Everything D&D Ever - Chapter 1: Temple of the Frog

[KirayaTiDrekan]

The City of Blackmoor - 934 AtS (After the Shattering)

Alara Dortotter had woken to what others would consider a nightmare. The face of Eltab, Demon Lord of Retribution, had appeared to her. Canine-like, but with antlers and demonic horns, with slitted yellow eyes that bore into her soul. Alara knew this demon well. In a moment of anguish she had called out to him, seeking the power to bring bloody vengeance to the bandits who had killed her family. Eltab had answered, striking a bargain with the young woman. Theirs was a most unusual arrangement...Alara did not know what agenda Eltab had in mind for her. She was no servant of evil, that much was certain. But Eltab had granted her wish. That was certain as well. The dream from which she had awoken bid her to go to the Everflowing Spigot, a brewery and tavern in the upscale market district of Blackmoor City. The large brewery building situated behind the tavern smelled strongly of ale and other spirits and the tavern itself present a bright, cheery and welcoming appearance. The sign above the door displayed a happy drunk, mouth open underneath a spigot flowing with beer. Inside, the atmosphere was one of revelry as a new brew was set to be introduced this very evening.

Lillily had just arrived in Blackmoor a day ago, aboard the Sea Raven, a merchant ship that regularly traveled the trade route between Blackmoor and the dwarven and Halfling coastal communities on the western continent. The elves, of course, refused to trade, but that didn't concern the captain of the Sea Raven over much. Speaking of the captain, a human named Alvaris, he had asked Lillily to sample the new brew being debuted at the Everflowing Spigot tonight and negotiate shipping rights to the halflings if the brew met with Lillily's approval. The captain was placing a lot of trust in the little gnome this night.

Bran Ravenwood found himself between jobs at the moment. The capital city of the great land of Blackmoor had proven a bit...sparse when it came to employment for entertainers, at least one of his current social standing. Luckily for him, before his gold had run out completely, the proprietor of the Everflowing Spigot had asked him to perform during tonight's debut of a new brew. It was likely to be quite a night of celebration and inebriation. Of course, there was the problematic rumor that Lord Armiger's family had invested in the Everflowing Spigot and might be present tonight. But...Lord Armiger himself was still many miles away...wasn't he? Of course he was.

Samara Renae awoke from what some would call a dream. It was a vision to her. A demonic face, canine-like with antlers and horns and slitted yellow eyes. The demon, for it could not be anything else, was calling to someone, summoning a herald to do its vile work in the mortal world. Of this she was certain. The vision could only mean that she was meant to find this mortal herald. The vision had ended with a tavern sign depicted a drunken man under a spigot flowing with beer. After some asking around, she had learned that the sign was attached to a tavern called the Everflowing Spigot. Tonight was a celebration of some sort dealing with the introduction of a new brew. The servant of this demon was sure to be there.

Taranis' travels had brought him to the capital city of the land of Blackmoor. The city was huge and quite overwhelming for the eternal spirit in mortal form, as he was used to the rural roads and farming villages far from this metropolis. And yet, his wanderings had drawn him here, for what purpose he knew not. His further wanderings through the city itself had now led him to the Everflowing Spigot where tonight was planned a celebration of a new brew.

The Kestrel was used to the shadows, not this brightly lit and gaudily decorated place. Soon it would be full of revelers and drunkards. But, her informant had told her that someone with a lead to the Temple of the Frog would be here tonight. He wouldn't provide any details, of course, just that this person would have information she might need and perhaps more.

Ulric Stormborn's mentor, vague and mysterious as always, had told him to come to the Everflowing Spigot tonight. Ulric's mentor had hinted that someone there would be lead him to secrets both forbidden and wondrous. It was up to Ulric to decide to pursue those secrets.

OOC: Please include a physical description of your character in your first post.

 

[Kobold Stew]

At the Captain's instructions, Lillily had saluted with such a rigid sincerity that it was clear she was not taking this seriously. "Aye aye," she affirmed, "I promise to sample all their finest."

And with that she turned and disembarked, pretending to wobble when she first hit the dock, as if finding her land legs. The armour that Lillily wears appear to be cobbled together from different pieces of leather -- belts, mostly, that clearly once belonged to different waistlines. One belt slung over the shoulder also has two shortswords attached to it, coupled and slung over her short back. If she is waiting she will undo one belt and attach it to another, shifting the makeshift armour that she has created for herself. The belts are worn at odd angles as if a child were trying to tie up younger sibling. The sibling, of course, is Lillily.

