation amongst the small-folke. I saw you were cooking some food and I thought I might join you, I have some food to offer for the pot, and of course I have my music."

She gestured first towards the boiling cookpot, and then to the lyre that hung from a strap on her belt, and then started to pull off her backpack, before turning her eyes upward towards the halflings again "If I may?"

A Dabble Of Thelonius

Larsson grasps Leander's hand, giving a firm shake. "Baran is," he pauses, searching for the words "Baran is Baran. He is..a good man. We met on the road. He seeks the Citadel, as do I, yes."

Miraculously, the din from the halfling's fire has abruptly ceased. Glancing over, Larsson spots the reason. A striking figure has approached the fire. A lithe young woman, blonde hair curling past her horns. Horns? A second to confirm it and yes, curling horns. The knight's hand drops from Leander and brushes the hilt of his sword. His scarred mouth drawing further down.

"Satyr" he mutters, almost too quiet to hear.

Leper

Sark eyes the dwarf, doing his best to maintain a straight face through the tirade, although the squirrel-shooing makes it nigh impossible. "You're obviously a man of great discernment, but I assure you I'd join no shadowy criminal organization that has standards low enough to accept my companion here, and leading one is just hugely impractical. All that aside, I can do without your map. We've got two already," he says, brandishing his own map; once like the others, but now stained and worn. "Made a decent napkin once the magic wore out."

-"Satyr"-

Sark's head swivels in the direction of Larsson's gaze, and his initial concern for the halflings' camp switches focus entirely. A fine watchman you are today. He turns back to the cluster of folks nearer and slaps Leander on the back before reaching for the hands of the other two (offered or not) to give them a perfunctory shake. "Yes. Well, seeing as I've already been introduced, it's nice enough to meet you gents, and I wish you well, in that I wish you no specific harm, but I have to see a man about a goat."

Hands shaken, (or not) he gives a quick bow and makes a slow line for the halflings' campfire, taking a moment to consider his options. Eat goat? Crass. Chase tail? Obvious. Half-hearted misogyny coupled with semi-compliment? Perfect.

He reaches down to pat the back of one of the more shaky of the bunch--three weeks on the road with this lot had taught him that ruffling hair and patting heads might well lead to a bite on the hand or a snake in his bedroll. "Tirrip, you can relax. All women are demons, just be thankful you're sharing a fire with one that has handlebars."

Smooooth.

Saurfang

Baran is still processing the strange response of the spy ringleaders, and their possession of maps identical to his and Larsson's, when the knight whispers "satyr." Baran's eyes widen as he sees the horned woman. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.

He feels a strange pressure in his head. Something is about to happen, or... The future is shapeless, molten metal, but Baran is seized by the conviction, almost the physical sensation, of a smith's hammer striking the first blow that shapes the steel.

His hand hangs limp as Sark grabs it and shakes it. His reverie broken, the dwarf looks up at Larsson. "Something important is happening here. I'm not sure what it is, yet. Be wary!"

Aegis

"Oh, a Satyr!" is quickly exclaimed, almost by way of apology before a pause ensues and the halflings quickly discuss among themselves what exactly such a thing is, taking a rather extended period of time to argue back and forth about who's grandfather used to know the most about woodland creatures. That is eventually settled and they turn back in a much better mood than before, "Certainly you can join! Whatever you opt to add to the pot is bound to be better than whatever we can scrounge up around here. You happen to live in these woods, or are you on the hunt for the hidden city like all the rest of us?" The last part said with a casual glance around the Standing Stone's environs at the various other groups coming and going.

The halflings are then immediately put back into a tizzy before Antigone can answer as Sark wanders over and pats one of the halflings. "Hey, err," he starts, unsure of the half-orc's comment and meaning particularly with no specific intent behind the outburst and then just descends into grumbling. "I hope you're not here for food as well or we're going to need a bigger squirrel."

Talonrazor

Kane Fainklyn stood wrapped in his brown overcoat, wrapped firmly around his thin body. His Netherese frilled puffy shirt collar poked up around the neck and the great sling of his powerful mechanical crossbrow wrapped over his shoulder. Overall it was a dress of class and style but it was the mask that dominated his appearance. White boiled leather made up the front half, with two black holes for eyes that seemed to stretch into endless wells. The back half of the mask was more supple leather and laced together. The being completely covered himself for even his hands hid beneath brown leather. A brown bag slung from one shoulder and had all the trappings of a Chirguegon's travel bag; the markings on the side, the metal instruments poking out and various vials clinking together. At his feet sat a rolled blanket filled with various travel items and tied with thick cord to help in it's carry. Tied to the top roll was a long wooden tube of considerable size. Anyone with experience in the arts recognized it at once as a painter's kit.

