Character Meet-n-Greet

[Gelatinous Q]

Ratikhill, 576 CY
The seventh and final day of Brewfest

Background
Typically, a raucous, highly anticipated event, this year’s Feast of Wenta has been strangely subdued in the frontier town of Ratikhill. True, living in the shadow of the Kalman Pass — once an essential trade route with the south, now little more than a thoroughfare for the marauding hordes of Bone March — has inured the town’s citizens to a certain native pensiveness, an expectation that the other boot may drop at any moment. But even by normal standards, the mood here is sour.

The preceding summer has seen a rash of ill omens throughout the countryside — failed crops, weird borealae, portentous births. In Optwall, blight has ravaged much of the village’s grain crops and stores. And in the coastal village of Fadric, a dead tide comprised of thousands of desiccated crabs rolled ashore with Celene’s new moon in Goodmonth. Nor, if reports are to be believed, are the portents confined to Ratik. Pestilence is rumored to have swept the Pale and the capital city of Wintershiven is under quarantine. Also: whispers of a peasant revolt in the making in the northern counties of North Province, where famine and disease have taken root in the last several months. And once again, the humanoid armies to the south are mobilizing. Just two weeks ago, the Baron’s men turned back a large detachment of orcs and hobgoblins in the Kalman Pass, taking grievous losses in the process. How quickly the jubilant mood that followed last year’s Fruuzti-aided victories in Bone March has dissipated!

Today’s weather matches the gloomy spirit of the times, dawning clear and bright until a low pressure system blew in from the southeast in mid-morning. Now lodged firmly against the Rakers, the downpour hasn’t abated for six solid hours. The foul weather is what’s driven you into The Marble Harpy, a tavern a mere stone’s throw from Ratikhill’s Marner Gate, earlier than usual. A week in town and you’ve yet to find work, all prospective employers seeking a more seasoned crew. Your finances dwindle by the day. Autumn begins tomorrow and with it the certainty of a long, lean winter to follow.

Setting
Most travelers in Ratikhill will recognize The Marble Harpy on sight — understandable, as a life-sized, finely detailed marble harpy sits perched above the tavern’s entrance, a crudely stenciled signboard clutched in its claws. Inside, patrons find the sort of place where the haunches of ham draped from the rafters taste more of pipe smoke than the smokehouse. Nonetheless, it is spotless and amicable, and the proprietor, one Hagedorn Grisbie and his wife, Ysolde, are renowned for their hospitality and honest, nourishing fare.

[onlyme]

Good Woman,
I am much humbled and in thanks of your kindness today. Your generousity shown to this poor wanderer has not gone un-noted. If the rain would let, I will be moving on with the rooster's crow.

Iomhar Mac Lyr says to the lady behind the bar. He had arrived not long before, and was helped to the best stew he had all day. As he sits finishing his food and his first and only cup of ale, he watches to see what kind of patrons this place attracts.




(I edited this to add a quick narrative...no change to the context)

[emirikol57]

A Gnome wearing a gray cloak and sporting a waxed handlebar mustache enters and orders an ale. He gracefully moves towards a suitable chair for his height and sits. After drinking the ale he takes out a pipe, fills it with tobacco, and then smokes.

[Argennian]

A cloaked and hooded form becomes visible at the door of The Marble Harpy, standing if for the briefest of moments to look into the well-lit room from under his hood and the cold darkness of the wet shadows.

Stepping out of the rain and into the warm, dry tavern is an individual who stands average height and moves with a calm, fluid manner. He wears an oiled woodland cloak with obviously a backpack and gear of some sort hidden from the rain underneath. He looks up and out from under his hood at first the proprietor and then his wife, giving them both a nod, a polite bow and a whisper of "Some hot tea, a cup of wine, and tonights regular meal, master and mistress Grisbie".

The person then nods to any patrons he must pass by on his way to a table in the corner and away from the bar. After another brief moment standing and looking about the room, the man removes his cloak, revealing a sylvan-looking elf with shoulder-length black hair and soft yet appraising green eyes. He finds a place to hang his cloak close by and proceeds to remove his pack, a quiver full of arrows and a bow he had hanging from his shoulder. He takes a seat and adjusts what appears to be a hand axe in his belt and a longsword and scabbard at his side.

