{IC} From the Dark

[Crinias]

Maria looms over Phinneas. "Either a hostel or an inn is fine to sleep. Either option is perfectly respectable for our purposes. But more importantly, I see no real reason to stay here. If this map is one of the reasons Sevruul sent us here, that's fine and well, but we haven't found anything else. If it's hiding more secrets, then it can surely reveal them elsewhere."

Spoiler: OOC

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Sorry I haven't posted lately, but I couldn't find a moment where I thought Maria wouldn't stay quiet.

I think at this point we all want to move on, though.

[OMG PONIES]

"Agree to disagree, I suppose," Phinneas says with a scowl that suggests he's not agreeing on much of anything. "Absolutely deplorable conditions, drunken adolescents, and bedbugs the size of your fist. Sleep in the hostel if you're clutching coppers, but I'm going to the Inn."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix shrugs, looking between the two. "You should talk to Merrix. He would rant about having to sleep at all, and he only needed to sleep two hours each night, which I have learned is unusual. But I don't see why we can't go to the inn. I can take us there, the map of the area was simple enough to memorize."

With that she strides out the door, crossbow in hand.

Spoiler

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Take us away, captain.

[Saskia]

Spoiler: Fix

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"Hmm," the map coos thoughtfully. "Do I? Or do I possess just a close enough semblance of intelligence to fool lookers-on?" Regardless of prodding, the map fails to offer anything it might prefer as a name.

The Tabard lies at a crossroads, in the center of a village called Cottonwood some four hours from the farmhouse, and another four from Fairhaven. Walking there is miserable business, with biting cold and howling wind, and only gets worse when snow starts to fall. After what feels like eternity (at least, for those who can conceive of their time on the frigid road as a measurable and irretrievable fraction of what time they have left to live) the group arrives at the large, two-story building, projecting from the windows not only welcoming golden light on the fresh snowfall but the restful quiet of the lone pair of occupants not sleeping who can be seen playing cards near a window.

The heavy oak door swings open slowly against the wind, seeming to have been made for business more rugged than guarding a tavern entrance, and quickly the group is in.

"Hail and welcome, friends," says a tall and lithe young man at the table with a warm and relaxed demeanor. He gives off an aura not unlike that of an insufferably early riser. When he looks up his compatriot, a plump but still pretty young woman, looks the group over and leaps to get chairs to place around the large and surprisingly barren hearth. It doesn't seem anyone's paying for meager accommodations tonight. "Harry, dear, get their coats, I'll go fetch some cider and gammon." With her off, the man stands and directs the party toward the hearth. "My wife has the right of it. I apologize. I had assumed you were from the village when the door opened." As he speaks he places two more logs on the fire. "What are you folks doing out at this hour? Did something happen to your caravan?"

Spoiler

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From exposure,
Simon has 2 nonlethal damage,
Fix has 6 (if warforged take damage from exposure; I haven't found anything that says),
Maria is feelin' fine, like a champ,
Phinneas has 4, and
Thianin is at 2 nonlethal.

By RAW, you would still recover nonlethal damage at a rate of character level per hour even while in the environment that caused the damage in the first place. That seems silly to me, but I'm also woefully ignorant when it comes to any biology more advanced than butchering game animals, so for all I know that could be totally legit and just unlikely rather than physiologically impossible so we'll just roll with it.

Everyone is exhausted except Maria who took 1, then recovered. Because science, or something.

Hazard specs by hour. Severe cold warrants saves every ten minutes except for characters dressed for the cold, and everyone knew what they were getting into so I'm assuming even if it's not on your sheet your character would have thought to bundle up.

Hour	1	2	3	4
Fort DC	15	16	17	18
Damage	4	1	3	6

And saves, also by hour.