Lillily is just over three feet tall. From a distance you would say her hair has been braided elaborately but without taste. On closer inspection she has simply been practicing her knots, and in off hours she ties and unties the plaits with her fingers, and does them up again.

Lillily is full of energy, but it is an intense energy, and her shine not with joy and innocence, but betray suspicion. There are several small scars on her face, and she is missing a tooth in her smile -- if she was ever pretty, she is not any more -- and there's a larger one across her throat, that has not healed well.

When she leaves the dock, she heads towards the Everflowing Spiggot. When she gets there she heads to the bar, pulls up a stool, and uses it to climb onto the countertop itself. She sits there, turns around and sits, her feet on the stool, facing out so she can see people coming in over the course of the night.

 

[Brother Dave]

…is that? No. Bran Ravenwood breathed a sigh of relief. Bah! Letting my imagination get the better of me. I’m jumping at shadows now. Still, caution has served me well so far.

A tallish, bowed, lean figure in a dark cloak, Bran stood surveying the crowded tavern from the discrete corner he’d selected earlier, a shapeless hat pulled low over his brow. His features were somewhat slack, his eyes a bit glassy, as if he was a bit lost in his cups but determined to carry on. A first glance would pass over him as insignificant, unassuming, little different from a hundred other slightly inebriated patrons.

A closer look – and few bothered with such an inspection – would reveal details that were misleading at best, designed to give a subtle impression of someone else, someone unimportant, not worth looking twice at – an older uncle, perhaps, or a widower trying to forget for a while. Down on his luck but not destitute. His skin was somewhat pale, dulled and lined with age courtesy of the makeup he had expertly applied less than an hour before. His normally short black hair was dyed with streaks of grey, sporting clever extensions to make it appear longer. A few streaks of grey had been added to his brows as well. His fine-boned fingers toyed absently with the thin grey mustache and small goatee that completed the look.

Satisfied with his inspection, Bran eased away from the corner with a groan, staggering slightly, and made his way unsteadily out of the taproom to the small space he’d been given to prepare for his performance. He allowed the slackness to leave his face as he straightened his back and stretched, working the kinks out, and sat down to remove his boot. He shook out the pebble he had placed there earlier to make his limp appear more realistic, and pulled it back onto his foot. He then made subtle changes to his wardrobe, adding a colorful vest in bright greens and blues, a wide belt, and flipping his double-sided cloak around to reveal the brightly colored yellow and blue liner. Checking his appearance in the burnished pot someone had hung on the wall as a ‘mirror’, he quickly and deftly adjusted his makeup, reducing his apparent age from ‘older uncle’ to ‘distinguished gentleman’.

He retrieved his polished lute from under the bench and checked its tuning with a practiced ear. The performance he had planned for the evening involved both singing and storytelling in multiple voices, and he had a number of rowdy drinking songs he could fall back on. Judging by the crowd tonight – and his own nervousness – he would be breaking them out sooner rather than later. He furiously suppressed another twinge of apprehension that settled in his gut like a cold, hard lump of coal. Nothing to worry about, he told himself ruthlessly. Just another performance, nothing special. And likely to be a lucrative one, too, with the brew flowing so freely.

Bran had been fighting off similar bouts of nerves ever since hearing the rumor that Armiger might be there tonight. He’d successfully evaded the man’s grasp so far, but if he wasn’t careful his luck would run out. If I wasn’t so desperate for coin…. He sighed. But I am. No use denying it. And what are the chances he’ll really show up tonight? Though if I’d heard the rumors before accepting the job, I might have looked elsewhere…or at least taken the job as someone other than ‘Bran Ravenwood, itinerant minstrel’. Mordechai would have worked just as well, and he would never know me in that guise. Even Tessa wouldn’t recognize me in that getup. But the crowd’s expecting Bran, and disappointing them would be more likely to carry my name to Armiger’s ears than carrying on. I’ve grown quite fond of Bran. He’s….comfortable. It would be unfortunate to be forced to retire him.

