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Everything D&D Ever - Chapter 1: Temple of the Frog
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<blockquote data-quote="Brother Dave" data-source="post: 6390175" data-attributes="member: 80003"><p><span style="color: #a52a2a"><em>…is that? No.</em></span> Bran Ravenwood breathed a sigh of relief. <span style="color: #a52a2a"><em>Bah! Letting my imagination get the better of me. I’m jumping at shadows now. Still, caution has served me well so far.</em></span></p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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’.</p><p></p><p>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. <span style="color: #a52a2a"><em>Nothing to worry about,</em></span> he told himself ruthlessly. <span style="color: #a52a2a"><em>Just another performance, nothing special. And likely to be a lucrative one, too, with the brew flowing so freely.</em></span></p><p></p><p>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. <span style="color: #a52a2a"><em>If I wasn’t so desperate for coin….</em></span> He sighed. <span style="color: #a52a2a"><em>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.</em></span></p><p></p><p>He listened for a moment, judging the tenor of the crowd. <span style="color: #a52a2a"><em>Well, it’s showtime.</em></span> 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. </p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>”As I went home on Moonday night as drunk as drunk could be,</em></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>I saw a horse outside the door where my old horse should be.</em></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>Well, I called me wife and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me</em></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>Who owns that horse outside the door where my old horse should be?”</em></span></p><p></p><p>His voice changed to a clear soprano,</p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>”Ah, you’re drunk,</em></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>You’re drunk you silly old fool,</em></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>Still you can not see.</em></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>That’s a lovely sow that me mother sent to me!”</em></span></p><p></p><p>And then back to tenor.</p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>”Well, it’ many a day I’ve travelled a hundred miles or more</em></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>But a saddle on a sow sure I never saw before…”</em></span></p><p></p><p>The song continued, getting progressively more raunchy, and his gestures and voices progressively more expansive, before ending the song on a final flourish.</p><p style="margin-left: 20px"><span style="color: #ffa500"><em>”…but hair on a tin whistle sure I never saw before!”</em></span></p><p></p><p>Bran dropped the glamour as he swept into a bow on the closing line, then stood and caught the eye of a passing waitress. <span style="color: #ffa500">“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!”</span> 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.</p><p>[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.</p><p>The “glamour” was a Minor Illusion cantrip.[/sblock]</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Brother Dave, post: 6390175, member: 80003"] [COLOR=#a52a2a][I]…is that? No.[/I][/COLOR] Bran Ravenwood breathed a sigh of relief. [COLOR=#a52a2a][I]Bah! Letting my imagination get the better of me. I’m jumping at shadows now. Still, caution has served me well so far.[/I][/COLOR] 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. [COLOR=#a52a2a][I]Nothing to worry about,[/I][/COLOR] he told himself ruthlessly. [COLOR=#a52a2a][I]Just another performance, nothing special. And likely to be a lucrative one, too, with the brew flowing so freely.[/I][/COLOR] 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. [COLOR=#a52a2a][I]If I wasn’t so desperate for coin….[/I][/COLOR] He sighed. [COLOR=#a52a2a][I]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.[/I][/COLOR] He listened for a moment, judging the tenor of the crowd. [COLOR=#a52a2a][I]Well, it’s showtime.[/I][/COLOR] 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. [INDENT][COLOR=#ffa500][I]”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?”[/I][/COLOR][/INDENT] His voice changed to a clear soprano, [INDENT][COLOR=#ffa500][I]”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!”[/I][/COLOR][/INDENT] And then back to tenor. [INDENT][COLOR=#ffa500][I]”Well, it’ many a day I’ve travelled a hundred miles or more But a saddle on a sow sure I never saw before…”[/I][/COLOR][/INDENT] The song continued, getting progressively more raunchy, and his gestures and voices progressively more expansive, before ending the song on a final flourish. [INDENT][COLOR=#ffa500][I]”…but hair on a tin whistle sure I never saw before!”[/I][/COLOR][/INDENT] Bran dropped the glamour as he swept into a bow on the closing line, then stood and caught the eye of a passing waitress. [COLOR=#ffa500]“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!”[/COLOR] 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] [/QUOTE]
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