Remnants of Cyre <Team Two>

[Kyeudo]

It's the third day of Syphros (mid autum for those who don't have the ECS), and the city of Darthun is in an unusualy festive mood. It's two days before the Festival of Moons, a night of costume balls, parties, and other revelry. The Festival continues dispite the War, and decorations of all sorts can be seen everywhere. Wreaths of autum leaves decorate many a door and everywhere russet-colored streamers dance in the wind.

The news from the front is also heatening. The fighting has died down along the north and west, while recent victories in the south over the traitorous hobgoblins and Valenar elves have bolstered morale. The atmosphere of merriment could not even be spoiled by the strange events earlier today. A blinding flash of vivid purple light washed across the sky shortly after noon, followed by a small earthquake. The quake caused little damage, although there was some looting in the confusion. The city watch put more guards on patrol and things soon returned to normal, back to preparing for the festivities and making the rounds of all the pre-Festival parties.

As always, a few crazy rumors are mixed in with the news. Tall tales of pink dragons marauding into Valenar from the southern reaches of the Endworld Mountains mingle with stories of pirate vessals, crewed by fairies, raiding the ships of the Lhazar princes over tall mugs of ale in the taverns and inns you've passed through.

The city is full of travelers, most come to enjoy the planned celebration dispite, or perhaps because of, the War. It was difficult to find an inn at which to stay the night, so you finaly had to settle for a room at the Dragon's Deal, a slightly run-down inn on the southeastern side of town, one of the poorer districts of the city. The price seemed exorbiant for such coarse accomidations, but it was either pay up or find a place to camp outside the city walls, and after several days on the road the prospect of a real bed and a decent meal were too good to resist.

The common room is crowded tonight, paced with people because some lordling decided to throw a party at the Dragon's Deal with free drinks for all comers. By the size of the crowd, he'll learn his lesson by morning when he finds his pocketbook alot lighter. The place is moderately clean, with tables and chairs battered by long use, and a bar worn by the countless hands of years worth of customers. There are several loud games of three dragon ante being played along the far end of the room, with plenty of cursing whenever money changes hands. Earlier one such game almost came to blows, but a few free beers soon calmed things down.

A cold draft billows through the room as a pair of workmen saunter in the inn and past your table on the way to the bar, where they take the last few stools in front of it and call for a couple of drinks.

Several others share the table with you for the evenening meal, fellow travelers from all across Cyre. Some are just passing through, some are soldiers back on leave from the front, and others are just here for the upcoming festival.

[Bitzeralisis]

Journeyman Alchemist Sripor, Telepath & Adventurer Wanabee

The inn is crowded. If one was to go to the corner of the room, shoving through masses of peoples, they would find a lone man, with something strange about him, sitting alone in the corner, drinking a cup of apple cider. He's in the clothing of a Alchemist, and indeed he is; Sripor was just visiting the town center in order to sell alchemical goods for his master, teacher, and guide, Urefines¹.

This is Sripor². He is a telepath, and an Elan³ at that. He flips a coin, his mind focused⁴. Business was hard; there was too much competition.


¹Pronounced "Yure Phoenix."
²If any character is to attempt writing down Sripor's name, they will instead end up writing "Shrifor," as that is how Sripor's name is pronounced, and that is what most people would think how it is spelled.
³No, not .
⁴Starting Psionically Focused. See Psionic Concentration skill.

[nekosama]

Morris

Morris revels in the anonymity of the large crowd and watching strangers body language and manners. He takes a good look at the companions at his table then decides to be get into the spirit and stands up and says, "Greetings fellows I am Morries and I wish to propose a toast of good health to you all."

Morris is about as average looking as you can get and his clothes are of a simple artisan. Near his feet is a backpack stuffed to capacity with what looks like adventures gear.

[Idiotbox90]

Zin

A changeling sits at one of the table's ends. With long hair, flashy clothing, and theatrical movements, he makes it difficult for others to ignore him. Arranged in front of him are a series of cards marked with finely crafted drawings and draconic runes.