He listened for a moment, judging the tenor of the crowd. Well, it’s showtime. Steeling himself, he donned a floppy plumed hat, pasted a genuine seeming smile on his face and swept out of the small room and back into the taproom. He strode confidently, his lute slung over his shoulder and his multicolored cloak swirling around his legs as he gestured broadly and exchanged pleasantries with the patrons he had earlier been watching. When he reached the center of the taproom, he turned with a flourish. He gestured subtly, fingering a bit of fleece he had retrieved from his pouch on the way in, and cast a minor glamour which would amplify his voice and make it carry to all corners of the crowded and noisy tavern. He paused for a moment, fingers poised over the strings of his lute, then started into a quick and lively tune to set the mood for the revelers. He picked up the pace as he played, dancing around and acting out the parts of the drunkard and his wife.

”As I went home on Moonday night as drunk as drunk could be,
I saw a horse outside the door where my old horse should be.
Well, I called me wife and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me
Who owns that horse outside the door where my old horse should be?”​

His voice changed to a clear soprano,

”Ah, you’re drunk,
You’re drunk you silly old fool,
Still you can not see.
That’s a lovely sow that me mother sent to me!”​

And then back to tenor.

”Well, it’ many a day I’ve travelled a hundred miles or more
But a saddle on a sow sure I never saw before…”​

The song continued, getting progressively more raunchy, and his gestures and voices progressively more expansive, before ending the song on a final flourish.

”…but hair on a tin whistle sure I never saw before!”​

Bran dropped the glamour as he swept into a bow on the closing line, then stood and caught the eye of a passing waitress. “Thank you, thank you! There’s plenty more where that came from, never you fear, but first I’ll need a small libation to smooth the way!” Accepting a tankard from the girl with a nod of thanks, he started making his way through the crowd, stopping here and there to chat with a patron or tell a tall tale. Occasionally he sipped at the tankard of beer, suppressing a grimace at the taste. He routinely made arrangements with several of the staff to serve him only heavily watered down beer and wine, a habit he had developed to help him keep his senses sharp and his wits about him during performances, but the taste left something to be desired.
[sblock=song]The lyrics are not mine, but were adapted from a version of an old Irish drinking song called “Seven Drunken Nights” by The Dubliners.
The “glamour” was a Minor Illusion cantrip.[/sblock]

 

[Shayuri]

Kestrel sat alone at a table at a remove from the others. The light seemed dimmer there, though it wasn't fair to call it shadowy. She'd avoided the shadows quite deliberately, even though her back and scalp itched to be sitting so openly. She was a slim, somewhat small woman; not far past the point where 'girl' would have been a better term for her. Her skin was a little pale, with her eyes as dark as polished onyx. Her hair was boyishly short and as dark as her eyes. Her clothes were ordinary enough; simple peasant garb in earthtone tan and green. A sharp eye might have noted a little black poking out from under her tunic's sleeve, but it was easy to miss. The same was true of how her twilight grey cloak hung a little oddly, concealing the scabbard she'd belted at her back. She'd lowered her backpack to the floor by her chair, and it at least was just as it seemed.

She scanned the crowd every so often, paying the insipid music of the bard no mind. Kestrel was not here to lose herself in song and drink. She was here to meet someone.

[sblock=Some time ago, in the Quiet Tabernacle]"...and therefore, against my better judgment, I have decided that you will be tested."

Kestrel waited silently. The man before her was older, but not quite 'elderly,' with a tall and thin build and a pinched, narrow face. His eyes were deeply lined, and the bags under them spoke of someone who did not sleep well. He was Minister of Whispers; the official spymaster for the Shade Council, though it was an open secret that each of the Ministers had their own sources of intelligence as well.

In short, he was a man who could end her with considerably less effort than a snap of his fingers. While terrifying, two things kept Kestrel's fear in check. Firstly, that description applied to a great many people in the Tabernacle and the shock value had largely worn off during her time there. Secondly, she had learned a mental trick to help keep fear at bay. As she studied him, she catalogued vulnerable points, crafting an imaginary scenario where she could exploit them each in turn, and destroy him.

He noted her appraisal and while his lips smiled a little, his eyes hardened. "Do you hate me, child?"

"No," Kestrel said immediately. Feint for the carotid artery in the throat; force him to defend. Sidestep with his block and use boot knife to open femoral.

The Minister's eyes glittered with private amusement at how her answer came without hesitation. "Why not?"

"Because hate is weakness," she replied. Steal a sock of his and drop it into the Retriever's cell...

The amusement faded from the Minister's expression and he stiffly handed a roll of vellum to Kestrel. "You can speak the words. Let us see how you act on them."

