The Bold Adventures of Poins--On the Town

HISTORY OF THE TOWN OF POINS
The High Pyrees--a small 'nation' in some of the most mountainous terrain on the continent of Eldheim. A combination of rocky hills and deep, but fertile valleys, the Pyrees have always been uncomfortably situated between the Empire of Syra and Holy Kingdom of Archea, and from an early time in its history forced to ally with the former to avoid being absorbed into the latter. Given a special province status by the Emperors, the Pyrees pledge a nominal alleigiance and pay a few taxes to the Empire in return for some military protection, while maintaining a great deal of autonomy. Of course, this arrangement has had many difficulties over the years, with disagreements on both sides as to how much freedom the Cantons get, and how much right the Empire has to protect its interest, but still most people agree the Empire is a better master than the Holy Kingdom. Some are not so sure, especially as the majority of Pyreens are of Archean descent.

The Pyrees are made up of twelve Cantons, each of which is under the rule of an elected Reeve, and a council of Aldermen. Once a year, the Reeves meet to discuss business and politics in the Pyrees--the Canton this meeting takes place in is decided by lot at the end of the preceding meeting. The Reeves may also meet in case of emergencies and extraordinary occurrences. The Canton of Oran lies in the southwesternmost part of the Pyrees, and has often been used by Archean and Syran armies as a pathway into the other's state. The backwoods town of Poins has seen many such armies come and go through the province proper, and has rarely been touched by them. Aside from the sinister Azerai, who built a fortress on Blacktooth Peak, none have ever considered the town worth occupying--and even the Azerai rarely bothered the town proper. It is a small, unremarkable section of the Canton. Like most towns in the Pyrees, it elects a Mayor and a Sheriff, with local businessmen (well, practically anyone who shows up to a meeting, when you get down to it) belonging to the Small Council. Like all of the Pyreens, they are a hardy, sensible, independent folk, who dislike meddling into their affairs, and stirring up trouble.

But today, trouble is going to come to them--from quite a few directions.

Weel
Weel stood before the Temple to Assorted Gods. A young acolyte of Thraunos, beginning his Long Walk, he was planning to say hello to his friends and family in the area before moving on. But first he had one last instruction from Master Esroh. "Go see Phandros, and deliver this letter," the old man had said, and Weel was planning to do just that. He had wondered what it said, but it seemed unseemly to break his master's seal. As for Phandros, Weel remembered him--the old man who tended Poins's only temple--a structure built originally for Thraunos but now dedicated to the worship of most dieties...

Alan Hale
Alan had been shirking the job his father had instructed him to do for an hour when he saw the riders. It wasn't that Hale was a lazy young man--it was simply that he didn't see the point in doing father and Bran's work for them. After all, it was father's farm, and Bran was going to get it when he died, a fact he never ceased to remind his younger siblings of. It didn't seem fair to Alan that he had to stay around as a source of cheap labor for his family, when he was perfectly capable of making his own way in the world. It sometime seemed to Alan that thrilling adventures were waiting for him, and that the farm was holding him back. Sometimes he used to play his future exploits out in his head, figuring out just how to do them right.

He'd just rescued a Princess--he was debating whether it was a Princess of Syra, a Princess of Nemed, or a Princess of some even more exotic land--when he saw five men on horseback on the road below. Four were clad in armor--the fifth in robes of brown and green. The fifth held a hawk in his hand. Releasing it, it flew into the air, heading towards Poins...

Caradoc Nuttall
It was the last day of the Syran Inspector's visit, and the Nuttall's were bending themselves over backward to impress the man. The most sumptious breakfast they could afford was spread out before him, and the entire family was doing its utmost to try and seem interested in his conversation.

"--So really, you'll benefit from this," said Inspector Melse, his mild voice barely rising above the clank of silverware. "Oh, true there's that slight fee on spirits you'll have to pay, but you owe us less in taxes now, under the new codes." The half-elf was calmly buttering his toast--the only part of the meal he was partaking of. His eyes occasionally strayed to the pomengrate Cador had placed before him, but he never seemed able to get himself to commit.

"Very generous," muttered Cador, slightly baffled. Caradoc's father was trying to follow Melse's speech but it tended to rely on the details of obscure laws that the Pyrees man had never heard of, and didn't care about.