"A flash of silver, a shower of copper, either will buy you a glimpse into what will be. We all are victims of fate, pawns in the celestial game. Why not, at the very least, learn what shall soon occur? Love? Fortune? I can reveal to you your destiny."

[nekosama]

Morris

"Oi, fortune teller. I am pretty sure what my fate would be. I would be a silver poorer and you would be a silver richer."

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I would like to do a sense motive check on Zin to see if he is running a scam or might honestly believe in the power of the cards. Not sure if you want me to roll, or you will, since failure means I might believe the wrong thing. Check can be done in 1 round due to class ability and Mo's total sense motive modifier is +7.

[Idiotbox90]

The fortune teller remains unabashed.

"Wealth is relative. What is a piece of silver when compared to knowing one's fate? Here, a sample." The changeling stacks the cards into a single deck and draws one from the middle. The image on the card is that of a cloaked human. "The Veiled Woman, a mysterious figure. A stranger with much to reveal. The hidden being brought to the surface. A sudden change of luck. Much can be meant by this card. More knowledge, of course, comes at a price."

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Bluff +10
Zin does not believe in the cards, but is confident that some of the fortunes he tells will come true.

[Kyeudo]

The changling fortune teller seems quite convinced that he can tell fortunes with his cards. Wether or not his belief translates into practical skill is not so readily apparent.

[Miraqariftsky]

Ja'khaa, goblin warrior of the Bladesmark and Cyran stalwart

A pair of beady red eyes peers through a chink in the woodwork of the inn's doors. Shortly after seeing the volume of the crowd, they withdraw with a huffing and a growling.

A few minutes later, the doors burst inward and a goblin warrior saunters in, a surly scowl upon his face. He wears a leathern lancer's cap in faded colours of green and gold and his bulbous nose flares in annoyance at the crowd's gaity.

His tangerine flesh shivers from more than the evening draft and he tightens his short, weather-beaten cloak of green weave around his small body. The action does not obscure from view, however, his tabard of gold, the uniform of the loyal Cyran soldier. Upon this is emblazoned the symbol of a black paw-print, the insignia of the Blacklaw, the famed regiment of goblin wolfriders who refused to revolt along with the notorious Lhesh Haruuc, out of their century-long loyalty to the Cyran people.

As he walks into the tavern, his eyes rove the crowd nervously and his scowl deepens. I hate crowds! Stupid party-goers, they don't know that the Valenar are but five days' march away... Yet! Yet the Deneith commander expressly forbade me from raising the alarm to avoid causing panic! "Khyber take his caution..." the goblin mutters as he shoulders his way toward the bar.

Stronger of sinew and blood than the average goblin, Ja'khaa's body ripples with muscle beneath his suit of studded leather. He nimbly hops onto the nearest bar stool, slams a dagger down on the much-stained wood and growls to the barkeep, "I'th' name of the Lights, send some meat--- good meat, mind ye, to the wolf in yer stable. He's bein' kept by my cousin, you'll know from the lance I left there. And an ale here as well, if' ye please..."

[Kyeudo]

The barkeep, a middle-aged halfling, pours a tall mug of ale, aparently unfazed by the dagger stuck in his bar, and thunks it down on the counter in front of the goblin. "It'll be a silver for the meat. Lord ir'Gaer is only paying for the drinks, not the food. Anything for your cousin?"

[Grimfist]

Having just returned to Darthun from a two week long excursion into the wilderness to give himself some relief from the city, a rather unwashed goblin in rough leather armor leans against the wall next to the entrance to the inn. He attracts many curious looks: a soft white glow outlines his torso, and around his waist is a thick scale belt with a purplish hue that seems to have spread onto his skin*. He flashes a self-satisfied smirk whenever he notices another patron staring at him, then goes back to sloppily drinking his free ale.

Suddenly the doors to the inn burst open, smacking the surprised shaman in the face and knocking him over. After recovering from the shock, the livid goblin gets back on his feet and stomps over to the bar towards the muscular goblin who had hit him with the door.

