Eberron: The King's Men

[Leviathan]

Eberron: The King's Men

Part I: New Beginnings

24 Sypheros, 998YK

There is a frosty chill in the grey Lhazaar air today, with winter's cold slowly encroaching on the relative warmth of autumn. A dusting of early snow has settled over the squat timber roofs of Regalport, and a whipping sea wind blows this in gusts out over the narrow streets of the town. You've come for Granos Karl, following his promises of work for those bold enough to accept it. He's left messages for those seeking after him at the city gates and with the ruddy-faced man who works Regalport's only public airship dock. The would-be mercenary captain has taken rooms at Seadragon Lodge, an inn near the city's wharves.

Making the trek through the city streets and along wood-planked jetties, a distant rumble of thunder shakes the sky like a long rolling drum-beat. The cloudy grey sky overhead opens up in a shower of cold rain that pounds relentlessly off the city's buildings, streets, and everyone outside.

You reach Seadragon Lodge at last. Rainwater pours in a curtain down from the large building's sloped thatch-and-timber roof, and smoke curls up from a large central chimney. Thick support pillars carved with impressions of dangerous sea creatures hold up the roof, while large rain-splashed windows let out a warm, beckoning glow. Above the threshold hangs a wooden sign in the shape of a coiled green snake, the words "Seadragon Lodge" painted onto it. Slightly under this, connected to the sign above it by a pair of chains, hangs a woodcut painting of House Ghallanda's sigil.

The door opens with a creak and you step inside. The establishment is bustling with patrons seated around long, squat tables. Behind a counter, seated on a high stool and scribbling in a ledger, is a middle-aged halfling woman, her mousy hair pushed up under a bonnet, and a white apron covering her dress. Half the tables are full, and most of these are occupied by Lhazaar locals: a few rough men with swords, a group of merchants, a gnome and a dwarf smoking on pipes. Behind the inn's main room, a stairway leads up to the inn's second story. Ascending the steps if a halfling man in a simple white coat and black cravat, a carrying-case held under one arm.

This is the place to which Granos Karl has asked you to come, but as of yet, no one seems to be paying any attention to you.

Spoiler

Show

Alright, off you go! The order in which you post will be the order in which you arrive at the Seadragon Lodge. In your first post, please give a description of your character for those who haven't read over the sheets yet.

[NobodyMuch]

At last, Grim had arrived. He didn't enjoy the voyage, filled with petty annoyances. The last fiveday was the worst part of the trip here. The small merchant sloop he'd booked passage on was becalmed just off the shore of Speartip. Convinced that it was his fault (an impious complaint about the wind Grim'd coincidentally made just before) and leery of pirates, they'd tossed him overboard to try to regain its favor.

He'd had to walk the rest of the way. On the bottom. The seafloor was tedious without a light.

He was almost in a good mood being back on land. Almost. Pushing in through the door to the Lodge, leaving the cold weather outside. He doesn't feel the chill. Can't feel it, really, not in any way that would make sense to the people that fill the room, that cast looks at him.

What sort of warforged has just stepped into the Seadragon Lodge? Grim towers at near six and a half feet, bulky and broad. A careful eye could spot the field-patches on his left hand, his right temple. His forehead bears a mark, as do all of his brothers and sisters. His own is three dots, placed at the vertices of an equilateral triangle. The military uniform he wears is thread worn, having seen hard use for years and years. Its style suggests an origin in Breland, and on the left shoulder the insignia of a sergeant is displayed. A great two handed blade is strapped to his back; its pommel is plain, its style unremarkable.

Having come so far for a job, Grim isn't about to faff about and subtlety isn't a talent of his to begin with. He walks up to the woman who is otherwise occupied with a ledger, and 'clears' his throat, gravel grating on gravel. " Granos Karl? " He inquires, looking left, and right with eyes that glow a dim red, seeing if anyone is reacting to the name. " Anyone by that name registered here, ma'am? "

[AquilaRift]

Ashard Wright steps through the door of the Seadragon Lodge, rain dripping from the hem of his cloak and puddling on the floor. He pushes his hood back and shakes his head like a dog drying itself off. The face thus revealed is broad, freckled, and friendly, surrounded by wild red hair and beard. Beneath his cloak, he wears a linen shirt, breeches, and sturdy boots. A small wooden hammer and tongs hanging on a cord around his neck proclaims him a follower of Onatar, the smith of the Sovereign Host. The much larger hammer and shield slung across his back proclaim him a warrior.