Simon	23	19	9	21
Fix	18	26	24	8
Maria	20	14	26	27
Phinneas	9	16	8	21
Thianin	17	16	8	20

[Diful Takveh]

Simon smiles, taking off his cloak, shaking it to get as much snow off as he could by the door before handing it to Harry to do with as he pleases, trusting the innkeeper to properly hang it when he had the chance. Simon hadn't thought of anything to say regarding this evening's happenings. How to put this delicately? Would it be better to lie completely or tell as much truth as possible? Simon doesn't know what to say, so he decides to avoid the question, "No, just the four of us. We were on our way to Fairhaven, and we thought we would arrive sooner if we rested on the road between villages. That's when it started snowing, and we got here as fast as we could."

[OMG PONIES]

Phinneas ignores the questions of the couple running the place, clearly used to being dismissive toward those in the service industry. "A stick of cinnamon in mine, if you will," he mutters before using the last of his strength to clamber into a chair near the hearth. He reaches down for his satchel to retrieve a book, but gives up when his short gnomish arms refuse to reach to the ground without bending down.

[King Tius]

Thianin is content to let Simon do the talking for the group. He was mostly just grateful that these people had a warm fire and no ill-will towards him. He stands as close to the fire as possible without setting his clothes alight. He mutters under his breath as he stands there stoically trying not to shiver. <"I would let a thousand halflings dance on my balls if I could be back in the desert right now.">

When the woman brings him some cider, Thianin takes it with a nod and muted smile. The cold seems to have dulled his warrior's edge a bit, though perhaps he just has a friendlier side for people who are clearly not a threat. For the first time in hours, he switches back to the common tongue to address the group. "I am not used to the winters of your land. Up until I reached Aundair I spent most of my nights sleeping outside. I must confess that I am nearly copperless, save one, and cannot afford to pay to stay here. Still, there is more than one way to pay a debt. In exchange for paying for my accommodations for the foreseeable future, I offer my services. If you have anyone you need protected or killed outside the bounds of our current engagement, we can enter into an arrangement."

[Saskia]

Coats hung, Harry follows suit and takes a seat. The melodic knocking of wooden cups and bowls assures that the Missus is true to her word, effortlessly balancing four cups and a pitcher, as well as four bowls of rice, each with a sizable bit of meat. She hadn't missed Phinneas' request for cinnamon, either, though judging by the smell cinnamon was already steeping in the hot brew. "Don't you worry, now, we wouldn't be very good Vassals if we were going to throw you out into the cold just because you're short on money. Here, now, mulled cider with gammon and rice; a perfect winter meal, like my great-grandmother used to make. When she was young and pretty, in the early days of the war, they still quartered soldiers in peoples' homes, you know, and the men quartered with my grandparents always loved her. Because of her cooking, my grandfather said. Quite a few of the village men, too, but especially the soldiers. I guess most people aren't used to good Cyran cooking, and boy was she good. Funnily enough, Grandfather hated all those men—every last one. Must have wanted all the lovely food she'd cook all for himself." She pauses, almost mercifully, to giggle vapidly at herself, but continues, having directed her attention mostly toward Maria. "The cardamom for the cider is just so expensive, but I think it's worth the price. It's so versatile, and good for the throat, too, you know; those Jorasco tuberculosis retreats make tea from the seeds, and my mother's third husband would make a wonderful julekake before he was killed in the war, Dol keep him. He was such a nice man. My mother was never very lucky; three times a widow..."

As his wife chatters on, Harry stares intently at Simon, a sharp-eyed gaze conveying concern, as well as perhaps suspicion, and by context suggesting in terms not so vague that a wide gulf exists between the two hosts' faculties. "Just the five of you? While Mad Cass is still a ghost in the wind?" He looks the group over with a shake of his head. You folks just don't scare, or what?"

[RaggedAngel]

Fix has remained by the door, taking her stock of the room. She is clearly a bit uncomfortable, and the more astute members of the party may realize that she is entirely unfamiliar with inns and the etiquette that surrounds them. She looks between the members of the party for a moment before nodding to the young couple. "Good evening, my name is Fix. Thank you for your hospitality. I have some money, but I believe that my services are worth significantly more in terms of value. I can repair any minor damaged objects you may have, even something like a broken pane of glass that cannot be repaired by mundane means. If you have no repair needs I could also emulate the casting of a first-order spell, though I prefer fixing things. I was named after that inclination, actually."