The man did not move when his companion spoke to him. He rarely did. The satyr exhumed exuberance and he said nothing. He rarely did that too. She tugged at his coat and moved away. Slowly and methodically the man picked up his bedroll, slung it over his shoulder and moved forward. Every little motion was a statement in economy of motion. Deliberate and planned. His gait exact and movement defined, the masked man followed the female companion as she moved towards the cooking circle. She arrived and spoke to them, causing quite a commotion. The masked man slowly approached and took a position near here, setting his bedroll down with careful precision before straightening and clasping his hands together.

Kane did not know why but he liked the Saytr. She played music and laughed sweetly and something inside the cold recesses of his dead heart stirred. Little in this new life reached him but the music did. Just like the paintings. Somehow those expressions of life reminded him that he did not have it. Life is a cruel beast and constantly sought to give Kane reminders of what it had torn from him. The music and the art brought some comfort in that a wisp or two of a bygone living could return. The saytr did that, reminded him of something. What it was it had long been passed away. Buried underneath a crushing weight of death and coldness that wiped out everything else Kane was or had been. He was now the Hallow Preest, Leechmaster and Chirurgeon of the underworld and those of criminal intent. He hadn't been the brilliant apothecary of the Netherese in a long time, nor would he ever again. It was gone. Not that he cared. He had forgotten how, what internal muscles to flex to cause those feelings to resurface.

The hollow, impossibly black wells of eyes gazed over the crowd with minute movements of the head. The gathering was for naught, little mattered. This pursuit of a city was but a foolish endeavor by those who refused to admit that all ended one way or another. Spellplague or not, life did not give eternity. Kane smiled underneath his mask. Well, most of the time... Still, his companion always hated it when he spoke about the meaningless of activities and he was in the company of fools, so foolishness would be dictated as his response. They would want his name; he felt the stares. The impossibly deep voice intoned from the gaunt figure. Almost artificial in the quality but steadfast and unrelenting in pattern, Kane's voice echoed out to no one in particular. It caught some conversations in the middle, Kane cared little for social conventions.

"Hallow Preest the Leechmaster. You may have heard of my services as the Silent Chirgurgeon. I am one and the same."

There. That should satisfy.

A Dabble Of Thelonius

Strange as the dwarf may be, Larsson has learned to listen to him at moments like this. Something changes about the dwarf, the fog slips away and a searing intellect shines through. Still touched with madness, but somehow inexplicably true.

"By your lead," grates the knight "I am ready."

Lord_Asmodeus

Antigone gave a lascivious grin to Sark, as she pulled out some food from her pack, various vegetables and even some meat, to be added to the pot. "Do you perhaps have some experience with that, or do you speak more theoretically?"

As Fainklyn came over Antigone beamed at him "Ah, Hallow Preest, you are just in time to join us around the cookpot."

imafrog

Leander turns towards the fire and looks curiously at the satyr for a moment. He is no expert on the creatures of the feywild, but growing up among elves and eladrin he certainly heard many stories and legends of that magical place. Something seems off about the vivacious creature at the campfire, and as Sark makes his entrance with typical, tavern bravado it suddenly strikes him.....she's a she. He's not sure if that should be strange or not. Leander has never seen a satyr before, but he can't remember a single story that referenced a female specifically....regardless satyrs are known for trickery and deception and that alone is enough to make him wary. Leander's eyes narrow even further with the introduction of the masked man. Leechmaster...that is not a pleasant name....and a mask to boot. These two are trouble. Even the dwarf senses something off.......maybe he's just sensing himself though. Leander pulls the pipe from his mouth, taps it twice to knock out the spent tobac and tucks it in a pouch. He then excuses himself from the dwarf and half-elf and makes his way toward the elven guards. The red scarf around his neck blooms upward as he walks as if caught in a lazy updraft, but as he passes the campfire it shifts suddenly tugging slightly towards the gathering. Leander stops dead in his tracks glancing back at the worn garment. It floats innocently giving no indication of its previous movement and Leander stands silently for a few heartbeats eyes flickering between the fabric and the guards. Finally he turns, striding towards the campfire, the scarf dancing in his wake seeming almost excited by his decision.