He stands near the doorway for a brief moment, casting an appraising eye over the woodwork of the support columns and rubbing his callused hands together for warmth. Then he overhears the warforged speaking and approaches the counter.

"Hope you'll pardon me, but I'm looking for the very same man!" He shivers. "And a room for the night, if you please. It's powerful nasty weather out there."

[Karl Prosek]

~Thank Selavash for watertight boots and rainproof cloaks,~ Kirin thought to himself as he shook the few beads of rain off his cloak and onto the open floor just inside the door. He lifted his hood, as was only polite on entering a sanctioned Ghallanda establishment, and looked around curiously at the tavern.

The young, long haired man certainly looked out of place. He was younger than most of the locals by a decade, at least, and his fine clothes stood out like a sign that said 'Please Rob Me.' Ghallanda verified or not, this place was not the kind of place young noblemen liked to gather.

And he clearly was just that- a young nobleman. His cloak was no more than a month old, procured especially for this weather, and made of wool treated with some sort of alchemical concoction to make rain bead up and roll off, much like a duck's feathers. Not to mention that the dove grey outer side was lined with sky blue silk. Expensive stuff, and that was just his cloak.

His boots were worn in- he wasn't silly enough to go on a journey halfway across the continent in boots that chafed- but until recently they had seen the daily attention of someone whose job it was to keep the black leather shining. And the rest of his clothes were just as... not ostentatious, as they were designed with function in mind, but not the sort of thing a typical mercenary or even merchant would buy.

They were, in fact, from last fall's 'Extreme Explorer' inspired line from Kahlon, one of Sharn's most in-demand fashion designers. Though the colors had all been tweaked from the khaki, grey, and black to the House Lyrandar colors of sky blue, grey, and black. It was high fashion mimicking clothing designed with extreme function in mind, and as such it fell somewhere in the middle. A normal person could have bought those pants, shirt, belt, and vest for a few silvers. This young man's outfit had probably cost as much as a good horse.

Of course, the incongruity wasn't lost on Kirin. He just chose to ignore the looks he was getting and soldier on. He crossed the floor from the door to the counter, finding two others already there. "Hello, then. I'm here for the same man." As he spoke, he fiddled with the bone-white clips in his hair, taking them out, gathering up stray hairs, then replacing the clips to reveal the tips of his pointed ears.

[RocketMan]

A slender figure, hooded and cloaked, stands outside the Seadragon Lodge, seemingly unbothered by the driving rain. Lieris d'Phiarlan surveys the inn with unblinking violet eyes, his expression serene. The young elf had arrived in Port Royal earlier that same day. He had taken care to travel inconspicuously; the lightning-rail to Krona Peak and hence on to Tantamar by caravan. The sea air, salty and fresh with the scent of the coming storm, revived Lieris's spirit after his dark years in Sharn. And now, outside of the inn, faintly illuminated by the glow from the windows, he smiled softly to himself. Strange that such a simple place holds within such change.

Lieris steps forward, coming out of his reverie. He pulls it open, feeling the warmth of the heath greet him. He pulls down his hood to reveal a beautiful, elven face characterized by deep purple eyes under raven-black hair. He scans the crowd quickly before stepping toward the halfling, surely the Ghallanda innkeeper. In front of him stands a towering warforged, whom he glances at dispassionately as he waits his turn, as well as a pair of others. The young elf waits stilly behind them.

A ghost of a smile plays on Lieris's lips as he realizes the other three are here for the same man. "How strange," he comments, his voice soft and lilting. "I too am come in search of this Granos Karl. You also answered his call." It's not a question. The elf gives the other men a piercing look before turning politely to the halfling, waiting a response.