[Crinias]

Though chilly from the journey, Maria is in very good state, better even than Fix. If one didn't know better, it'd be easy to think that she was just taking a short stroll around town. Much like Thianin, she lets Simon do the talking for her. Taking her coat off, she gratefully accepts the cider offered to the group, letting its warmth spread through her hands.

As the woman talks on, Maria tries to keep up, nodding in agreement on some points, joining in whenever she feels the need. She wonders about the woman's grandmother as she does so - it must have been rough on her to house so many people. Deeper inside, a cynical part of her wonders if the grandfather's husband had other reasons to be jealous beyond sharing his wife's cooking... But the thought passes quickly. The woman's company is pleasant and calming.

Her attentions are drawn to Harry, however, when he asks the group a direct question. "What's that, some old story? What is there to be scared of?" she asks, as if to tempt fate.

Spoiler: OOC

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I'm going to assume Maria's Knowledge check isn't enough to know who 'Mad Cass' is; if that's not the case, let's just say her memory needs some jogging to remember.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon walks over to the fire, loosening the collar of his shirt and sleeves. While he doesn't bend down to bask in its warmth, it is welcome after the hours spent walking through the cold and snow. "We do scare, just for things that are frightening, and even then I can only speak for myself. It's just that most bandits tend to focus on the present rather than the future, so they would be unlikely to show their heads on nights like these when they are more likely to contract hypothermia than get a good haul, and cultists generally aren't much different, at least those lower on the totem pole. As for our day travel, what we lack in numbers, we make up for in maneuverability." Even though he just wants to curl up in front of the fire and rest, remaining standing should help exude more of a confident air which would make their story more believable. He does, however, put his bag on the ground to make standing a little easier. When food is served, he respectfully takes the food and sits down, preferably in one of the chairs near the fire with a side table and leisurely but respectfully eat his fill, but if none is to be had, he would rather sit farther from the fire in a proper chair than on the floor, in which case, he would finish his food as quickly as respectfully possible to return to a standing position by the fire.

[Saskia]

The young woman motions for Fix to sit. "Come, now, dear, we aren't those sorts of village folk; at least not me and Harry. I just thought your people couldn't eat; I'll go get you some, too, if you like." By the time she's finished speaking she's already up and on her way back to retrieve more food.

Harry offers a small nod in agreement, and motions to the empty chair, suddenly looking very tired, like an old man confronting bitter memories, at the prompting of Maria's question. "An old story? Well, yes and no. Mad Cass heads a Fury cult of displaced Cyrans and shellshocked veterans who got the shaft after their discharge. It always happens after a war; a spike in poverty, unemployment, and crime while everyone tries to readjust. That much is rehashed from every other war, but now you throw in lifetimes of conflict leading up to the armistice. The aristocracy have been throwing us at each other over who gets to sit in Daddy's special chair for over a century now; you've got to go to the Holds to find somebody who knows what actual 'civilian life' is supposed to look like, and Mad Cass takes the most damaged and maladjusted to mold them into murder machines. So they rape and burglarize, they beat people to death in the street... Hell, last night they hung some poor girl's flayed corpse from the fountain in front of the cathedral. Not the old haunted one, either; the Sovereigns' Palace they're building in Barvette's Square, over in the clean part of town." He leans forward in his chair and looks at Maria. "If that does't scare you, this has been going on for a year, and all the Queen's wizards and spies still can't find her." Harry leans back again, and his chair creaks quietly. The Missus returns with a cup for Fix, though judging by how quickly she found something else to do, that she's not pleased with the direction the conversation went doesn't seem to be a stretch. As she's walking away Harry manages to pull his eyes off her and look between the group again. "So is Cass some terrible khybervittel just toying with her prey, or are the Royal Eyes really that woefully incompetent? Take your pick, but I think the worst part is knowing that Phiarlan or Thuranni agents could disappear the problem in a week, if Aurala wasn't too busy trying to prove something."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix accepts the cup cheerfully, and she takes a tentative sip. Some of the liquid dribbles out of the side of her mouth, and she dabs it away quickly, embarrassed. She inspects the cup again, drinking again carefully; this time she does so without spilling a drop. "Warm," she comments before turning her attention back to Harry and the others.