She unrolled the vellum, thinking. To get the mission directly from the Minister, as just an Initiate, implied things about the assignment that were almost certainly bad. First, it was so secret that he didn't trust a subordinate, like her instructor, to give it to her. Second, it was a test. The Council's tests were notoriously lethal. The barracks had been full of horrible stories that all started with, '...he got a test from the Council.' Third...she had no idea what it meant.

Temple of the Frog.

Kestrel looked up from the vellum. "It doesn't say what I'm supposed to do."

The minister smiled his oily smile. "Consider that the first problem. You are free to leave the Tabernacle. When you have completed your assignment to your satisfaction, return to us here. If you take too long, or if you seem to be making efforts to evade observation, you will be judged disobedient."

"How long is too lo..."

"Lets just say, the sooner you stop whining questions and begin your task, the better. For you."

Kestrel stared at the Minister of Whispers for a long moment. I've heard he's afraid of the undead. Hang a skeleton in his room connected by a line to his doorknob. Hide behind dresser. He comes in, the skeleton 'attacks' him, distracting him long enough for me to get in behind him and kill him.

Finally she nodded, turned and walked out. She dropped the vellum over one of the torch-sconces outside his door as she passed by it. It burst into a puff of flame and smoke, and was gone.[/sblock]

It had taken her the better part of two days of poking around to learn what the Temple of the Frog was, and where to go to learn more. She learned a few other things as well. For one, she'd been trapped in that damned Tabernacle for over two years. It was all sealed off inside, with no sunlight allowed to enter. Keeping track of days quickly became impossible. For another, she'd grown rather accustomed to operating in the dark. Her first few hours in the sun were physically painful to her eyes...and her skin had lost some color.

It had been very hard not to just run. Take her chances and flee. Even knowing about the Retriever, and even knowing the Council wouldn't ever let anyone escape. There was a part of her that wanted freedom enough to die for it.

But another part, a bigger part, felt that freedom to die wasn't freedom at all. It thought she wasn't done with them yet. Not by even a little.

So for now, she had to be good.

The man that Jenny Tickles called The Librarian had been very concise in his assessment of the Temple of the Frog. There was someone who could help her find it, and he would be here. But since she'd only been able to pay for one answer, and didn't have time to get enough for more, he refused to tell her anything else.

That was how Kestrel found herself in an inn she didn't want to be in, waiting for a man she didn't know how to identify to tell her how to find a temple she'd never heard of on the behalf of an organization she wanted nothing to do with.

...what a night.

 

[sithramir]

Taranis walks into the Everflowing Spigot and glances around. Noticing someone that appears to be familiar he heads towards that table.

Short for a human, but tall for an elf, he clearly has some sort of elven heritage mix. As he walks into the taven, he immediately attracts some attention. These aren't the looks of someone you see every day just walking into the bar. A lute strapped on his back and a dueling rapier on his belt, Taranis is wearing studded leather armor and traveling gear. Red and orange colored hair and beard with well groomed curls and green eyes the color or jade. He almost looks picture perfect, except for when he's not smiling it just doesn't look right.

These places are always so familiar. Isn't that Alton over there?...no Andor, Alder....Ander!

Noticing the performer on stage, Taranis smiles with a wave. Always happy to see another one of talent.

Glad I won't be bothered about my lute today. This performer sounds better than most so this might just be an enjoyable night. These heathens are likely undeserving of it anyways.

Walking to a table he begins making conversation and orders a brew.

 

[mudbunny]

Alara entered the room behind a short humanoid with both elvish and human features. She matched him in height, but her scarred hands and haunted eyes contrasted strongly with the smile from the man in front of her. The only thing in common was their hair. As she entered into the tavern, she quickly moved into the shadows. She was not sure why she had to be here, on this day, at this time.

All will be revealed in time is the feeling that she got from Eltab, combined with a mild sense of rules, contracts and bargains.

Looking around, she found a table that had a few chairs free. As she sat down, she whispered an order into the ear of the waitress.

 

[fireinthedust]

Xana Stormborn walked through the doors of the tavern, head covered by a grey wool hood from her cloak, the hem sewn with swirling patterns in black: decorative, complex, but subdued. Her hood shook, and a moment later a bestial face with beady black eyes popped out of the shadows: a monkey with grey fur and purple skin on its face and hands, and black wings on its back. It scurried down off the shoulder of its master, and climbed over the figure's front, then back into the cloak. An amulet was revealed as the monkey rushed into the cloak, one shaped like a crystalline orb with a figure 8 carved into the surface; the orb had a fiery cat's eye warp in the middle that caught the light, flashing as if it was on fire, before once more seeming like plain, clear glass.

