OrkJager

In the spring of 1500 the roads have finally reopened for trade between the communities of the region. Faule eagerly awaits the spring supplies of fish from the Estony River and general goods. Long wagon trains depart from the port city of Vormarsch loaded with those goods and settlers eager to start a new life in Faule.

On the 9th of Sutar, one such wagon train headed out with an assortment of settlers and a handful of adventurers on their way to glory.

It is currently nearly sundown, it has been a long day, and most of you have not had the chance to speak during the journey. The train has stopped near the foothills of the Midden Alps. The smells of food cooking over the campfires and the sounds of the happy settlers and porters conversing permeate the air.

(Get to know each other a little and get ready for bed. If you talk too long I'll give you fatigue! Ya'll have fun now, ya here?! )

"Lindal! Let me know when some of that venison is done cooking would ye? It smells dam good."

The dwarf Dagmar Frekkeson dumps a pile of wood he chopped next to the group's fire and settles himself down to its warmth.

A thin female of medium height approaches the cooking fire, her hands clasping a small leather bag to her chest. She looks lean and wiry, and her face is smooth but smudged with grime and dirt from traveling. Her copper/auburn hair is a fright, with wispy strands pulled loose from the leather tie of her ponytail. You think you see the pointed ears of Elven folk poking up from the mess of her hair at the sides of her head, but her shuffling gait towards the roasting venison does not portray any Elven grace or dignity, nor do the rough canvas tunic or buckskin leggings covering her waif-like body. She holds out the leather pouch to the cook...

"Um, excuse me... er... here. I've some herbs that might help bring out the flavor of the meat. Just sprinkle some over the top".

She sits near the fire, eagerly waiting for the venison to cook.

A very large-looking half-orc comes striding over to the fire, a hungry look in his eye. Those that look at him immediately notice him carrying a large wooden sword with the holy symbol of Pelor etched on it. He is dressed in a black hooded robe, and looks to be walking towards the fire with a purpose.

As he approaches the fire, he bellows "Ah, is that venison I smell cooking? Then it is a hearty meal we eat tonight!" He looks at the cook, then at the dwarf and elf nearby, and announces to them "Pelor be with you, fellow travelers! He certainly has blessed us thus far with a safe journey, though I'm sure we will be seeing some action before long!"

He rests his shield down and sits on the ground by the fire, at which point you might catch a glimpse of of a steel heavy mace from within his robes. He sits, staring at the cooking deer with a slight bit of drool coming from his mouth.

Franky, Male Halfling

A dust laden brown long-cloak cover tousles of short, curly brown hair than dance upon this halflings head as if each strand had a curly little mind of its own. Inquisitive bright green eyes peak from under the hood and drink in every detail of his surroundings, missing nothing.
Carefully, he sits down upon a semi-flat rock settling himself in a cat-like fashion - fidgeting to the left and then to the right, standing up for a moment and brushing off the rocks surface and then looking at it intently for a moment. Sitting down again and wiggling himself into a confortable position, he leans back to rest in a reclined postition. Dusty grey pants and simple leather high-boots poke out from the cloak to rest upon a higher outcropping of rock.

The campfire hightlights the cherub like face and makes seem even more so imbuing it with a golden hue. He pulls a flask from his side opens it and takes a quick swig. He swishes it around in his mouth just a little bit seeming to savor the taste. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, swallows, and then opens his eyes. He smiles widely and quickly stows the flask from whence it came.

"There's nothing like Barrowshire Applewine to complement a sunset! Would you like to try some?" looking to all present.

Koric, Half-Orc Cleric of Pelor

"Ah, friend halfling, don't mind if I do!" roars Koric, as he takes the flask offered. He inspects the inside of the flask, attempting to see what this strange new liquid looks like. He swishes the flask around, takes a whiff of the concoction, then shrugs, and takes a healthy swig.

As he swallows, you can see his normally grey face turn a shade of red, and then begins coughing. Realizing that the rest of the party around the fire is looking at him, he embarrassingly tries to recover. "*cough* Um, very good, friend halfling... I was told that your people made good wine, but I was not told that you also made it so... strong! Ah, but it is just the thing to warm my cold bones."

He lets out a hearty laugh, and tosses the flask back to his new acquaintance. "The hospitality of the halflings seems to reach all the way out to the Midden Alps!" Koric bellows, as he spreads his arms wide and looks up at the snow-covered mountains. "And while this snow is indeed a beauty to behold, I must admit that I am glad that Pelor's light once again shines down on these lands."

Koric takes a gander at those sitting around the campfire. "Ah, a dwarf... an elf... and a halfling... what a strange crew this is shaping up to be! So, friends, what brings you all to this campfire and this *sniff sniff* delicious smelling meal?"

There isn't anything tremendously remarkable about the young human who makes his way through the camp. An average height, an average build, short cropped brown hair and he doesn't look like anything much physically - strictly average in fact. Nor is there anything special about his equipment; a nice bow and a what looks like a plentiful supply of arrows; a fairly workmanlike scimitar and a set of well worn dark brown leather armour complete the ensemble. Thus far he could be any caravan guard or mercenary, but yet...

He pets a couple of the draft horses on his way across and then neatly and carefully places his backpack somewhere dry and not too near the fire. There is a slight diffidence about his voice as he sits, "I believe this is my appointed place? The caravan master was slightly vauge in his description," his eyes flick over those already at the fire - which is about the only remarkable thing about him, a rather piercing gaze.

"I am Percy Aglax; archer and student of war. I am hnoured to make your acquaintance, if you will permit me Madame," he looks at the Elven lady before taking his seat.

Felicity Oakmaiden, female half-elf

The young woman is taken back by such boldness! She stammers and flutters, and before she composes herself you catch a glimpse of a well worn antler handle, hidden underneath her cloak... obviously some sort of blade she carries but does not wear openly.

"H... H.. Hello, sir," clearly not convinced you are talking to her. She seems to just now notice she is surrounded by people taking an interest in her. "M.. My name is Felicity. Felcity Oakmaiden." As she introduces herself, she clasps one hand around a chip of blue stone hung on a leather thong around her neck. She shuffles over to make room on her log for the archer, smiling awkwardly.

She turns to the massive cleric was he wipes away wine form his chin, still worrying at her stone. "Um... are you half human, or half orc? And may I try some of that?"

Lindal - Half Orc Ranger

The cook looked up from the venison, nodding a thanks at Felicity for the herbs.

He uncurls from his crouch and stands to his full height before the rest of the party, revealing the fact that whiles he's not tall, he is large. It all looks to be wire and muscle, too. His build is bulked out further by studded leather, and a short bow and quarterstaff lie within easy reach to his left.

His face has the slightly flattened features of those with an orcish heritage, and those with low light vision can pick out the greenish tinge to his skin but he's not unhandsome none-the-less. His blackish-blue hair and piercing grey eyes survey the cleric for a moment and then nod in understanding.

"Orcish blood or no, any cleric of Pelor is human enough for me."

He returns his gaze to the food with the expert eye of a man who's had to live off his own cooking for a long time.

"We've got about half an hour to kill till food."

Edit: Changed text colour to a unique one - oops.