"Not generous, Mr. Nuttall--merely practical," said Melse with a slight laugh, finally screwing up his courage and picking up a blood orange. "You see, the old laws were poorly designed. Why, do you realize--" And here the Inspector's speech shifted into a mass of technicalities and mathematics, while Melse nibbled on a blood orange.

Caradoc sighed. Inspector Melse seemed to eat, breathe and sleep tax laws. He'd been hoping to ask him about affairs in Syra--how had Emperor Gereint solved the succession dispute that he'd been involved in when Caradoc had left Syra? What were the latest fashions? What was happening in the world at large?--things he didn't hear much of in an out of the way place like Poins. But it seemed Melse was more interested in getting his job done than talking about affairs back in the Empire proper. Oh, well. Truth be told, the entire family was hoping to see the man go. While Cador had hoped to improve his standing in the Small Council by being useful, mostly the Nuttalls seemed to have gathered a great deal of resentment as "Syran pets". Plus, his constant comments on tax codes was getting nerve-wracking.

"--which is another way the new laws are an improvement," said Melse with a slight laugh. "Delicious bit of fruit by the way. I'll have to take a few with me on the road if you don't mind. Madame?" Elise Nuttall gave a slightly nervous nod, as Melse deftly grabbed a few blood oranges, and placed them in one of his belt pouches. "So, as I was saying these new laws will make everyone's life easier." The Inspector flashed a smile. "That should make up for the soldiers, I think."

There was stunned silence for a moment. "What did you say?" asked Cador quietly.

"It'll make up for the soldiers the Emperor's sending," noted Melse good-humoredly. "A garrison, to man that ruined old Azerai fortress up there." The Inspector shrugged. "For your own good, really--the damn Hierarch is getting grabby these days--but still I know how you rural folk tend to feel about soldiers..."

Graevel Kerd
The talk in The Bearded Flea, Poins's only inn and only tavern--probably the only fact that kept it in business--was getting unpleasant.

"--And all I'm saying is the way things have turned out, maybe we should have stuck with the Arch," muttered Goodman Brown acidly. "I hear up in Fell the Emperor's sent troops. They're turnin' the town all out of sorts."

"But tain't that where the next Reevemeet's gonna happen?" asked Sully Whyte quietly, his mug of ale untouched--something of a miracle for the man.

"Aye," noted Brown, "and you can guess what'll go down there when it does." He took a long hard draught off his cup. "In chains to face a tickling, and maybe a stickling, and then it's back to the bad old times..."

"What I can't stand is the new ale tax Inspector Melse's been prattling about," Lejah Doris, the Flea's curvaceous barkeep, cook, and proprieter said frowning. "A silver for the Emperor on every barrel I buy? What's it his business to be poking his hand into mine?"

"It's the damn furiners," said Moran Gull, the tavern's oldest resident. "We should close up the mountains to the Arch, to the Syrans, and to every other damn one of the bastards. Outsiders never brought nothin' but trouble to us." He glanced over and raised his glass. "Present comp'ny ax-septed, course. As hobs go, Graev, yer a peach."

Graeval raised his mug in reply and sighed. They were a good people here, in their way, but a closed-minded one as well. While he'd earned a measure of their trust, he was never sure what would happen if they found out the entire truth about him...

Alan Hale Rogue 1

Seeing the riders, Alan felt he had to go see them. But first the chore.....After 5 minutes of work, he figured he was almost done......after 5 more minutes, Alan thought, I will finish it later. Off he went to town to meet the riders.

Weel

Weel considered cleaning off before tackling his first official task on his Long Walk. But then, Thraunos was a god who understood a good day's work and the dirt that built up. Weel decided he'd wear the travel dust and the untrimmed week of beard--and, yes, the beginnings of That Smell--as a testament to his labor thus far.

Setting his shoulders and taking a deep breath, Weel entered the Temple to Assorted Gods to perform his duty.

Ranger Rick said:

Seeing the riders, Alan felt he had to go see them. But first the chore.....After 5 minutes of work, he figured he was almost done......after 5 more minutes, Alan thought, I will finish it later. Off he went to town to meet the riders.