[Minerva]

Khaana Ashuun'zar holds her head high, even as the rain begins to fall. It runs in beads down her sharp hobgoblin features and across her fine metal armor. She would seem impervious to the downpour, except for how she turns her head skyward and lets out a low growl, as though she can scare away the storm.

Khaana pushes open the doors to the Seadragon Lodge. Standing on the threshold, she cuts a powerful figure, draped in a heavy fur cloak of obvious quality over her etched armor. Her goblinoid face is marked with ritual symbols, and her ears are pierced with what looks to be real gold. She seems uncomfortable, her eyes glancing about suspiciously, even as she peers over the room imperiously.

She steps inside, her ears pricking up and her head turning sharply at the discussion she overhears. "You are the others who are to be warriors for this Granos Karl?" she asks in a way that is more a statement than a question, her voice coming out with a heavy rolling goblinoid accent, though otherwise her Common is quite good. She takes a look at Kirin, her red eyes flickering with contempt as she scans his garments, then throws a similar look at Lieris. "And you must be here for Granos Karl because you wish of him money for taxes, or to paint his picture, or change his linens," she says harshly of both men at once; "for it is clear in but an instant that you are no warriors."

[Mathemagics]

The door opens once more, though someone of average height might not immediately notice the small gnome who slipped in through the gap. Her dark blue hair hangs limp and slightly tangled past her shoulders, heavy with salt and water, and her pale green robes are likewise drenched. She stands about in the doorway dripping, making no attempt to dry herself off yet, with an unusually cheerful expression for one who has just come in from such inclement weather.

A small thrush perched on her shoulder shakes itself a few times in attempt to dry itself. Oddly enough, she looks down at it and begins speaking to it.

"Hey! Hey! Mr. Featherbottom! Isn't it amazing?! The rain out east tastes like salt!"

The bird gives a small exasperated sigh, and in the tone used by parents and teachers when talking to small children replies.

"Mila, that was sea spray. It was salty because it was blown in off the ocean."

The gnome ponders this for a moment.

"Oh... But it was still great, wasn't it?!"

The thrush lowers its head in defeat.

"Let's just try see about finding this Granos Karl fellow, alright?"

"Who?"

Mila looks genuinely perplexed at the bird's suggestion. Then, after a good ten seconds of awkward silence (the awkwardness of which was completely lost on her, of course), realization dawns.

"Oh! Ooooooooooh! Yeah that's right! That was why we got on that airship, wasn't it? Uh, let's see... maybe over there then?"

Mila begins trotting across the floor of the common room towards the counter where a small crowd has already begun to develop. By the time she's reached it, her robe has managed to shift color to a bright burgundy. Walking up behind the others, she tugs at the fur cloak of the one nearest to her (completely oblivious that the owner of said cloak is of the hobgoblin persuasion).

"Hey, you know where we can find Granny Kall?"

"Granos Karl!"

"Yeah that, that guy."

[Winterfell]

"Six take your mother!" Markus Kraal bellows at the top of his lungs, making a very rude gesture with one arm as he stands up. He grunts as something hits his side - his own backpack. The man starts to stride forward, but the gangplank is already being raised. The sailors are laughing derisively. Grinding his teeth angrily, he storms away from the docks, hauling his pack with him as he trudges through the muddy street. The cold rain helps him clear his head. Maybe antagonizing the crew of the Daring Devil hadn't been the best strategy. Sailors should learn to brawl better if they don't want their arms broken.

He treks for nearly half an hour before he finds the right place. The Seadragon Lodge. The gladiator stops for only long enough to read the sign before he is pushing open the door. He wipes his wet hair out of his face, pushing it up and over his head. He looks around the inn. It seems comfortable enough, in a rural sort of way. I'll be damned if it has some of the 'amenities' of a good tavern in Khyber's Gate but at least this one won't have lice. He grimaces as he spots a gathering crowd of strange-looking folk - a huge warforged, a gnome girl, another man, two attractive men of the pointed-ear variety, and of all things a hobgoblin. The competition.