Xana was slight of built, smaller than the other patrons, and she seemed to scurry from one spot to another as she walked into the room. Her cloak rustled as the monkey inside climbed around her body.

Odum, hold still! the girl hissed, and limped for a moment as the monkey seemed to be sitting on her leg, then moved back up to her chest.

Well, I'm trying to get comfortable! You keep moving! And I don't like just sitting here while you have all the fun, I want to go explore the world... but those people are judging me, watching me, I can't go out there. I'm hungry. Came the reply, with little hands tugging at her blouse.

Rolling her eyes, the still-hooded figure asked the nearest tavern wench for a meal and some nuts, for the monkey, then hustled to find a corner booth, to sit and wait for... whatever it was that was supposed to "enlighten" her next.

Taking off her hood, Xana revealed the face and body of a beautiful young lady, not quite a woman. She was excessively attractive, despite the large glasses on her nose, of slim build but perfect features. Her skin was fair but with reddish shades, and her eyes glowed like hot coals behind her glasses. Her head was covered by a pointed hat with a wide brim, and two horns coming out of the front, at the same angle as if they were attached to her forehead. Her clothes were a white blouse with a black and grey bodice, while over her arms and hands were knitted grey sleeve-gloves. She kept her cloak around her as if she was cold, but moved her pack next to herself under the cloak. Xana grabbed a thick book, lay it on the table in front of her, and started reading. As she did this, she grabbed some yarn from a belt pouch, and started knitting.

The monkey sat on the table next to her book, peeking at the words, climbing on her shoulder, and peering at the performer on stage. As the serving wench arrived with the food and nuts, he grabbed the bowl.
Thanks he said, and stuffed his face. Bits of nuts fell onto the table, and Odum grunted as he crammed each new handful into his tiny mouth.
The waitress' jaw dropped.
Sorry, he's a nervous eater. Xana said quickly, putting coin on the table, and smiling at the wench.

 

[Herobizkit]

Samara Renae approached the door of the tavern with some trepidation. She had heard the tales from her fellow parishioners - drunken revelry, ladies of the evening, fist-fighting - the mere thought of it made her unintentionally shiver. And the noise, and the volume of people... This would be nothing like her quiet studies in the temple's athenaeum, nor like her treasured moments practicing armatura with her mother.

Her vision was unmistakable, however, and she knew in her heart that she had been Called to do Saint Cuthbert's work. Now was the time to prove her worthiness to the title of Billet.

She ran her hand through her pixie-style blonde hair, cut short for convenience more than style, and she adjusted her russet and gold tunic that identified her as a Cleric. With her slightly pointed ears and emerald-green eyes, she looked moreso an elf than human, and her scale mail looked almost too heavy for her wispy body. She fidgeted with her shield on her back and her belt carrying her mace; she was clearly stalling. Gritting her teeth, she thought, Salvation is better than smart answers, and strode into the bar.

 

[Brother Dave]

Time seemed to drag on this evening. Bran had been through several sets so far, acting out tales, alternating ballads and raucous drinking songs, leading the crowd in songs until his voice started to fail. They can't complain that I haven't given them their money's worth tonight, he thought, his throat dry and his feet and fingers sore. Time for a break. He waved at the crowd, hefted his lute, and headed to the bar.

His gaze lingered for a moment on an uncomfortable looking dark haired girl sitting nervously at a small table by herself. She had a look about her, something familiar. She looked.....furtive? Hunted? He shook his head, laughing at himself. Takes one to know one. Knowing that his attention would probably just make her nervous, he forced himself to look away and move on.

The room was crowded, but Bran finally found an empty stool next to a tough looking gnome lass sitting on the bar itself. Her feet were propped on the stool, and she was leaning back, obviously enjoying her sampling of the new brew. Looks like it's not her first, either. He tipped his hat to her with an amused smile, then gestured to the barkeep for a (watered down) drink of his own and plopped down on the stool, his back to the bar so he could keep an eye on the crowd and the door.