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The riders seemed to have stopped on the road. As Alan came near, he realized that the armor of the men was battered, and in poor repair. One of the armored men was glancing at the man in fancy robes suspiciously. "--thought he'd be gone by now, Ventruli..."

'Ventruli' sat calmly in the saddle, his eyes shut, as if in concentration. He was a pale, handsome man with a sharp Rus look to him--he wore a green and yellow bandana on his head like some sort of Ulheru conjure-man. "Such were my reports. He appears to be lingering. Anyway, we can just wait here for him to leave..."

One man with a rather scruffy beard spat on the ground. "I don't know why we don't jump the bastard and slit his bandit throat..."

A man whose armor seemed to be of a finer quality glanced at him quietly. "Because if we kill this one, the next one the Pretender sends will have guards. And he'll know where to look now..."

"There's a young man looking at us, Helm" noted Ventruli, his eyes still closed. "Looks like a farmer."

The man in the finer suit of armor turned, looking at Alan. "So there is, Ventruli." The man gets off his horse calmly, and extends his hand. "Well met. I'm Ritter Helm Sadric. And you are?"

Extending his hand, "I am Alan Hale. Soon to be mighty soldier such as your self." Ignoreing the guffaws, he looks at the unarmored one. "Are you a mighty mage? I saw your hawk go flying off. Did it go tell the town of your upcoming arrival?"

Caradoc

Caradoc calmly listened to the Inspector, while mentally rolling his eyes and groaning. Oh, yes, more soldiers and more laws are guaranteed to make life easier, he thought sarcastically. He wondered if the Emperor's concern lay less with the designs of the Hierarch than with the threat of Poins's populace welcoming an invasion with open arms...

jkason said:

Weel considered cleaning off before tackling his first official task on his Long Walk. But then, Thraunos was a god who understood a good day's work and the dirt that built up. Weel decided he'd wear the travel dust and the untrimmed week of beard--and, yes, the beginnings of That Smell--as a testament to his labor thus far.

Setting his shoulders and taking a deep breath, Weel entered the Temple to Assorted Gods to perform his duty.

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The Temple of Assorted Gods was a humble edifice, a simple wooden building built more for practicality then splendor. But its stone walls were thick and well-made, and on the inside it had acquired through the years a rich assortment of decorations to satisfy the desires of the petitioners of various gods. A rich Elven tapestry representing the Aellari--a group of Syran house shrine 'gods' to represent that well-regarded pantheon--an iron torch for Toreth--a porcelin mask for Sybal--a copy of the Revelation for Malka--a two-faced coin for the Fortunae--and at the end of the hall, a small statue of Thraunos himself, with a mural of the rest of the Archean pantheon behind him.

A shaggy haired, grey-bearded old man lay on a bench before the god's image, snoring loudly. Weel recognized him as Phandros.

Bloodcookie said:

Caradoc calmly listened to the Inspector, while mentally rolling his eyes and groaning. Oh, yes, more soldiers and more laws are guaranteed to make life easier, he thought sarcastically. He wondered if the Emperor's concern lay less with the designs of the Hierarch than with the threat of Poins's populace welcoming an invasion with open arms...

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Inspector Melse stood up suddenly, with a yawn. "Well, I really must be going. They're expecting me up in Fell in a week." He glanced at Cador. "Have you--urr, got my horse saddled?"

Cador nodded. "Just like you said, sir. Ready to go."

Melse smiled. "Excellent, excellent." He gave a sweeping bow. "My thanks for your hospitality." He reached into his purse and threw some coins on the table. "Consider this the barest repayment I can give you. Farewell." He jogged out of the room. A mere glance out the window later showed the Inspector well on his way up north, driving his horse hard.

"That thin-blooded, prancing Syran fop!" yelled Else Nuttall as soon as he was gone. "Acting as if he was afraid our food was poisoned..."

"I'm certain that wasn't the issue," muttered Cador to his wife. "He's an Empire man. They have different customs than us." He shrugged. "Plus he was a nervy bugger, I'd say." Cador glanced at his son. "So, Caradoc--now that that's--out of the way, why don't you open up the shop, and I'll join you--shortly."