"Here, let me pay for that meat friend" interrupts Meantooth, slamming a silver piece onto the table in a similar manner to the way the newcomer had slammed his dagger. [Goblin]Hey, what was the big idea charging in here like that??? You nearly broke my nose!"[/Goblin].

*Shaped soulmelds- Blink shirt and Wormtail belt respectively.

[Miraqariftsky]

Ja'khaa's eyes narrow and his lip curls back, exposing one fang in a friendly snarl. "Khe'ter rok tak. Ky or'ne wok tar'uuz",1 he replies in somewhat broken Goblin.

The off-duty lancer turns to the barkeep and eases into a grin. Flipping a gold coin through gloved fingers, he slaps it onto the bar and says in the tongue of Galifar, "Sirrah, a beef stew with onions, beans and leaves for me, if'n ye please. Give my cousin a generous slab of tonight's roast, as well. Fill this fellow up" he continues, gesturing at the bruised goblin, "With whatever he asks for. Thak ye kindly"

Turning to the glowing goblin, Ja'khaa asks, "Ek'tuur sekhar?"2 His gaze turns grim, however, as the bitter memories of the past week flash before his eyes. He still feels the savage slashes the Valenar had dealt him, though Colonel Vakyr had had him healed.

He takes a long pull at his ale, draining half the mug in one gulp. "Or'ten khai dur Valenar'ii ja'sharaata! Kedrakaal dur evuur'ka...", 3 he remarks with a growl.


1. Apologies... and thanks. Didn't know ye were there.

2. Will that be enough to burn away my fault?

3. Not that it would matter. The Valenar come to kill us all. We should prepare, the people must know, but noooo, that would cause a panic, the high-ups say...

[nekosama]

Morris

His curiosity now piqued due to the fortune teller not obviously being a con artist, Morris reaches into his belt pouch and pulls out a silver.

For this silver and your name I would be happy to have you tell my fortune.

[Idiotbox90]

"Zin, sir. Now, let us see what fate has in store for you."
The next card flipped reveals a hooded man carrying an axe. Blood drips from its blade as ravens circle overhead.

"The Executioner. You will notice that the card is facing me, not you. This indicates that it is a positive symbol. Here, it can mean that you will recieve justice. You may make a tough decision that pays off. An enemy may be defeated. It is the third card that ties it all together."

The final card is that of a man of noble visage standing at the front of a ship. He leans on his sword as if it were a cane.

"The Wanderer. A free spirit that cannot be restrained. One who leaves his home to defend it. There are other meanings, but they are fairly unimportant. Yes, I think I can see what shall occur. You shall meet a stranger, one who is more than they seem. Fortune shall favor this meeting and you shall get what you deserve. The Wanderer shows that you cannot run from your problems. They will either follow you or you will encounter new ones. I would suggest that you trust your instincts and walk the straight path. If you do so, your fate in the close future will surely be good.

[Grimfist]

Meantooth's brow slowly unfurrows and he breaks into a grin. [Goblin]"Hmm, you are the first humanoid I've met that knows to show proper respect to a shaman-king. Very well, consider your blunder erased, and may we commune as acquaintances."[/Goblin]

The placated shaman turns his head toward the barkeep " Bring me dead animal, cheapest thing you have" he orders in awkward common. He then turns back to introduce himself to Ja'khaa.

[Goblin]"To be honest I expected to start a fight with you, but you are well-spoken and fair. I am known as Yezt Meantooth. Who are you, and what are these 'Valenar' you speak of?[/Goblin]

[Miraqariftsky]

Ja'khaa snarls again and replies angrily, his building rage no longer content with the privacy of the Goblin tongue. "The Valenar are elves of the sands who live for naught but slaughter. They are dishonourable brigands in the same league as Haruuc and his folk, traitors to the Cyran throne!"

He seizes his dagger from the countertop and twirls it while passing from in between one figer to another in a show of dexterity. Still idly moving the blade hither and yon, the soldier takes a savage pull at his ale, snorting impatiently as he waits for both his meal and his change.

He sets down his mug and clenches one fist, crackling the knuckles. Briefly, he considers punching Yezt in the manner of greeting of his more savage relations back in Droaam but reconsiders. A true Cyran always shakes.