Leper

"Demons, women or handlebars? Whatever the inquiry, madame, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," he retorts flatly, feigning insult for only a moment before offering her a wink.

The halfling gets a sigh of exasperation for his troubles. "I'm still fine from breakfast, thanks, and some of us were smart enough to pack enough rations to make it here and a bit extra," Sark pauses to kneel down and get eye-to-eye with Tirrip before he offers him a mischievous grin. I could tell him the dwarf has a ham hock in his pack, but I doubt he'd just ask to 'gnaw on his leg' and if one of these buggers gets a black eye they'll be wanting their money back. "...like Leander. He's got at least a pound of jerky is his bag. Cut some in pieces, throw it in the pot and you'll have decent enough stew meat in a few minutes--It'd go well with what the lady's got on offer."

The Leechmaster's appearance is enough to send his brow rocketing upward and his fingers fluttering over knives hidden under cloth, but the introduction and exchange of words is enough to settle his nerves for a moment. "It does sound familiar. I had expected the phrase 'terrifying, soulless, white mask' to be a bit more of a dramatic license on the part of the storyteller, but it makes for quite the entrance."

"Turnkey," Sark both greets his companion and welcomes him to the circle at once, "we were just talking about you." He pushes to his feet, and brushes the dust from his knee before offering introductions, "this is Leander Drakos, I'm Sark Bowrake, these diminutive gents are," Ungrateful little runts who can catch vermin to shove in my sleeping bag but not a squirrel for lunch. "The Ringleaf clan."

Saurfang

"The empty man. The stargazer. The groom. The soldier." Baran mumbles, his eyelids flickering. The corner of his mouth quirks upward into a sad smile. "The son."

The dwarf's brow furrows. "A...pickle? That's... huh." He shakes his head.

"Thank you, Larsson. I know I've been...mistaken, before, but I think, somehow, these people are how we get to the Citadel. Besides which," he whispers conspiratorially, "the one in the mask is a known criminal associate! I don't know what to make of all this, but there's the nasty smell of a Zhentarim plot about it. I don't like the idea of getting too close to those halflings," he shudders, "but we must learn more--onward, sir knight!" The fragile gleam comes back into Baran's eyes as he stomps toward the campfire, clutching his staff protectively in front of him.

Aegis

The halflings become excited at the various things being added to the pot, one of them going so far as to head back out into the woods to track down the pair hunting squirrels and calling off that avenue for meat. A few of them snort at the mention of rations, "Ain't nothing as good as a freshly cooked meal and there's plenty in these woods to pick and boil, cut up and dice. Might as well eat stale bread if you bring plain rations along." The guards on duty cast an odd glance at Leander as he gets lassoed by his scarf back towards the halfling gathering, but most of the attention of those nearby paid to the lovely scents starting to come out of the cookpot. "So are you off to this Citadel now, or are you touring the region a bit like we plan on doing? Heard there's an old hin village about these parts, a New Haven or something of the sort. Personally I'm hoping there's some relatives about to share recipes with, you never know where you might find a relative."

Saurfang

"Recipes, indeed," Baran mutters darkly.

A Dabble Of Thelonius

Larsson, follows the dwarf. Leaning in close for a moment to whisper "Don't trust the mask." before dropping back a bit.

As Baran arrives at the gathering around the fire the knight drifts to a stop, standing a small distance to his right, an equal distance between the the dwarf and the masked figure. His arms rest at his side, the fingers of his right hand occasionally brushing his sheathed sword. For the moment, he seems almost a changed man. The weight that had pressed down on him, if not gone, is lessened. He quirks his scarred mouth in what might have been a smile, but is turned to a ruined grimace. His gaze sharpens, flicking between the satyr and the mask.

"A long way from the Enclave, leech." mutters Larsson.

Lord_Asmodeus

Antigone offers a wink of her own back to Sark, "A wise policy." As Sark introduces his companions Antigone rises from her pack and extends her hand in greeting. "It is good to meet you Sark, Leander, Ringleafs. I am Antigone, and as you have heard my companion is one Hallow Preest. We're headed for the Citadel, I hear it's quite the place. I would poke my head around to see if I can't find any Satyrs around, but I don't know if they live 'round these parts, and they can be a shifty and reclusive lot." At this her mouth twists to a wry grin. She turns at the approach of Larsson and the Dwarf "And greetings to you to. From where do you hail then sir Knight, and goodly Dwarf?"