"I have a question that will probably seem foolish," she says carefully. "When someone acts in the way that this Cass has been acting, is it considered incorrect to disable or dismantle them? I know that part of the reason she is considered evil is the fact that she kills, but it seems like the easiest way to definitively stop her would be that same action."

Spoiler

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Warforged can drink and eat, they just don't need to. Don't ask where it goes.

[Crinias]

Maria walks over to Harry and sits in the empty chair. She listens in silence to what he has to say. She's surprised to hear of the things Cassandra has done. But more than surprise, she feels suspicion. It is as Harry says: surely the Queen's forces could handle Cassandra quickly on their own. But instead... Maria flashes back to Sevruul and his knowing smile. Why did he make them do this? He surely had the capacity to do it himself, or the money to actually hire more skilled people. So why...?

She mulls it over as she drinks her cup, frowning as she does so. Under these circumstances, it practically wouldn't be surprising if there was corruption or in-fighting preventing the Queen or the Houses from directly stopping Cassandra. And if that was the case, then Sevruul hiring them, a group of nobodies, might indicate that he doesn't want any of that coming back to him.

She continues to think over it, until a nagging thought makes its way into the front of her mind. I wonder how difficult it is to flay a corpse.

Shaken out of these thoughts at Fix's question, she turns towards her, and licks her lips while considering her words. "People like Cassandra are a danger to society as a whole, so we label those actions as criminal. It is the job of officials to restrain criminals, and deal out punishment to them corresponding to the harshness of their crimes." She doesn't add: Criminals like myself.

She takes another drink. "The problem isn't that Cassandra kills people. After all, soldiers and guards fight and kill people as part of their job, and we don't recriminate them. The same goes for people who kill in self-defense. They do so for a justified reason, after all. But Cassandra doesn't, so she must be stopped. I don't think 'dismantling' her would be the right way to go at it, though. Simply killing her or imprisoning her would be enough."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix listens with rapt attention, eager for information. "I suppose 'dismantle' is a bit of an insensitive term. If I recall, organic creatures place importance on bodies even after death. But to return to the point of killing, I think I need to clarify some things. Let us postulate that I come across this Cassandra in a neutral setting, and she is not actively doing incorrect actions. Is it still correct to attempt to detain or kill her, knowing what she has previously done? And, in another situation, if I am attacked and respond with lethal force is that a crime? I do not want to commit crimes."

[OMG PONIES]

"It's a bit more...nuanced than that," Phinneas says from his seat by the fire. "Plenty of precedents fall both ways on both issues, leaving it without a clear answer. I'm afraid that justice isn't an equation that's easily balanced, Fix. Responding defensively with lethal action would be justified in most municipalities in Khorvaire, but the question of the neutral encounter is one dependent upon the ruling body of the locality and what they have deemed lawful apprehension. It's quite beautifully illustrated in the case of Pellenfrantz v. The Citadel Elite..." the old gnome continues speaking, regardless of whether he has answered the warforged's question or whether anyone is still listening.

[RaggedAngel]

Fix simulates a coughing sound to cut off Phinneas, a habit she must have picked up from one of her Cannith tutors. "Apologies, but I believe I have gathered sufficient information on the subject for now. I will contemplate this tonight when you are all recharging."

"Which reminds me, Maria, Harry; I can do something productive for you during the night. I am a trained armor and weaponsmith, and I can also make simple blacksmith goods like horseshoes and nails. Also, as I mentioned before, I can repair broken things that might be irreparable by mundane means. Is there any way I can be of service?" You get the sense that she's very eager to be helpful.

[Crinias]

Maria tenses up for a moment, but then relaxes. Slowly, a small smile appears on her face. "It's ok, there's no need to do anything. I can't speak for Harry, but at the moment we don't really need anything. If you insist, I guess you could sharpen my sword while we rest and get our energies back."