Markus steps out of the doorway and into the firelight. It throws his handsome, if scarred, face into shadows. He is tall and muscular, his chest bare, wearing thick hide armor with an enormous sword slung over his back. He joins the group. "Where's Granos Karl?" he says, his voice deep and hard-sounding. "You all want this work too?"

[DaedalusMkV]

Tam reaches his destination just in time to hear something of an uproar coming from inside. Hood up and oversized cloak drawn tight against him to try and keep the torrents of rain from soaking him to the bone, a mostly futile gesture by this point, he almost considers waiting outside for a few minutes until whatever's going on inside quiets down. It only takes a few seconds of the rain pounding on his head and the cold seeping through even his heavy clothing to disabuse him of that notion. Just his damned luck that the airship he hitched a ride on would get here in the middle of a torrential downpour like this. The way things are going, he'll probably run into some sort of piratical bar-brawl inside. Still, at least that'll be inside, which is endlessly preferable to outside, even in this quaint little city that would have fit wholely into some of Sharn's bigger towers.

Stepping inside slowly to take in the situation, Tam lifts his hood away from his face and begins unwrapping his cloak to hang it up on the rack near the door, revealing what looks quite convincingly like a clean-shaven young Human man with light grey eyes, blonde hair and soft features, wearing a simple if bright green shirt and trousers of a lighter green. As much as Tam prefers not to wear a guise when he doesn't need to, from the rumours he heard on the ship there aren't a lot of Changelings in this neck of the woods, and the last thing he wants is to get lynched as a monster or something like that. Hence the human face, one he's fairly used to and can keep up without thinking too hard about it. Taking in the rioutous mix of humanoids currently badgering the inkeeper about the same precise man he's here to see, Tam suppresses a snicker and finishes hanging the wettest of his clothes up to dry, the rest clinging to him in such a way that an alert observer might even notice the leather armour clinging tightly to his torso underneath. Oh well.

Without bothering to join his own voice to the clamour, Tam simply sidles in to the edge of the accumulation of hard-bitten warriors and what look disturbingly like spellcasters. And... Wait, is that a Hobgoblin? Damn, maybe he could have gotten away with his natural skin-tone here after all. Oh well. He can introduce himself properly once the prospective employer shows up. Save time. Besides, this whole thing's starting to look like a fight waiting to happen, and in that case he can just wander on out of the way and pretend he was coming up to order a beer or something.

[Karl Prosek]

She takes a look at Kirin, her red eyes flickering with contempt as she scans his garments, then throws a similar look at Lieris. "And you must be here for Granos Karl because you wish of him money for taxes, or to paint his picture, or change his linens," she says harshly of both men at once; "for it is clear in but an instant that you are no warriors."

Kirin chuckles. "Changing linens is their job," he gestures at the various halflings bustling around the common room, "and any picture I'd paint for the man wouldn't be worth the canvas it was painted on."

"But if you can helm an airship or navigate with a sextant, though, I guess I'll just go and let you warriors take care of things." If the young half-elven man is at all offended, it doesn't show in his body language or still-friendly expression. "If not, I'll make sure to let you stand in between me and any crossbows while I do my job."

[Gwynfrid]

The flight hadn't been long enough for Mech, for all the questions that needed asking, for all the incredible sights there were to discover, all the new experiences to be had. The first view of the ocean, from above. The first sunset, over the sea, no less. The clouds, up close, and sometimes, from the inside. The effects of the wind on the airship's balance. The storm!

The only thing that had made the mood a little less happy was the annoyed responses from the ship's crew, tired of the incessant queries. At first they had been flattered by the interest, happy to satisfy the warforged's thirst for knowledge, but by the end of the trip, they had made it clear they wanted to be rid of the nagging questioner. Mech also realized, too late, that some of the questions had been rather moronic. Hopefully, in this new land it was about to discover, folks were going to be more easy-going. Still, Mech began to think, possibly, a slower rate of inquiry would be warranted, especially with the impatient humans.

