This blog is a narrative outline (a literary embelishemnt if you will) of a campaign and setting that I created for 2E when I was in college. I adapted to 4E and am currently playing out with my son, who has followed in his father's love of the game.
III - Rioc Alair
Posted 29th November 2008 at 05:01 AM by H.M.Gimlord
Updated 28th January 2009 at 05:47 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Changing the title numbers to fit the chronology of the story)
Updated 28th January 2009 at 05:47 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Changing the title numbers to fit the chronology of the story)
The setting sun sent scintillating wisps of blue and indigo though Firebyrne’s scales as he stepped from the weather-worn gangplank onto the wharf. The evening breeze subsided long enough, allowing the taste of salty air to stir his memories. His time at sea had cleared his mind and strengthened his body as if to prepare him for the life he was to begin. The wharf was packed with seamen, nets, rigging, block-and-tackle, luggage, and the noise of business. Every face was pail, hairy, and smooth. What a strange place. The people here are all the same – human. No one dared to make eye-contact with him, and it dawned on him that his first lesson in this strange town would be one of social humility.
“D-d-does this belong to you?” The stammering voice belonged to a dock hand who was pointing to an enormous oak chest that had just been lowered onto the wharf.
“Ixenvalignat! That’s me,” thundered Firebyrne, not that he expected the dock hand to recognize his name, scratched on the front of the chest in large Draconic script. Nor did he expect the boy to be pleasantly surprised to see its owner.
The dock hand’s jaw gaped and quivered a little, “A-a-are you going to need help with it?”
“No. I’ve got it.” Firebyrne hoisted the trunk to his shoulder with one clawed talon, pressed a copper into the hand of the boy with the other. The boy was already running away in terror when Firebyrne looked around to get his bearings. An inn stood just opposite the wharf as if to say, “Here’s the most expensive place to stay, if you’re lost or new to Rioc Alair.” But what was he going to do, walk forever until he found a better place?
He ducked his head to clear the door frame as he stepped slowly into the smoky, bustling common room which quickly bustled less and less. Songs and tales stopped mid-verse. Mugs lighted softly onto tables. Eye’s widened and quickly turned back to their ales to avoid his gaze, pretending to be thinking about something else. An aura of discomfort five strides wide seemed to encircle Firebyrne as he moved toward the bar. People cleared the way to make room or made for the door, suddenly remembering their families and homes. Firebyrne would have thought it comical if he didn’t know that this suspicion could quickly lead to violence if he made a wrong move, so he let the thought be replaced by head-held-high draconic confidence. Only the innkeeper seemed bold enough to ask him what he wanted.
“Needn’ a room futha night?” He queried, pouring him a tall mug of ale without waiting for an order. This guy’s so outa place he’s gotta have money.
“You’re good at what you do!” Why are innkeepers always fat? “A room, and a table in the corner where I won’t scare away your customers.” He swept his eyes across the room, smiling at the patrons who quickly avoided his gaze.
“Fair’nuff. One silva every night, and two coppa’s a mug.”
Firebyrne left the drink money on the table, “I’ll settle my lodgings when I leave.”
“Beggin ya pahdon, but I’ll be needn’ the pay now, and to know how long ya intend ta stay.” I’m not gonna let this guy fly-by-night on me.
“Have it your way. One night.” And with that, Firebyrne placed his silver piece on the table and took his place in the darkest corner he could find.
“D-d-does this belong to you?” The stammering voice belonged to a dock hand who was pointing to an enormous oak chest that had just been lowered onto the wharf.
“Ixenvalignat! That’s me,” thundered Firebyrne, not that he expected the dock hand to recognize his name, scratched on the front of the chest in large Draconic script. Nor did he expect the boy to be pleasantly surprised to see its owner.
The dock hand’s jaw gaped and quivered a little, “A-a-are you going to need help with it?”
“No. I’ve got it.” Firebyrne hoisted the trunk to his shoulder with one clawed talon, pressed a copper into the hand of the boy with the other. The boy was already running away in terror when Firebyrne looked around to get his bearings. An inn stood just opposite the wharf as if to say, “Here’s the most expensive place to stay, if you’re lost or new to Rioc Alair.” But what was he going to do, walk forever until he found a better place?
He ducked his head to clear the door frame as he stepped slowly into the smoky, bustling common room which quickly bustled less and less. Songs and tales stopped mid-verse. Mugs lighted softly onto tables. Eye’s widened and quickly turned back to their ales to avoid his gaze, pretending to be thinking about something else. An aura of discomfort five strides wide seemed to encircle Firebyrne as he moved toward the bar. People cleared the way to make room or made for the door, suddenly remembering their families and homes. Firebyrne would have thought it comical if he didn’t know that this suspicion could quickly lead to violence if he made a wrong move, so he let the thought be replaced by head-held-high draconic confidence. Only the innkeeper seemed bold enough to ask him what he wanted.
“Needn’ a room futha night?” He queried, pouring him a tall mug of ale without waiting for an order. This guy’s so outa place he’s gotta have money.
“You’re good at what you do!” Why are innkeepers always fat? “A room, and a table in the corner where I won’t scare away your customers.” He swept his eyes across the room, smiling at the patrons who quickly avoided his gaze.
“Fair’nuff. One silva every night, and two coppa’s a mug.”
Firebyrne left the drink money on the table, “I’ll settle my lodgings when I leave.”
“Beggin ya pahdon, but I’ll be needn’ the pay now, and to know how long ya intend ta stay.” I’m not gonna let this guy fly-by-night on me.
“Have it your way. One night.” And with that, Firebyrne placed his silver piece on the table and took his place in the darkest corner he could find.
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