He took a few moments to mentally review his performance, then turned his thoughts to some of the more interesting patrons he'd seen enter the tavern. He'd been on edge throughout his performance, his nerves forcing him to glance with some apprehension at the door every time someone new had entered, and a few of the people who came in stood out in his mind.

The flame-haired man with the lute and the vaguely elven features had drawn most of the female eyes in the room - and quite a few of the male eyes as well. The man had waved a friendly greeting - professional courtesy, he knew, for a fellow performer - which Bran returned absently with a nod. Maybe I should ask him to share a song... No, if he wants to join me on stage I'm sure he'll approach me. Probably just wants to enjoy the premiere in peace.

The man had drawn so much attention that Bran had almost missing the girl who slipped in behind him. Her eyes seemed haunted as she glanced around and quickly moved into the shadows where he'd lost track of her, but her scarred hands and the hints of muscle suggested she could take care of herself. She's a looker, too, he thought appreciatively, though she's no Tessa, he added loyally. Probably has to fight off more than her share of 'admirers'.

Thoughts of Tessa brought his mind back to the threat posed by Lord Armiger. He had mixed feelings about the possibility of seeing him here tonight. He certainly didn't look forward to seeing *him* - or his inevitable guards - but the thought of possibly seeing Tessa on his arm had his heart rate quickening every time he considered it. He sighed, then shook the thought out of his head and went back to pondering some of the more unusual guests.

The most interesting by far was the attractive young Tiefling lass in the glasses and heavy cloak. Not just because she was a Tiefling - they were unusual, but a common enough sight these days. And the cloak itself was worth noting, with its swirling patterns. But the monkey - that was remarkable. You don't see many of those around. There was something odd about its back, too, though he couldn't place it. Based on their behavior, they were obviously very attached to each other.

He looked around the common room, trying to spot them again, and eventually found the monkey sitting on a table, stuffing its mouth full of nuts from a bowl. The Tiefling girl was intently studying a tome in front of her and....knitting?...seemingly oblivious to the activity around her. He raised an eyebrow at the knitting, then smiled in genuine delight as he watched the monkey. Seeing it brought back memories - the good memories, from before he discovered his parents' secret life. One of the stagehands at the theater had owned one, a little smaller than the one here tonight. Well, more like it owned him, he thought, smiling again, remembering the mischief and chaos the creature had caused. His smile slipped for a moment. That life is behind me, now. No sense dwelling on it, he told himself sternly. Still, he couldn't help watching the monkey's antics for a while with a wistful look on his face.

He eventually tore his eyes from the monkey and continued sweeping the room, spotting once again the slim pixie-haired girl with the shield on her back sitting primly at a table. He frowned slightly as he remembered how out of place, how uncomfortable she had looked as she came in. I doubt she's ever been in one of these places before. Probably not a drinker. Wonder what she's doing here at the premier of a new brew, of all times? Must be a story there.

He watched her for a moment more, then resumed his scan until he heard the door open again. His eyes immediately snapped back to the entrance, and he sighed in mixed relief and frustration when he saw it was just a couple of sailors staggering in, looking like they'd already been drinking elsewhere. No doubt they'd be passed out on the floor somewhere before long.

Satisfied he had the lay of the room again, he kept one eye on the door and let his mind drift as he sipped at his watery beer...

 

[KirayaTiDrekan]

OOC: Brother Dave, awesome post, but, for future reference, try not to assume any actions on the part of other PCs (or their familiars, pets, etc).

The braumeister, Stenton, a barrel of a man as wide almost as wide as the double doors he entered through, roared to the crowd in a joyous baritone as he dragged a cart full of kegs behind him, "Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, I bring you Stenton Brewery's new brew, Gold Nectar!"

The bar staff quickly began tapping the kegs and pouring mugs, passing them around as eager beer connoisseurs formed a ragged line.

With all the attention focused around the bar, few people noticed one more person entering the tavern. A haunted looking, slender individual, face obscured by a large hooded cloak. The individual's gender was indeterminate, but their clothes were travel-worn and stained by the blood of many battles. The slender person carried themselves like a warrior who has seen too much of war, the longsword on their back seeming like an unwanted burden.

From under their hood, the person scanned the room, seeking someone. Their eyes, a strange glowing green, meet Alara's, then Bran's, then Xana's, then Taranis', then Kestrel's, then Samara's, then Lillily's, each in turn. They then sit in a dark corner furthest from the beer drinking crowd...waiting.