Upon arrival in Lhazaar, Mech doesn't head straight to the Seadragon Lodge. It wanders the streets for a while, taking in the town's atmosphere and the look of its most interesting buildings. The weather doesn't bother the warforged, who in fact finds the feel of droplets running through mechanical joints oddly enjoyable. Finally, it finds itself in front of the Lodge building. A new life waiting behind. Fascinating. Why am I hesitating, then?

Mech eventually pushes the door open. The tavern patrons see a slightly larger than average, finely crafted mechanical version of a human, albeit one with very few facial features other than squarish eyes, a triangle-shaped mouth, and tiny round holes for ears. It is made of a darkwood structure, with a mix of steel, mithral, and copper parts for the finer pieces. The construction boasts two special features: One is a third, smaller arm protruding on its left shoulder, which doesn't seem to be really functional; the other is an overly complex set of reservoirs and pipes, mounted on its chest. The whole body has a very fine finish and looks like it was an expensive construction, but it is unfortunately marred by a number of stains and burn marks and looks like it has been through an explosion, or perhaps more than one.

The construct steps in, looks left and right, listens, notices the throng of people apparently looking for the same man, and walks toward them.

"Interesting. Did all of you read the notice, back in Sharn, then?" Its voice is very metallic, with a slight musical slant that's not unpleasant to the ear.

[Leviathan]

The halfling innkeeper looks up from her ledgers as Grim, first to arrive, asks after Granos Karl. "Oh my, by the Five Kingdoms, we don't see many of you around here," she says, though it seems more a remark driven by surprise than any special distaste. She opens her mouth again, about to answer the warforged's query, when Ashard arrives at her countertop. She smiles at him. "It is that," she replies, looking out at the storm. "We can fix you up a bed if you'll be staying then night. Now about this Gr--" She stops as Kirin approaches. "Good evening, good sir," the halfling says, her head bobbing deferentially. She proceeds to open her mouth again to speak, but no sooner has she done so than it is the quiet elf, Lieris, who interrupts. Then Khaana. Then an exuberant gnome. Then Markus. The innkeep's face is taking on a pinched quality, annoying flitting across her face. Another warforged enters and asks his question. Then, seeing her chance, she jumps to her feet to draw attention to herself. She clears her throat, then looks toward the door, as if expecting another unusual patron to enter and cut her off. When none is forthcoming, she clears her throat again. "Granos Karl is upstairs," she says quickly. "Now see, he came here, but one night he came back with some blood on his arm. He wouldn't get it looked at, but now it's infected and he's come down with something besides. There's a healer with him, arrived before you did." She frowns. "You can go up and see him if you'd like. His room's at the end of the hall."

[Minerva]

A long, slow hiss escapes Khaana. "If he dies, I will curse his soul to the blackness," she growls. She gives a brief look at the innkeeper. "I will speak with him. He has promised much, and I wish to know if he will pay what is his debt." She casts a daggerlike glare down at the annoying creature babbling at her feet and tugging at her cloak. But then her look softens somewhat, though with hard hobgoblin features, it's hard to tell. "I am Khaana Ashuun'zar of the Rukhaan Taash," she intones formally. "If you may be my fellows, I will hear your names with respect."

[NobodyMuch]

With the continual arrivals interrupting the innkeeper each time she's about to answer his question, Grim's tension slowly ratchets up. When the young warforged asks it's question, he snaps out," Nah. Traveling musicians. Hobby the Goblin and her Seven Merry Men." The sarcasm hangs there, and the explanation of the current state of Messer Karl has been relayed by the beleagured innkeeper.

He gestures towards the staircase, a sweep of the arm that includes all of them, a stabbing finger pointing where he'd seen the medic ascending just as he'd arrived. " Name's Grim. Now, single file. Hop it. Let's not keep the man waiting." And he starts moving, a wall of metal and wood falling forward with each step.

[AquilaRift]

Ashard has been looking around him with a baffled expression as the crowd of prospective co-workers grows. When the innkeeper speaks, he directs a reassuring smile at her. "I ain't a Jorasco guildsman, but I got some skill at healing. I'll do what I can do." He turns to answer Khaana's question. "Brother Ashard Wright at your service, ma'am. And at all of yours."