When his wine and meal are served, the elf will consume them quickly yet quietly. After another few moments of apparent digestion and reflection, the elf pours himself some tea and removes a silver pipe from his pack, lighting it with a quick strike of flint and steel. He takes a long, slow puff, nodding to the gnome who's also enjoying his evening smoke and the human at the bar conversing with Ysolde Grisbie.

[Nuke66]

As Gordon enters the inn, he removes the hood of his cloak and attempts to remain typical, though his ears belie his mixed parentage. He comfortably moves towards the back of the room, preferably keeping the door in front of him, as he selects a seat. He sets his heavy pack aside and removes a bow and quiver from his shoulder as he sits down.

He waits patiently for service before ordering Ham and Bread and an Ale, or two. He gravitates towards to Elf as he casually makes eye contact and waits for a while before he say "Good day friend"

[Alethan]

And one more time, the door of the Marble Harpy swings open and a man, rather short of stature, stumbles into the room, the door loudly closing behind him.

Hagedorn looks up from polishing a bar glass and casts a glance at Bran with hopeful eyes.

Bran slowly shakes his head, water falling from his nose and beard in a spattering of droplets. Hagedorn frowns and he tisks to himself quietly as he continues polishing the glass.

Bran sits down at an accommodating (i.e. smaller) table near the bar, looks over and Hagedorn and holds up one finger. Hagedorn nods and queries, "No luck today, Bran?" He pulls a draught of beer and sets it on the table in front of Bran.

"Nyah. I checked around Dwûrgate again today, in case I ran into anyone I'd not yet spoken to, but the story was still the same - they remember seeing Brin in town for a few days, but nobody knows where he went to after that."

He takes a long pull off the beer and schleps back into his chair. "Not lookin' too good, Hage. I'm beginning to think I won't find him."

Hagedorn frowns and replies, "Why don't you give it another try tomorrow, Bran. I'm sure your luck will change by then!"

Bran smiles at this familiar observation, having heard it every night for the last two weeks.

"We'll see," grumbles Bran, "Right now I'm sorely tempted to just find the nearest ruins and start cleaving some goblin skulls in twain. For now, though, I'll take some of Ysolde's potato soup, if there's any left."

[Gelatinous Q]

Marble Harpy Bill o’ Fare

bowl of lamb stew ………......................................... 7 cp
ham, bread and cheese platter ………...................... 6 cp
blood sausage & mash …........................................ 4 sp
mutton chop, dumplings & root vegetable ragoût .. 1 gp
ale, stout or scrumpy, pt ........................................ 2 sp
Candatheway Abbey ale .......................................... 4 sp
Tassin’s Wood mead, pt .......................................... 4 sp
apple brandy, gill ……….........................................12 sp
room, double ……………..................... 1 gp, 10 sp/night
suite ………………………................................. 4 gp/night

[Gelatinous Q]

“I wish’t I had better news for ye, Master Bran,” Hagedorn says. “Or any at all. If he was like the most of ‘em what comes to Ratikhill to seek their fortunes, your brother likely latched on with an expedition into the Kalman Pass. And if that’s the truth of this sorrowful business, then I’m truly sorry for ye.

“There is one other person ye might speak to,” he adds with some hesitation. Ysolde, seeming to know what’s to come, shoots her husband a steely, admonishing stare as she attends to her elvish guests. “Now, mother,” he replies, “let the dwarf hear me out and make up his own mind.

“A Fruztii name of Brøbnisingür runs a tavern near the Kalman Gate, and it’s where the seasoned sellsword goes to find employ in the Pass. If your brother got mixed up with that lot, I wager Brøb will know it.”

“If your brother got mixed up with that lot,” Ysolde chimes in, “Heironeous help him.”

“That’s enough, now, Ysolde,” says Hagedorn. “Brøb’s not such a bad sort; a little coarse, p’raps, but what do ye expect from a damned barbarian! Keep your wits about ye and your weapons sheathed and ye’ll be fine.” He leans in close to deliver his next line in a loud whisper. “Just watch out for his damned ape.”

Then Hagedorn straightens himself and calls the room to attention by banging a pewter tankard sharply against the bar.