Saurfang

Baran gives the Preest a wary glance, heeding Larsson's warning. The knight's word was as good as gold, Baran had found, and if he thought the chirurgeon bore watching, then watch him the dwarf would. Well, to be honest, he'd probably watch the masked man anyway. It didn't hurt to observe and take careful notes, in Baran's experience. A Keeper of Nine must be ever vigilant, guarding against any threat to the seals, no matter how apparently remote.

The satyr woman, Antigone, was asking where he and Larsson were from. Baran opens his mouth to reply and is suddenly struck by a thought. Better not reveal too much until we know more about their intentions. "Damara. Ah, somewhere in there. Ahem. Interesting fact about Damara: a lich tried to conquer it when I was younger. Well, they say it was a lich, but I've reviewed the evidence and I'm fairly certain it was all a hoax perpetrated by the crown." Baran nonchalantly studies his fingernails to complete the illusion of nonchalance, although this means he has to awkwardly prop his staff under one arm and his notebooks under the other. Also, his fingernails are pretty clean already from previous attempts to look nonchalant. He keeps it up anyway, scouring his cuticles for fascinating imaginary dirt.

Talonrazor

Kane watches the crowd. The banter meant little. There was a time one where he understood, engaged in it. Upper-class citizens locked in a power struggle of words. Now this exercise was ludicrous in entirety. The halflings, dwarf and half-elves prattled on about things of little value. One of the half-elves said something that caused Kane's attention to focus. Enclave. Interesting. He had picked up on the Netherese fashion Kane adorned. Or perhaps just a lucky guess. The half-elf warranted Kane's closer attention and his head moved with seeming little effort to gaze at the man. He noted the knight's standards. Kane decided to address the man, not waiting for the correct moment in current conversation.

"A Hospitaler Knight. You must be aware of the masters of the trade of leechcraft. If you are not similarly skilled in the leeching art as well as the apothecary manner you must be of little value to your order.

The white leather mask stared at the knight. He sat down his chirurgeon's bag and tossed his crossbow of the thin shoulder. The crossbow was long and of intricate metal parts. Various gears and pulleys hooked together, controlled by small levers and toothed knobs. It was not just a weapon but a finely-tuned instrument, one that spoke of great skill of the wielder. Planting the crossbow's front into the ground, Kane folded his hands on the top of the weapon and continued to gaze at Larsson.

Leper

Yeah, that's a hint of trouble brewing.

"Now, boys," Sark began as he slid his sizeable frame between the masked man and the other two, "incivility puts the halflings off their feed, so if you plan to start a fight, I'm going to have to insist on two things: One, you're going to be moving well away from the cookpot, and two... I'm taking bets."

"I'll give two-to-one on the knight!" one of the clan pipes up unhelpfully, soon followed by a few of his more rascally brethren.
"The other one's so skinny. Give me three-to-one."
"He's scary. Got sump'in crazy in that bag, I betcha. Two-to-one."
"Side action on the bag?"
"Meb-"

"PIPE DOWN," bellows Sark at the growing cluster of halflings, his face inflamed with annoyance that only wee folk can inspire.

There's a pause as he clears his throat and cracks his neck, trying to shake off his ill mood as suddenly as it appeared--and failing. "Or you gentlemen can play nicely here. It's your call to make, but I suggest you make it quickly."

Aegis

"Afraid we're no help in finding your kin either lass. Though the elves might know something, you never know. And the Citadel is quite the place!"
"How would you know? We haven't gotten there yet."
"Well, that's what I'm told anyway. Why else are we going there?"
"For some peace and quiet, surely! Unless you want to end up a mutated freak like some of em coming out of the south."
"You never know, it could make us taller..." At this point all the halflings shush and then turn to look at Baran in contemplation of some profound truth. Then laughter erupts all around at some collective understanding and they go back to tending the stew, serving out bowls of it whenever it ends up finished.