[King Tius]

Thianin mostly sits and nurses his mug of warmth in silence, content to listen to the others talk. However, he can't help but scoff loudly when Harry mentions the elven dragonmarked houses. The Valenar shakes his head with a wry smile as he takes a big gulp from his cup. "What the dragonmarked could do in a week, the Valenar could do in a day. Those tattoos turned the Phiarlan into dwarves."

[RaggedAngel]

Fix nods, placated, and she unattaches a thick leather bundle from the back of her belt. Sitting down she unrolls the bundle, which turns out to be a dizzying array of mundane tools. Hammers, chisels, and other less recognizable implements are all fastened and tucked into the leather case with gnomish efficiency. She takes out a few tools and begins to fiddle with her own knee, quietly scratching and adjusting some unseen piece. "I suppose we should settle down for the night, then. We will have much to do come morning."

Spoiler

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Fix then turns, looks at the DM, and winks.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon listens, creating something of a profile from her cult's actions. Most importantly, her method of operation: was it a standard cult structure where most of the group met at a singular location (which might change every time)? Probably not. If there were large gatherings of psychologically damaged individuals, someone would have noticed. Besides, groups whose goals are solely chaos and destruction tend to be prone to infighting, and such a group would generally not survive a year. Which left two main possibilities: either Cass had some ability to control her followers, possibly some agenda, or the cult itself wasn't centralized.

As he starts to think about how to find Cassandra, he hears fix say something about dismantling them, and he starts to think of the possible ways to dismantle people. There were always the various systems of the body: skeletal, muscular, cardiovascular, gastrointestinal, etc. Well, technically, dismantling the skeletal system would require the same to be done to the muscular. Then again, dismantling was not generally the most efficient method of immediately stopping someone, unless you count the slicing of blood vessels and crushing of organs dismantling...

And his mind was wandering. He tries to focus on the conversation, but by the time he does so, Fix had just suggested they got to sleep. It was probably for the best. He sighs, hoping he didn't miss anything pertaining to their current mission. If he had, he would likely find out in the morning.

[Saskia]

If that's the case, you might put in a word with them. Plenty of rich folks willing to put up for professionals. If the Harry nods for Fix to follow him, and doesn't seem overly concerned with her unfamiliarity with accepted moral norms. "If you're that handy, then you can absolutely help. I'm not sure if you need sleep or not, so don't feel obligated, but I've got a few broken chairs I keep trying to get Groran to fix, he's just been busy with the new cathedral and all. The Tabard takes good care of us, but I'm not sure I could pay you the going rate for magical repairs, so I'm not sure if you should even bother yourself with the work." The mentioned chairs, of which there are about a half-dozen, are robust in construction but look like they've seen war. They're unusable as chairs, obviously, and broken in strange and wondrous ways, but nothing a decent carpenter couldn't repair with a lathe and a day or two of dedicated work.

Harry calls for his wife to bring bedding so the stone hearth, warm as it is, might not be so hard and unwelcoming. The night passes uneventfully; apparently few enough are willing to brave the frigid cold. The wind howls ever more violently as the night progresses, rattling the windows as if enraged all the more by the heavy door's refusal of its will, but with the coming of dawn the weather calms considerably. With still no other patrons in sight, Harry mentions offhandedly that a minor lord and his company had been in the previous night, and left before the group awoke. Though she may not have even noticed, from the way he speaks Harry seems to have been displeased with their rudeness toward Fix; it's not easy to tell however whether it's because he broadly accepts the personhood of warforged, or because he objects to poor treatment of his customers.

With a bid of farewell, the group sets out over the freshly-powdered road. The building across from the Tabard carries the sign of a dry goods store, and a general goods store beside it, along with an apothecary-alchemist, carpenter, and a blacksmith, whose hammering can be heard up the street. Judging by the looks, the village seems quite prosperous and populous for its size. Despite the cold, a gnome in a red coat sits on a barrel on the street corner with her hurdy gurdy playing a vibrant, exotic tune, seeming to stave off the cold with the warmth of her music, and thanking passers-by who toss coppers into her instrument's case in an almost comedically emphasized Zil accent. Overall, one doesn't get the sense that the village has much in the way of fear regarding a murderous psychopath and her followers, but at the same time, this is Aundair, and business won't conduct itself.