He unclenches his hand and offers it to him to shake. "The name is Ja'khaa of the Blackclaw clan, lancer irregular of the Deneith-Cyran forces, formerly of Kheldan Valley"

[Bitzeralisis]

Journeyman Alchemist Sripor, Telepath & Adventurer Wanabee

Sripor stands up and walks over to the goblins. "You look like a pair of adventurers, would you like to buy some alchemical supplies?" he asks monotonously. His hair is messy, and his yellow eyes stare penetratingly at the two.

[nekosama]

Morris

Thank you Zin. A very interesting experience that was well worth the coin.

Turning to people on the side of Zin Mo says,

You really should try Zin out here. His fortune really moved me.

Leaning back a bit in his chair to to get a better view of the bar he spies the odd grouping of two goblins and some sort of alchemist at the bar. Curiosity taking over he stands up and excuses himself. He tries moving casually up to the bar to a good spot to overhear what that group is talking about.

[Kyeudo]

The barkeep sweeps the coins off the bar and into a pouch at his belt before heading into the back. Soon he returns with the two goblins orders and a human kitchen boy is dispatched to the stables with a think slab of meat for Ja'khaa's mount and a meal for his cousin.

[Miraqariftsky]

Journeyman Alchemist Sripor, Telepath & Adventurer Wanabee

Sripor stands up and walks over to the goblins. "You look like a pair of adventurers, would you like to buy some alchemical supplies?" he asks monotonously. His hair is messy, and his yellow eyes stare penetratingly at the two.

"Eh, my good fellow?" Ja'khaa swivels upon his stool at the stranger's query and he leans back against the bar's counter languidly. His bushy eyebrows rise incredulously and his crimson eyes lock onto the alchemist's own gaze before breaking into raucous laughter.

Flipping his dagger through his fingers once more, he asks with a fang-baring grin, "Ye brung'd up two points there, stranger" He holds up his left index finger and balances the dagger's point there for nearly ten agonizing seconds before stabbing it onto the bar again. "Second is that o' yer alchemy. Well, riddle me this--- wot's both a-curved an' pointy and don't need no bloody alch'my ta wreak bloody murder? The Valenar, that's wot!"

"Well, juz fer meself, I ask'ee 'umbly--- would ye call being woken from just an hour's slumber to the sound of bloody murder an adventure?" His gaze turns hard in grim earnest.

Continuing his reply, he asks, "Would ye call gettin' yer **** beat out by treacherous allies at break o'dawn an adventure? Would ye call a week of eating naught but yer own festerin' boils and drinkin' wolf's blood an adventure? Would ye call wakin' ta see yer luvverly wife az not but a greasy smear an adventure? Would ye call such fight'n fer the glory an' honour of Mother Cyre an adventure?"

With this last question, he spits violently on the floor and slams his dagger back onto the countertop. Snarling sadly, he looks up and says to Sripor, "Alch'mist, eh? If'n yer brews can help the motherland, I urge ye, go ahead and may the Flame guide ye. 'Tis nae so much a war now, but a slaughter and a final stand. Can ye help us, lad?"

[Bitzeralisis]

Sripor

"..." Sripor listens intently to what the goblin has to say, correcting his pronunciation subconsciously. He might nod or shake his head once or twice during the monologue, but so little as so that wandering eyes could not catch the movement. His face unchanged, his gaze still stuck on the goblin; wondering if the goblin really meant what he had just said.
Finally, Sripor drops the bag of alchemy stuffs he was supposed to be selling, leaning on the counter next to the goblin, still looking at him. Closer now, so that the goblin might notice how strange his messed-up hair looked, and how the texture of his skin was unusual compared to other humans.
"Adventure, you say?" he asks dubiously, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Well..."
Sripor grins. Note how even his teeth and mouth and gums look so unnatural... "That depends."
Still leaning on the counter, Sripor looks closely into the goblin's eyes. "I am not natural. I can cause your head to hurt, with so much force that it may kill you. I can create a tangible shield of force around my body, using just sheer will. I can make very, very slippery stuff appear out of thin air, coat you, and make you fall."
Sripor moves back. "In other words, yes."
"But," he says, too suddenly for the goblin to respond, "you have to do me a favor. Go to my boss, and tell him that I absolutely hate alchemy and that I'd rather study up on my knowledge of extraplanar creatures than learn alchemy and that the only reason that I learned alchemy from him was so I could have a living and that he can still be my friend and it's not because of him that I hate alchemy and most of all, tell him you're my friend. He never listens to me, and doesn't believe that I hate alchemy, and he says that he'll need proof, and I know he's a very trusting, yes I know that's ironic, person, and that way I know he'll listen to you." Sripor had said this all so fast that the goblin almost couldn't comprehend it. "So, what do you say?" Sripor picks up the bag of alchemy-stuffs.