[RocketMan]

Lieris turns toward Khaana as she insults him. The elf's expression is unreadable, his face an impassive mask. He stares right back at the cleric for a moment, unblinking. "No," he says simply. "I am no such thing. Perhaps in time you will come to a deeper understanding of things. Appearances often conceal the truth, not reveal it." He stops again, standing quietly as he listens to Khaana's name, and then the names of the others.

"Khaana Ashuun'zar. Grim. Brother Wright," he repeats slowly in his lilting voice, giving a slight incline of his head with each name. "I am called Lieris d'Phiarlan, though my name carries no weight here or anywhere now."

"Yes," Lieris intones, responding to Grim. The elf quickly makes for the stairs, following the warforged with rather more grace.

[Karl Prosek]

The halfling innkeeper .... stops as Kirin approaches. "Good evening, good sir," the halfling says, her head bobbing deferentially. She proceeds to open her mouth again to speak, but no sooner has she done so than it is the quiet elf, Lieris, who interrupts. Then Khaana. Then an exuberant gnome. Then Markus. The innkeep's face is taking on a pinched quality, annoying flitting across her face.

Kirin nods back to the woman with significantly less deference in the motion, as if her sudden change in attitude were entirely expected. He opens his mouth to say something, then a small smile grows on his lips as the rest of the visitors pile on. Instead of annoyance, the Lyrandar seems amused by all the interruptions.

He gestures towards the staircase, a sweep of the arm that includes all of them, a stabbing finger pointing where he'd seen the medic ascending just as he'd arrived. " Name's Grim. Now, single file. Hop it. Let's not keep the man waiting." And he starts moving, a wall of metal and wood falling forward with each step.

The young half-elven man doesn't immediately move to follow Grim's order. Instead, he produces a silver sovereign from his belt pouch and sets it on the counter in front of the halfling woman. "Thank you for your directions, Miss...?"

Once she provides her name, he reciprocates. "Kirin d'Lyrandar. We may or may not need rooms for the night." Kirin gestures at the group retiring up the steps and smiles warmly at her. "If you could see to preparing them, I would appreciate it. Of course, if we don't end up using them, I'll see that you are compensated for the trouble."

That small task taken care of, and friendly contact made with the apparent manager of the establishment- never underestimate how much an inn's manager can make your night, even without doing anything overt- Kirin turns and follows the others up the stairs.

[AquilaRift]

"How much for a room, ma'am?" When the innkeeper tells him, Ashard lays down some of his own money beside the Lyrandar's. "Much obliged. I'll go see to Karl. When that's done, I'll see if I can do justice to some of that Hostelers cooking." He grins and follows the crowd upstairs.

[Winterfell]

"He's sick? Or dying?" Markus asks the innkeeper with a scowl. He crosses his arms over his chest. There goes my work if the man dies. He looks around at the assembled crowd. "I'm Markus Kraal," he says with a hint of a smirk. "Pleased to meet you all."

The gladiator listens to Grim speak. "Who died and made you king?" he glowers at being barked orders to. "Now if you had asked nicely..." the warrior says, laughing a slightly menacing laugh. "Damn it, Grim here is right, we might as well all turn around and head back to Sharn or wherever the bloody hell you're from unless Karl is alive." He sets off across the room, his boots clomping on the wood floor muddily, ignoring the looks he gets from the patrons, and bounds up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

[Mathemagics]

"Oh? We're making introductions?"

Mila turns around excitedly as one person after another introduces themselves.

"Hiya everyone! Milavana Tolten! But you can just use Mila, since it takes too long to say otherwise!"

Her hand darts out and grabs hold of the small thrush on her shoulder before it can react and fly off. Holding the bird in front of her like a proud child, she continues.

"And this is Mr. Featherbottom! He's my bestest friend!"

"For the love of whatever gods you people worship, help! Save me from this madwoman!"

The familiar thrashes about wildly, trying to escape its master's clutches.

"Isn't he awesome?! He can talk and everything!"

"She's insane I tell you! She named me Mr. Featherbottom! What more proof of a deranged mind do you need?!"