“Enough of this sordid talk,” he proclaims. “Gentlemen, the times may be trying. Indeed, Velnius seems to have even seen fit to curse the festival of his sister, Wenta, with the worst spate of weather these old bones can recall. But saints be praised I won’t let that spoil what should be a joyous event. I have left in my cellar one cask of ale brewed at the Candatheway Abbey. Five minutes hence, I shall tap it and we’ll stay here til every last dram is drank, and dwarf is drunk!” With a snap of his fingers, two servers scurry for the cellar.

[onlyme]

MacLyr finishes off another gulp of ale he most probably can't pay for. He is appreciative of the hospitality, and doesnt want to push his luck if they ask for coinage. He nonchalantly turns toward the dwarf, one he presumes to be upset over some lost brother.

Little Man, I have been known to find the unfindable. I am in town looking for a lost, uhh, friend myself. Tell me about this Brin of yours, and I might be able to assist.

He eyes the elves and gives what would be described as just a notch above a half-assed nod and "Hello, good fellows", in case they may be of some use later. He has learned not to burn bridges before he crosses them, and there is no reason to appear churlish as these two's first impression.

He sees no one else worth investing energy in, including that gnome in the corner. MacLyr has always felt out of his element in interior villages, and he has never had much luck befriending gnomes. Yet, he wants to find the man he was asked to deal with; a lowlife trader named Tiepic Albadgui thought to be hiding out in Ratikhill. So, figuring it for the best, gives a similar nod and Good even'g

While he doesnt expect them to share much information on a random first meeting, he is hopeful they may spark a new lead, especially if Ysolde's information is as stale as he fears.

[Argennian]

...He waits patiently for service before ordering Ham and Bread and an Ale, or two. He gravitates towards to Elf as he casually makes eye contact and waits for a while before he say "Good day friend"

Savik noticed the half elf's mixed lineage at first glance. He makes eye contact and bows his head slightly, in a manner meant to show respect and responds in common. "Well met, half-cousin. Albeit a bit wet, but yes, the day has not been bad, per say. At least not as bad as that of some of our fellow guests," he replies, indicating the dwarf. He will offer a drag of his pipe and some tea to the half-elf.

Savik then looks toward Grisbie and the dwarf named Bran, assimilating what's just been said between them about the dwarf's obviously unsuccessful attempts to locate his lost or missing family member. Savik puffs his pipe and contemplates a possible opportunity to offer his services and perhaps make a friend in this foresaken place.

After the young human from the bar says his piece to the stout dwarven warrior, and offers a evening salutation in the elf and half-elf's direction, Savik nods respectfully and responds to him in common. "A good eve to you as well, young master."

It appears that the good ale will be flowing this evening and there should be the chance to make some introductions and such between himself and the other patrons present. After his long and lonely travels, it would be good to have someone to talk to again.

[Alethan]

MacLyr finishes off another gulp of ale he most probably can't pay for. He is appreciative of the hospitality, and doesnt want to push his luck if they ask for coinage. He nonchalantly turns toward the dwarf, one he presumes to be upset over some lost brother.

Little Man, I have been known to find the unfindable. I am in town looking for a lost, uhh, friend myself. Tell me about this Brin of yours, and I might be able to assist.

Bran frowns and squints an eye at the human and harrumphs, "Little Man?" Then he pauses an exaggerated second before continuing, "That, my friend, would be my brother, Brin. I'm the bigger man, Bran." He smiles. "And yes, he is missing. Or, at least, I'm trying to find him."

He sighs. "But tonight I am weary. I think, instead, I'll put my efforts towards draining Hagedorn's fine ale! I'll worry about finding my brother in the morning..." With that, he waits for the first round of Candatheway Ale and offers a toast, "To those who are lost... and waiting to be found!"

[onlyme]

Bran frowns and squints an eye at the human and harrumphs, "Little Man?" Then he pauses an exaggerated second before continuing, "That, my friend, would be my brother, Brin. I'm the bigger man, Bran." He smiles. "And yes, he is missing. Or, at least, I'm trying to find him."

He sighs. "But tonight I am weary. I think, instead, I'll put my efforts towards draining Hagedorn's fine ale! I'll worry about finding my brother in the morning..." With that, he waits for the first round of Candatheway Ale and offers a toast, "To those who are lost... and waiting to be found!"