Spoiler: OOC

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If anyone needs to buy anything, it's available as long as it's mundane and not more than 650 gp, and they've probably got the money to buy anything you guys might want to sell. Anything else, it's a crap shoot. Gathering information, chatting people up generally, or whatever is cool too. If y'all prefer not to bother, we can go ahead and move on, too.

I'm also not sure how Fix intends to repair the chairs, if she intends to. A straight craft check using only the conventional approach would require a DC 13 carpentry check, and three hours per chair without a lathe, and there are 5. He'll pay 6 gp per chair.

[Diful Takveh]

Simon smiles when Harry calls for bedding to be brought in front of the fire. Though he did his best not to show it on the surface, he was chilled to the bone. Not to mention, a warm environment was probably best for his toad's comfort and well being. Exhausted from the day's travels, he falls asleep quickly. Upon waking but before getting up, he scans the corners of the ceiling for spider webs, chastising himself for having been carried away by thoughts on the mysterious note and later events of the night that he hadn't collected any of the insects that likely lived in the burned out barn and abandoned house. If he sees any, he collects enough for his toad to eat, but if not, he doesn't make a fuss about it; he'd replace it with some of his breakfast or possibly some rations.

As he eats his breakfast, Simon contemplates the fight from the night before. It had certainly gone in their favor, but Simon couldn't help but think that he was rather useless. Even considering the fact that he hadn't been prepared for combat, he knew his utility in those aspects was sub-par. Of course he could hit things with his walking stick, but it just felt too clumsy to be of any use. Not to mention, if it broke, that meant he was down a walking stick. What he needed was a knife, not one of his surgical knives that, while sharper than blades made for combat, weren't built to fight. He was certain that, with his extensive knowledge of human anatomy, a small blade would be deadlier in his hands than in any warrior's. I mean, how hard could it be to hit some idiot with a knife? With that thought, he heads over to the village blacksmith to find the perfect knife.

Spoiler: Prepared Spells and Such

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Checks for finding spider webs:
Search: (1d20+4)[18]
Spot: (1d20)[15]
Prepared Spells:
0: Touch of Fatigue (School Spec), Message, Detect Magic, Read Magic. Remaining slots: 0
1: Mage Armor, Chill Touch (School Spec), Scholar's Touch, Inflict LW (Dragonmark). Remaining slots: 0

[RaggedAngel]

Night, at the Inn

Fix looks upon the chairs with concern, the way a human might look on a litter of bedraggled and hungry kittens. She looks to Harry, then back to the chairs, trying not to let her emotions show. Easier done than said, since her face isn't half as expressive as a human's. "I've heard what most spellcasters charge for their magic, and I can tell you plainly that it is a sham. Spells and infusions are a limited resource, to be sure, but it will cost me little to do this for you; why, then, should I expect a great reward? I will accept whatever you would pay a mundane craftsman and no more."

She then sets to her work, inspecting each of the old chairs as if it were of consequence, giving them all careful attention. She mutters quietly to herself as she does, nudging fittings and frowning at signs of abuse. Her perusal over, she lays her hand on the first chair. Fix closes her eyes, feeling for a moment the place inside her where she draws her magic. It is a literal place, not a figurative one; a matrix in the center of her chest near where a human heart would be. Veins of energy flow from the matrix, supplying her with vitality. The power of her infusions was different from that life-energy, but it came from the same ultimate source: the ambient magic of Eberron, which usually went unharnessed. She felt the power flow from her heart to her arm, then her hand, and finally into the simple wooden chair. The infusion was one of order and patterns, the first once she had learned and her favorite to use. True to her name, the crushed supports under the chair snap back into place, restoring it to perfect health.