[Kyeudo]

Suddenly, a man stumbles in the door. At first he seems like just another drunk, lurching in for a free drink, but then he keels over on the floor with a loud THUMP! His heavy-set face is pale and his clothing, a worn-looking outfit suitible for an unkilled laborer, has a spreading blood-stain on the left shoulder.

[Grimfist]

Ignoring Ja'k's offered handshake, Yezt pulls back his arm to deliver a friendly punch to the mouth, but halts in mid-swing due to the arrival of the strange alchemist. His smile slowly fades from his face as the Psion and the Barbarian exchange monologues, and by the time Sripor finishes speaking the poor shaman looks as if he's been struck upside the head with a greatclub.

"Funny man, you speak too quickly. Meantooth doesn't know if you used your powers, but you have given him a headache... and you" he continues, turning back to Ja'kha "I like you, but maybe you are crazy. Still, it has been a long time since Meantooth has been in battle, and for one so mighty as Meantooth this is shameful." He pauses here to stand up on his stool, raising his voice to match his words; his vestments of incarnum seem to pulse and glow brighter than before. "While Meantooth cares little for cities, the power of 1000 beasts rages within him, and they will not become calm until Meantooth has tested his courage against the cowardly magics and shiny blades of the tall ones. Though Meantooth cannot explain it, he feels he is urged on by the beasts to follow this path. I will join you, strange one and crazy one, to fight these 'Valenar'."

[Bitzeralisis]

Sripor

Sripor looks over at the person who just entered. "What's with him?" he mumbles, uncaring.

[nekosama]

Morris

"Oi, someone check to see if that man lives!" After shouting out Morris start checking if there is a back way out of the bar. He wants to go out scouting but through the front door.

[Idiotbox90]

Zin makes his way to the fallen man. "Hey, clear a table!" he says to those around him. Once his orders are followed, he lifts the stranger up and places him there.

"Sir, are you all right?"

[Kyeudo]

The man groans faintly as he is moved, but doesn't respond to Zin or to being placed on the table. The blood stain on his shirt spreads from his shoulder across his chest around a ragged-looking wound. Anyone who checks will find his pulse faint and rapid, his breathing shallow, and his temperature high.

As for a back way out of the inn, there presumably would be a back door to the kitchen that would let out on the alley.

[Miraqariftsky]

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Fourth paragraph: Sorry if I may have used artistic license in controlling the actions of the patrons in that one instance. If you take umbrage at that, Kyeudo, I sincerely apologize

Ja'khaa smacks his chops at the exquisiteness of the meal that he had just consumed. Sitting back, he gives a loud belch in a public show of appreciation of the cuisine. Blowing on his neatly trimmed black claws, he inhales the autumnal breath-mist that forms and sighs contentedly, savoring the rich, spicy tang of the Cyran onions and beans in the stew he'd just consumed.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and a bleeding man collapses onto the dirty floor. "Khyber's crap!" Ja'khaa swears aloud at the sight of the injured man.

Sheathing his dagger absently, he bounds over the bar and swiftly seizes a bottle of strong brandy from the rack. He jumps back over the counter, shouting over his shoulder at the barkeeper, "Hoy-ba! I'm borrow'n yer vint'g '73! Medical emergency and we don't have a healer!"