"And he's always making jokes, they're so funny!"

Eventually she lets go of the thrush, who then flutters off toward the rafters to sulk. When Grim orders the group up the stairs, Mila falls in line with the others, but walking in what she probably imagines is a military march, though it looks more like a child's imitation of such.

Also her outfit somehow managed to change to light blue in the meantime when nobody was looking.

[Leviathan]

The halfling innkeep smiles politely at Kirin. "It's Mrs. Calversam, if it please you, m'lord. I'll have my girl set some fires in the rooms." She looks to Ashard next. "It's five silver sovereigns for the night, and that'll include your supper if you want it, Brother." Her face grows darker at Markus' question. "Oh, I hope he doesn't die here," she says with a superstitious murmur. "I don't want to bring a curse down on the inn, you see. But he hasn't died yet," she goes on, optimistically, "so I'm hopeful he'll make it, with the Host's favour."

With their business complete, the strange assortment of people troop up the stairs, led by Grim, under whom the stairwell creaks and groans. At the top is a long hall, lit by merry candles, with bronze-numbered doors lining it on either side. A brown haired human girl in a maid's smock and apron enters one, but it's not your destination.

Entering Granos Karl's room, you're hit with a scent sweat and blood. The room is lit by a flickering hearth against one wall. Opposite it is a long, wide bed, and here, propped up against the headboard, is a man of perhaps fifty years, wearing a loose white shirt, stained with blood around one of his right arm near the shoulder. He has a grey beard that looks a day or two out from its last trim, and shoulder length steely hair. His nose looks like it's been broken before, and he surveys you all with a grimace. At his side is a prim looking halfling in a neat white coat and cravat, with black hair neatly combed back and tied in a ponytail. He looks up as you enter, a look of mild annoyance on his face beneath round spectacles.

The bedridden man groans. "Nnn, Granos Karl," he says in introduction, gritting his teeth slightly. "And you must have seen my posters." He grimaces, half from pain, half from displeasure. "Wish you'd come at a better time; this isn't the proper way to greet you." He takes a long look over each of you. "So you want to earn some coin then, hmm? I've got some work; impatient client with some 'important business'. That's how I got this." He gestures to his bloodied arm. "Tried to handle it on my own. Ahh! Damn it," he says, wincing again. "Damn fool thing to do. Now I'm here with a fever and a useless sword arm."

Granos pauses. "If you don't mind risking the same, I could surely use some folk who can get out of their damn beds. And who aren't too squeamish about a little bit of looting. This client wants us to bring back artifacts from an old barrow a few hours out of Regalport."

[Gwynfrid]

Grim's sarcasm is completely lost on Mech, whose face would register bemusement if such a thing was possible from a featureless piece of steel, as it watches the larger warforged stomp across the room and up the stairs.

"I don't think it looks like a musician... And you, Madam, if I am not mistaken, you are no goblin," it remarks, its square wrought copper eyes turned towards Khaana.

"Ah. Yes. It's customary to recognize each other through the use of a name. I understand. Er... I didn't think much about acquiring one yet, I must admit. I have been known as Mech, before. Now that I think of it, I never liked that moniker very much. I don't mind if you call me anything you wish, for the time being." It reflects for a moment, as if trying to assess possible implications. "I hope it's not inconvenient."

It then turns to the innkeeper. "I'll gladly give you five sovereigns for the privilege of visiting your premises, Mrs. Calversam", it tells her. "I shall not require supper, however, but I thank you for offering it." It waits for a possible answer. I hope that was polite enough. I didn't read anything on the proper way to address a host.

It then follows the rest of the group up the stairs.

[AquilaRift]

"Brother Wright, at your service," Ashard says again. "Since you're getting straight to business, so will I."

"Squeamish is one thing, but I ain't going to rob a grave without some whys and wherefores. I'd like to know who our client is, and what it is he wants from that barrow." He peers closer. "That arm don't look too good. Was it a sword cut?"