The second chair she infuses is fixed imperfectly; it had been a long day, and she is unable to properly restore the rusted bolts and fittings. It would be easier to repair in the future, however, and she left it be. The third chair drinks her last infusion greedily, but she manages to return it to working order. After that she spends some time working with her hands on the fourth chair, and it is time well spent; it takes an hour or two, but she manages to return it to working order as well.

She spends another couple hours on the final chair, but it is simply too damaged for to to repair without the proper tools. She turns instead to the six potions the group had recovered from the old house. She measures their acidity, viscosity, and texture carefully, recalling all the various magical liquids she has worked with in the past. Fix currently lacks the magical power to brew potions, and the lack of personal experience limits her ability to identify them. She is able to discern the identify of the blue potions with some confidence, but the red and white ones remain a mystery.

Finally, she settles down with the spellbooks for a good night of reading. The markings beneath her eyes glow a soft, clear blue as she reads, and she makes slow but steady progress through both books, identifying a decent number of the spells contained within. She make a few mental notes, and when she has done all she can she takes out one of the mundane books, the one on necromancy. Fix has kept the fire at a reasonable size all night, and she reads quietly by its warming light as her companions sleep away the stresses of the day.

Spoiler: OOC (and a lot of it)

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Gosh, I completely forgot about the scrollmaking reagents we found, and the potions we found. It was due to player error, but I'm happy to let the accident become a character thing. Fix is cold and tired and wants to help a nice human more than spend the night painstakingly crafting a magic item. It's her art, and she loves it, but no sentient being can work constantly without a little relaxation.

Actions:
She'll use her three infusions right as/before everyone goes to sleep, to avoid penalties the next day. As per the rolls in the OOC, she'll repair three chairs 8, 3, and 6 damage. She then makes a successful Craft check to repair another one, and indeed succeeds by a full 11 points. Go Fix. She doesn't have much luck with the last chair, but she has potions to look at.

There are six potions; four blue, one red, one white. It's a DC 25 to identify a potion, with no retry allowed. Whichever potions she can't identify she'll give to the other Spellcraft-y people in the party to look at tomorrow.
Blue 1: (1d20+12)[25]
Blue 2: (1d20+12)[24]
Blue 3: (1d20+12)[26]
Blue 4: (1d20+12)[29]
Red: (1d20+12)[18]
White: (1d20+12)[13]

She is also going to make an attempt at deciphering both spellbooks. Since I don't know how many spells each book contains, I'll request you roll her checks. Her modifier is a +12, or +14 if this counts as scrollwork. The DC is 20 + spell level, and it takes a full round action. This can be retried any number of times, but only once per day.

I'm a sleepy angel. I'll do the daytime bit in another post.

[King Tius]

Thianin beds down as close to the hearth as possible. It isn't the dry heat of the desert sun, but it's certainly welcome. As Fix studies her books she might notice Thianin occasionally muttering in his sleep. As always, he dreams of things remembered yet not entirely understood. Like so many dreams he'd had before, he's riding across the Talenta plains, chasing down a band of halflings on their swiftfoot dinosaurs. When his quarry turns to defend themselves, they twist horribly and grow into great, grotesque creatures with crablike claws and alien faces. It is half memory, half nightmare as a favored memory quickly turns into a strange assault on his mind. The dreams have been getting steadily worse since he'd left his homeland, though he still has no way to make any sense of them.

In the morning, despite his troubled sleep, he maintains his pleasant yet aloof demeanor. He has no money to spend on any goods or services, so he waits with thinning patience for something interesting to happen. He finds the hospitality of the innkeeper comforting and makes a point to remember their faces, chubby and pale as they seem to his harsh elven eyes.

OOC: In other words, I have nothing to buy, so I'm ready to move along!

[Crinias]

Maria sleeps without much worry. To be accurate, she sleeps fitfully, without nightmares, despite having many things to worry about. Upon waking up, she stretches and exercises for a few minutes, practicing her techniques before putting her armor back on.