Mac Lyr can see he might have offended the dwarf, so attempts an apology, "No offense meant my friend. The rain cannot end soon enough as he is blundering any chance of gaining their confidence, not to mention a chance at the finders fee he had envisioned.

He knows he has to reply with something a bit more noble for the toast. But how. Afterall, he is both searching and being searched for. He notices the taller elf is equally as uncomfortable with the words. Maybe he is a fugitive. Something Mac Lyr will need to investigate. He raises his newly filled cup and declares, "May we find all those we want and not those that we don't...

[Gelatinous Q]

Ysolde slides a trencher of sausages and potatoes in front of the elf. “Here ye be then, master elf. One that’s traveled as far as I wager ye have — and in such weather — could do with some strong provender.” She then proceeds to set a fresh, leathern tankard in front of each guest, collecting the empties.

Three soldiers enter the tavern, shaking and stamping the wet from their chain mail. Their blazons aren’t of the Ratikan infantry — rather, a gold band encircling an eye borne upon the backs of two falcons. Talking amongst themselves, they take a table in a far booth.

Hagedorn sizes them up as he wipes the bar in front of his gnomish guest. He mutters something only the gnome can hear, then greets his new guests: “Hail, gentleman — I trust your trip was a wet one! No matter. Just a moment and ye'll be warming yourself with the finest ale in the Barony or elsewhere.”

At that moment, the two servants emerge from the cellar, rolling an enormous oaken cask branded with the name CANDATHEWAY. Puffing and grunting all the way, they mount it on a prop behind the bar. Hagedorn nods to Ysolde; she in turn moves to shutter the windows and bar the door.

In a solemn voice, Hagedorn addresses the room. “Friends and worthies, let us give thanks to Wenta for the bounties gathered in Harvester, that they may sustain us throughout Telchur’s winter. In gratitude to the Harvest Daughter and eternal Alewife, we drink deep.

“Let it be known that this is my gift to ye. Keep your silver nobles pocketed this evening, gentlemen!” With a ceremonial flourish he drives a tap into the barrel. “All glory be to Wenta!” A rousing cheer fills the room.

[OOC: There are 16 patrons total in the Marble Harpy: Our 5 pcs, the 3 soldiers and 8 assorted others. It is assumed that our 6th pc is an as-yet-unidentified member of this latter group.]

[emirikol57]

After getting a tankard of the new Candatheway ale, Ulfronde makes his way towards Brin. Ulfronde takes a seat next to him and then speaks in dwarvish;
Greetings. Mighty fine ale this Candatheway stuff. I overheard that you are searching for your brother. I am currently...........not doing anything and would be willing to help you in the morning. Us 'little men' need to stick together! For now though let's help drain this fine tasting keg o'ale!

[onlyme]

Mac Lyr waits a few minutes for the hair on his body to fall back into place. Foreign soldiers have always made him a bit anxious. He waits for Hagedorn to be alone and far from them. He finishes his second and final cup of ale for the third time already, and asks Hagedorn aloud, " Parnod me, good mister. (hiccup)May I speak to you about a room for this enving.".

He walks gingerly over to Hagedorn and gambles that he correctly interpretted the tavern owner's reaction to the soldiers. He whispers, "You seem to know where these men hail from. As I mentioned earlier, I am looking for a man who is travelling from Roland. Any luck they may come from the same direction?
He raises his volume to a more normal level, and asks about room availability for the night with a couple more slurred words for effect.

He does an awkward review of the other patrons , and stumbles to the hearth for a minute or two before returning to his seat. He is hoping they find him a cheerful drunk, one they can let their guard down and joke with.

[Argennian]

Savik's feeling that it's okay for him to relax among the other patrons is dashed by the appearance of the three soldiers. He does not immediately recognize the heraldry on their tunics but judging by the reaction of Innkeep Grisbie, he decides to stay at his table and remain alert, at least until much more of the Candatheway Ale is consumed.

[Alethan]

After getting a tankard of the new Candatheway ale, Ulfronde makes his way towards Brin. Ulfronde takes a seat next to him and then speaks in dwarvish;
Greetings. Mighty fine ale this Candatheway stuff. I overheard that you are searching for your brother. I am currently...........not doing anything and would be willing to help you in the morning. Us 'little men' need to stick together! For now though let's help drain this fine tasting keg o'ale!