[Winterfell]

"So you're Karl," Markus says, sounding unimpressed. He narrows his eyes as he looks closely at the older man. "I'll take your coin quick enough, old man, but first there are some questions you need to answer. Who's the client, where's the barrow, and what's in it? It can't be that dangerous, whatever it is," the barbarian says with a smirk. "Or else you'd be dead. Or armless. Oh, and the most important question: how much are we getting paid?" The hulking human crosses his arms again.

[Leviathan]

Granos nods at Ashard. "A fair policy, though if you came all this way, you can't afford to be very choosy." He winces again, glancing down at his bloodied shirt. "Almost right about my arm, Brother. A trap at the entrance gave it a good slice."

He looks towards Markus, meeting the barbarian's eyes for a long moment. "Or it could be very dangerous, and I'm not dead because you're underestimating me," he replies simply. "We'll see how you fare. As to your questions, you might be disappointed with the answers. The client wishes to remain anonymous to my associates until you've proven yourselves useful. What I can say is that he's very wealthy and very keen on history. I've worked with him before, a long time ago."

"As for the barrow itself, it's old. From what I've been told, it dates to the first days of Galifar, and belonged to one of the northern lords, some relation of Galifar himself. What's in it? Well you'd never go wrong to expect undead, it being a tomb. And I know there's at least one trap: spiked door at the entrance. As for what you're after, it's ambiguous. The client is offering two hundred golden crowns for each intact artifact you can recover, and four hundred for any bearing any heraldry, mark, or sigil on them. My advice is: search the barrow top to bottom, then cart out everything you can find."

[NobodyMuch]

" I'm in. There a map, or something?"

Grim looks over at the man who calls himself a Brother, and says, " The dead don't need trinkets, Ashard. One thing they needed, they didn't get. That's good money. And medics aren't cheap." The red eyes are back on Granos, the warforged shakes his head with a touch of rue to it. " Try not to get into another fight with a door while we're gone, yeah?"

[Minerva]

Khaana sniffs the air, as if hunting for a scent on the wind. "This man wants things of the past, to know himself perhaps. As for the dead, I will not sully myself to steal from corpses that lie at their rest. To take from the dead is the work of the Keeper. There will be other things of value, not adorning corpses, and these may be taken." She sniffs again. "And if these corpses rise against us, then they have given up their claim to peace. Then we take what we will, as if they were any foe."

[AquilaRift]

"Aye, that's true enough. If it's that old, then like as not their kinfolk who might care are all gone too." Ashard laughs, a little ruefully. "I can handle a fair few of the dead if they come walking. As for traps, my god didn't give me the cunning to pass them by, but he gave me the strength to break them." He interlaces his fingers and cracks his knuckles. "I'm in. Like you said, I ain't got a lot of choice. Want me to have a look at that wound?"

[Mathemagics]

"So it's basically hunting for treasure?!"

Mila's eyes sparkle with what could only be described as unadulterated joy.

"In a real tomb?! With coffins?! And chests?! And cobwebs?! And dust?! And skeletons?! And zombies?! And traps to keep out intrepid adventurers like ourselves?! This'll be awesome! Isn't that great Mr. Featherbottom?!"

While her first questions were either directed to Granos, or perhaps the room in general, her last question is aimed at the currently empty spot on her shoulder. She seems to have completely forgotten her familiar is hanging out in the rafters of the common room. She simply stares at the vacant perch for a moment.

"Huh...? Where'd you go Mr. Featherbottom-oh yeah... that's right. He's downstairs isn't he... Oh well, I can tell him about it later!"

[RocketMan]

Lieris gazes intensely off out the window as Granos Karl speaks. He watches the rain run down the glass pane, each droplet sparkling for an instant as it is illuminated by the flickering candlelight. "A wealthy employer who wishes to remain nameless and traceless." the young elf summarizes. "And we shall be collecting relics for them..." he trails off, looking pensive, his words laden with unvoiced suspicions.

"I will accompany whomever else will go. We would be wise to proceed with caution," Lieris continues a moment later, perhaps having resolved his thoughts in the meantime. "Granos Karl, we will have need of a map, or directions, to this tomb."