"We should find that false priest of Dol Arrah which the letter mentioned," she says, once they have left the inn. "The more we know about all of this, the safer I will feel."

[Saskia]

The snow out along the trail makes the morning feel somehow alive. Aundair's winters might dip into deep darkness and bitter temperatures, but a fresh blanket of white snow fills the air with Dol Arrah's light in a way that the balmy summers, verdant fields, and biting bugs simply can't; perhaps blinding daylight is Winter's concession for shorter days.

In any case, unlike the night before the party's thick furs and cloaks are enough for the quiet trek into the city to be tolerable, though still not comfortable. A handful of wagons pass by; some carriages with important, or at least rich, people, and some with tradesmen. A few nod in greeting, but most seem focused on the miserably cold wind, significantly worse atop a fast-moving carriage.

After what feels like an interminable trek through mostly knee-deep snow, somehow made no better by the passage of horsemen and wagons. When the limestone gates of Fairhaven finally come into view, between the snow, white gatehouse, and the white city walls discourteously blinding travelers with their brilliant shine, the last league of the journey feels even longer than the first. With only a mile or so left, another wagon passes by on its way into town, with a blonde gnome in a red coat sits on the back and waves.

"Morning, folks," the bearded gate sentry says from the back of his horse once the gate approach is finally finished. His mail is in good condition, and his grooming is immaculate; he has the look and bearing of a man who might play kings on stage. "Business or pleasure?"

Spoiler: Fix

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Again, sorry everyone for the delay. Hopefully quality makes up for quantity, but life is awfully hectic right now. Still Better than being unemployed and homeless though, so I can't complain too much

The three blue potions you could identify are cure light wounds, CL 1st.

[RaggedAngel]

The cold can damage Fix, but it doesn't feel painful like it does for her flesh and blood companions. The snow is a bit annoying, making her legs sodden and slick, but she otherwise enjoys the sight. The bowels of Sharn were usually quite warm, and she had never imagined something like snow could exist before she saw it for herself. It was solid water, clearly, but why it looked so different from regular ice was a mystery to her. She filed that away for future investigation.

Once the party arrives at the gate she looks to the others, and sensing a moment of hesitation, decides that she will speak for the party. "Good morning to you! Business, though pleasure is never out of the question. Myself, Professor Kessler, and Simon," she gestures to Phinneas and Simon, "are traveling scholars who have come to buy and sell scrolls, spells, and spellbooks. Maria and Thianin," she indicates the pair, "agreed to travel with us as protection. We had hoped the precaution was unnecessary, but we were assaulted along the road only yesterday. It is good to arrive in one piece. Is there any news worth hearing?"

Spoiler

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I suppose I might be shooting myself in the foot, but Fix does not have Identification Papers. In fact, she has never heard of them. Merrix didn't see the need to inform her of such things, in case she attempted to escape.

[King Tius]

Thianin keeps his winter furs wrapped tightly around him, doing his best to warm himself with memories of the desert sun. He lets the double-bladed scimitar on his back serve as proof enough that he's hired muscle, but he does take an interest in the man's horse. He gives the beast a thorough inspection, nodding slightly in appreciation as he does so.

"That's a fine steed you have there. How does he handle in the thick of battle?"

[Saskia]

He nods to Thianin and pats his horse on the neck, eliciting a snort from the beast. "Hengroen's been with me nearly ten years now. Sometimes I think he's dumb as a bag of hammers, but he's fierce as any stallion. I think he killed more than I did at the Third Battle of Fairhaven, but he minds when I need him to. He's fast, too. There's no way he could keep up with your boys' horses, but he's damn fast for a destrier."

The soldier looks over the group and nods. "I'm glad you survived, though. Normally the scum don't leave survivors. Bandit attacks have been increasing, but we're increasing our patrols to compensate, and the Crown has assigned us diviners to ferret out their hovels. Still, I'll need you to file a report at the stationhouse." He looks out along the snowy field and sighs. "Everyone's talking about the Wild Hunt though, today. As if looking for myths in stormclouds is more important than death cults and highwaymen that actually threaten us every day."