Bran smiles at the newcomer and says, "Well met, 'little man'! Name's Bran. S'yours?" Wary of the presence of the city guard, Bran tips his tankard back like he's taking a large gulp but only allows a little of the fine ale to splash into his mouth. "That's a fine 'stache you have there! Not quite a full beard, but it's a good start!"

[Opabinia]

Having inspected the Harpy, and finding it not altogether as filthy as one might fear, given the name, Glognius "Glogs" Epithlet steps to the bar and rests his pewter cup there, carefully turning it so the small handle points to 9 o'clock. He is a young man of medium build, encased in chain and otherwise overly-equipped, from the toes of his hard, high leather boots to the tip of his ten foot wooden pole. He locks eyes on Hagedorn. "An ale, please, barkeep. I brought my own cup." He gestures at the cup. "Hold it by the base, please. Try not to overfill it."

[Gelatinous Q]

“Nay, friend,” Hagedorn replies to Iomhar in a low tone. “Those men serve the wizardess Alcastra, and what their business here might be on a night such as this I cannot say. As to your associate from Roland, I’m afeared ye may have a wait on your hands. From Fadric all the way up to Ulthek, the Baron’s blockaded Aerdi ships from Ratikan ports. There’s plague down there! We’ll feel the pinch hereabouts soon enough, but I’d rather the pinch than the pest . . .

“Ye may claim a berth in a room what sleeps two for 15 silver — double that should ye want it all to yourself. Ye’ll surely understand that only my ale is free tonight — not my lodgin’s.”

Ysolde has sidled up next to Iomhar at the bar, and nods at her husband. “The key to the suite, Hage,” she says, sliding 4 gold imperials toward him. “The wizardess’s men wish to retire.” Once she delivers the key to their table, the trio of soldiers adjourns upstairs, their tankards of ale all but untouched.

Having inspected the Harpy, and finding it not altogether as filthy as one might fear, given the name, Glognius "Glogs" Epithlet steps to the bar and rests his pewter cup there, carefully turning it so the small handle points to 9 o'clock. He is a young man of medium build, encased in chain and otherwise overly-equipped, from the toes of his hard, high leather boots to the tip of his ten foot wooden pole. He locks eyes on Hagedorn. "An ale, please, barkeep. I brought my own cup." He gestures at the cup. "Hold it by the base, please. Try not to overfill it."

Hagedorn attends to his newest customer. "Aye, sir, most certainly, sir!" he says in an obsequious tone as he follows Glogs' orders to the letter. "Now here is a gentleman what knows what he wants! Anything else ye might require of me? Shall I arrange your sausages upon the platter liken it's a compass rose?"

[onlyme]

“Nay, friend,” Hagedorn replies to Iomhar in a low tone. “Those men serve the wizardess Alcastra, and what their business here might be on a night such as this I cannot say. As to your associate from Roland, I’m afeared ye may have a wait on your hands. From Fadric all the way up to Ulthek, the Baron’s blockaded Aerdi ships from Ratikan ports. There’s plague down there! We’ll feel the pinch hereabouts soon enough, but I’d rather the pinch than the pest . . .

“Ye may claim a berth in a room what sleeps two for 15 silver — double that should ye want it all to yourself. Ye’ll surely understand that only my ale is free tonight — not my lodgin’s.”

Iomhar is suddenly concerned that the price of a room has risen 50% in the hour or so he started drinking, to a price point now above what jingles in his hidden cloak pocket. He is further taken aback by the news that what meagre funds he has will not see an increase due to some stupid plague. He looks for an accepting female patron who may need a "protector" for the evening. Seeing none, (And assuming the the fellow human at the bar only looks like his aunt Hilda), he resorts to something that has become a normal activity for him while chasing down targets without collecting a draw. He replies to Hagedorn in an embarrassing whisper My good man, I seem to be without my normal funds this evening. I know you have been most, most generous to all. Is there something I can barter for a bed? Perhaps you need some scribing? If not, may I inquire of a resting place in town more suited for my funds? Then in a bit more normal voice, And given your news of the blockade, I appear to be available for some employment for the time being. Would you know of anybody in town in search of dependable labor?

He laughs at the thought of his Aunt Hilda down the bar, and finishes off (yet again) his final cup of ale. This time, he fears, Ysolde wont be replacing it with more.