The lancer barges through the legs of curious patrons and rickety chairs on his way to the stricken man. Not a few chairs are broken or upended, not a few patrons--- drunk or otherwise--- are jostled or tripped. Many heap curses on the lancer's head and many more crane their necks to see the what the commotion is. Ja'khaa snarls and clutched the brandy bottle tight and yelled for the crowd to back off. "Deneith surgeon, comin' through! Make way! Make way!"

Upon reaching the stricken man and the charitable fortune teller, Ja'khaa leaps onto the impromptu operating table. The barbarian snarls upon checking the man's vitals, swiftly concluding that besides almost having had his torso ripped asunder, the man has also contracted some sort of fever... maybe from poison or gangrene... "Somebod' getta clean cloth and a buckett'o cold water! This man's got a fever AND is wounded..."

Bah! I ain't no healer but I know how to hurt the hurts...

Not bothering with the finesse of a blade, he rips the stranger's tunic apart with his bare hands, intending to cause as much pain as possible. Pain burns away the dark death of sleep. Pain lets you know you're alive... The tunic peels away from the wound with a ghastly squelchig sound.

Ja'khaa slaps the delirious man around and warns him, "This will HURT. If you hurt, you alive. If you don't scream, you're already dead" Swiftly, he uncorks the bottle with his teeth and pours brandy liberally onto the still-bleeding wound.

[Kyeudo]

The man groans loudly and twitches as the brandy pours into the wound, but doesn't regain conciousness. The liquor washes away the blood on the man's chest, revealing a ragged, half-circle wound about 3-4 inches long and about an inch deep. The bleeding seems to have slowed down, but the wound still looks fairly fresh, as there is no pus or swelling of the wound. It looks like a bite mark of some sort.

[Miraqariftsky]

"KHYBER'S CRAP!" Ja'khaa spits as the brandy clears away the wound. "Somebody bit this fellow up sommat nasty!"

The mercenary cranes his neck around, trying to see over the heads of the curious crowd. "Git'yer water'nd rag 'ere soon, keep! The Keeper might claim this fellow 'cuz his fever weren't treat'd wi' nuthi' but shpit!"

Ja'khaa paces to and fro, thinking. No beast, that would could have caused, for there were no fang-marks... and yet the sheer length of the bite-mark indicates that it was no man either... Whatever it is, the Flame tells me somethig evil is afoot... Fang nose can track the culprit down, of that I am sure!

His patience runs out with waiting for the arrival of the medical supplies and he slips out the ajar doors. He makes his way through the tavern's courtyard and into the stables, sniffing around for the telltale rancid smell of unwashed sewer goblin and the slightly-fresher smell of an unwashed wolf. Along the way, he takes his shield off his back and straps it onto his left arm.

His right hand draws his dagger and holds it in an easy, ready-to-stab grip just to be ready. The half-light of the moons glints of the All-Seeing Eye symbol of Deneith set into the weapon's pommel.

He slowly opens the stable doors with a creaking of rusted hinges and, seeing that there are no overt threats about, flips the dagger into a more relaxed yet still ready stance. Walking across the straw-strewn floor and snorting at the fearful neighing of the horses at his wolf, Ja'khaa reaches the darkest, most stinking corner of the stable. His vision shifts to the heat spectrum and two bright forms burn in his eyes, devouring a still-smoking chunk of roast beef ribs.

He barks, "Garrah! Grah-grah-grah-rrrauh!" embraces his wolf-mount, Fang, around the neck and ruffles her ears. Ja’khaa then claps his cousin on the back and says, “Ghe’Flar orv suk’pa, vorg'den Itragn! Heh ku reza shr’aa Khyberit? Sr'e oor shr'aa ver'tan 'berit”1

1. Flame bless your hospitality, kinsman Itragn! Have you seen any madmen around, or at least creatures with large jaws, biting folk? Just now, a man came into the tavern, delirious from a bite in his chest...

[Kyeudo]

[goblin]"Ain't seen nothin' but horses since we got here. Woulda remembered somethin' with big teeth."[/goblin] Itragn replies before going back to the rack of ribs.