While the festivities continue, to a certain bit of argument after being haughtily silenced by the half-orc at the mention of making bets, a few eventually pipe up over a hot broth with some more traveller's talk. "Though in all seriousness, I can't help but overhear from the locals coming through here that pilgrims have slowed to a trickle of what they once were. I'd ask a former pilgrim why that is, but none have yet returned. Which I suppose is somewhat normal given that people are trying to get there rather than return from it, but you'd think the Citadel would send out advance guards or scouts or just simple merchants who'd help you get there. Nope, instead we've got nothing but this old map to tell us where to go next."

A Dabble Of Thelonius

"Hallow Preest you name yourself. The Silent Chirgurgeon." Larsson sneers. "Oh yes, I know you hollow man. The Syndicate's trained leech. The robber, the sneakthief, the assassin. We talked of you on the walls, in the camps. Fighting our war with the Beast Lord of Dakanter. When would the Syndicate decide we had come too far? When was our hand stretched too far from the gates of Loudwater? When would it be worth it to send the leech?"

The knight's hand has grasped the hilt of his sword, gripping it ever tighter. A fire kindled in his eyes. The flash of teeth bared in a snarl as he barked out his denouncement.

"Was it...Chirgurgeon?" he sneers. "Was it ever far enough, too close to your master's precious territory? Were we ever that exposed, that much of a concern? Did you ever kill any of MY MEN!"

Saurfang

Baran grits his teeth as the halflings cackle at him, their sharp teeth flashing. They believed he was in their power, but if the creatures tried to attack him, they'd soon find that they'd bitten off more than they could chew. In their careless chatter, the diminutive killers let slip an interesting--and troubling--piece of information: the lack of contact with Aeranath. Baran feels a shiver of dread. The glimmers of prophecy that Moradin had granted him suggested that something was terribly wrong, and that the Citadel was somehow related to the coming cataclysm. The news that the halflings glibly shared seems to confirm Baran's worst suspicions. If there truly was no word from Aeranath, then he might already be too late...

No. Baran sets his jaw. I will not fail again.

imafrog

Leander remains silent for the most part handing over some jerky when prodded by the haflings. He keeps his eyes trained on the satyr and masked man, while his ears follow the peaks and valleys of conversation. A comment by the one of the small folk catches his attention. The half-pint makes a good point. A city the size of this citadel would have guards ranging outward and they would still maintain contact with the outside world if they are still accepting pilgrims. We all have the same faded map as well...Leander shakes his head....hph, I'm starting to think like the dwarf. It doesn't matter anyway, if I'm ever to find Sanya I must head for the citadel. Even lost in thought, Leander's eyes follow the movements of Sark and observe Larsson's mounting agitation. He's no conversationalist, but a fight here would cause all kinds of problems. "Antigone, I've heard satyrs are pretty good with a lyre....maybe a song?" Without waiting for a reply Leander moves over to the knight, putting a hand on his shoulder while leaning in to whisper harshly, "There is a time and a place for such things. Not here, not now."

Leper

Citadels and their lack of activity are the furthest thing from Sark's mind at the moment. He briefly considers adding to Leander's counsel, but decides instead to remain silent.

He had been spoiling for a fight for near a month, and the placid surroundings seemed to only make the problem worse. Now faced with the possibility of a good one, he found himself strangely opposed to the notion. Don't be so hard on yourself, Sarky-boy, you've still got it. You just don't want the little ones caught in the crossfire.

Because they'll want their money back, he mentally added, with haste and emphasis one can only manage in thought.

Still keeping his hands free and clear of his own arsenal, he did his best to shoot the pair a look that made it clear that he'd brook no trouble in camp.

Talonrazor

Kane gazed at the irritated knight. The white mask of the Preest regarded him coolly. "You speak as if some great evil exists. Your concept of good and evil is irrelevant in the face of such dangers to this world. It is foolish to care about such matters. All that matters is the marching of time and the ending of all things. If I hastened the end of some known personage, does it truly matter? The end finds us all one way or the other. Why does the time and place matter? All burn in the Spellplague. All burn in the blue flame. If you truly wish to be bothered in the insanity of the minutiae, that is your decision Hospitaler. I will simply watch the end and delay it for those who foolishly desire such with my meaningless skills.

His mind spoken, Kane moved closer to Antigone and laid down the crossbow next to his things. He would be annoyed if he still could but he simply felt the hollowness inside. He did not wish confrontation, such a maneuver would be pure folly. No, he would rather stand near the fire and have some food. Any other concerns over trivial matters was beyond him.