Legacy of the Minotaur

[arwink]

An NPC Interlude

Paryn stands by the stairs, staring at the assembled adventurers with his good eye. They're clustered around the second secret barrel, the first left open for all the world to see.

"Amatuers" he thinks to himself. "The Old Company wouldn't have been so silly."

He folds his arms and glares, reminding himself for the fifth time that this is what the Minotaur's wanted even if he doesn't necessarily agree.

"Ye shouldn't be pokin' 'round like that," Paryn orders. "It 'tain't safe."

"Ye said there was bein' a key," the bald one says. "Seein' as we be ownin' the inn, do you think perhaps we could be havin' it?"

Paryn squints at him. He looks like Barrel, no doubtin' than, and he has much the same manner as his uncle.

"I ain't got one," Paryn grunts. "Yer uncles and aunts did, and so does the Baron. If ye be wantin' it, ye can go ask him to hand it over. He'll be happy to, iffen he be thinkin' yer worthwhile inheritors o' the companies legacy."

"This is good," the northerner says. "We can show him strange papers, yes?"
"Maybe," Paryn grunts.
"What are we needing to be doing?"
"You be needin' to impress me," Paryn says. "And I ain't impressed yet. If ye be worthy, and I doubt it, I'll tell him to hand over the key. 'Til then, leave the door alone. Ye ain't ready to open it no-how."

One eye faces off against eight, all of them barely concealing the emotions behind them. In the end, the deadlock is only broken when Paryn picks up a fresh barrel of ale and starts carrying it upstairs.

"Do what ye will," he says. "I got me a tavern to run...for yer profit."

Paryn does his best to stomp on every stair as he climbs back towards the taproom, but his feet barely whisper against the stone once he's out of sight. An ear is tipped towards the crack of the door, listening to the debate below.

It doesn't take long for the debate over what they're going to do is done, and the sharp crack of breaking wood drifts up the stairwell. The northerner has ripped the barrel free of the wall, opening the doorway in the most direct of manners.

For a moment, it occurs to Paryn that this is exactly what Victor would have done. A faint pang of hope settles into his heart.

Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.

He hefts the barrel over his shoulder and continues towards the bar. Hopefully, the screaming wont be loud enough to disturb the patrons...

 

[Graywolf-ELM]

I really enjoy the perstpectives of NPC's and characters. This is an odd group. I look forward to reading more.

GW

 

[arwink]

Tovaritch has his back pressed against the ladder, arms spread wide in an effort to placate the creature in front of him. The wolf looms over him, standing nearly half the northerner's height. Tovaritch considers the wolfs size, the length of the passage between the ladder and the vault door on the far side of the room, and reaches one hand back to grasp a rung. It's brushed away almost instantly by Hop and Grroulth climbing into the room at speed, both of them alerted by the Barbarian's cry of suprise.

Although both of them are reaching for weapons as they turn from the ladder, neither of them actually clears their blade.

"That's a very large wolf," Grroulth comments. His hand rests on the haft of a battleaxe at his belt. Almost on reflex, he adjusts his grip and licks the air with a wolfish tongue. "I smell fear."

"Da," Tavoritch says simply. "I thought it appropriate."

"Don't," Grroulth warns. "We had creatures this size in the Broken Lands. If they sense weekness, they're liable to attack."

"That works the, does it?" Hop asks. "The not being afraid?"

Grroulth considers this for a second, his head to one side.
"No, not really. But it is a less cowardly way to die."

"Why isn't giant wolf attacking?" Tavoritch asks. "I have been waiting for it to spring."

"It's guarding," Hop tells him. "Watch."

He reaches a hand towards the gaint wolf, and the creatures growl gets deeper. As he pulls the hand away, the rumble subsides to a steady warning.

"Well trained," Hop says. "Just like the dogs we used back home."
"Do we fight it?"

Everyone glances back, looking at Evanna. She stands behind the three men, almost forgotten in the presence of the looming wolf.

"I would like to be seeing what is behind big door," Tovaritch says. "But I am not wanting to loose hand."

"Or life," Grroulth adds.

Evanna nods for a second, then pulls a handful of sand from a pouch at her side. A soothing litany of words passes through her lips as she lets the sand drift through her fingers.

"Just so you know lass," Hop begins, "I don't think that magic is going to do much against..."

Evanna points at the giant wolf, which immediately slumps to the side and begins to snore."

"...that thing."

EVeryone looks at the wolf, slumbering peacefully. Every now and then its legs and mouth twitch, snapping at dream phantoms no-one else can see.

"How long will it sleep?" Grroulth asks.
"A minute at most."
"Then lets check that vault door fast."

 

[arwink]

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

Gerbo groaned, pulling the inn’s thin pillow over his head to block out the noise.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

“Wake up, we know you’re in there!”

Obviously, ignoring the young heirs wasn’t going to be an option. Gerbo slid out of his bed, smoothing his silk nightclothes and fumbling for his glasses. A hand swept through his thinning hair, trying to dignify it as best he could, but another series of heavy blows on the door prevented any further grooming.

“I’m coming,” he called. He could hear the rumbling voice of the Norworlder on the far side, followed by the bestial growl of the gnoll. With a sigh, he opened the door.

“Yes?”

All four of them were there, flustered but not wounded. It was, Gerbo supposed, a good start.

“Why do we not get the key?” the barbarian asked. He was shorter than the others, but his wide shoulders made him more imposing. Had it not been for his years of experience in the cutthroat world of Specularum law, Gerbo was sure he would have been quaking beneath the fury of the Norworlder’s glare.

“Which key?” Gerbo asks.

“To vault downstairs. One-eyed barmen say he say when we can enter. There is big wolf guarding door, and inn has made no money in five years. We want to know what is going on here, little person.”

Gerbo signed.

“Come in,” he said, throwing the door wide. “I’ll gather the relevant papers.”

 

[Lefferts]

Bump - any Yips home?

 

[arwink]

Gerbo adjusted his glasses, staring down at the print on the paper. A stubby finger stabbed at a line on the fourth scroll, underlined faintly with a slash of red ink.

“Here it is,” he said. “My, completely forgot about this clause.”
“What clause little person?”

Tovartich was starting to get belligerent.

“The tavern, and all profits it makes, are indeed yours,” Gerbo explains. “But beneath the tavern is an area labeled the legacy, which is to be passed on only when you have proven yourself worthy of the Company and their Deeds.”

“Who decides that then?” Hop asks. “Seems a bit vague, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” Gerbo says. “It says here that there must be an agreement between two men. The first is the current Baron Kislev, the second is Master Paryn down in the bar.”

Gerbo looks up from the papers, placing his glasses back in the pocket of his vest. None of the young people standing around him look particularly pleased.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to impress both men if you want what’s underneath the tavern. Otherwise those rooms, and all its contents, are to administered for the good of the community as Master Paryn sees fit.”

***

It’s six in the morning, and Evanna is not in bed. She’s not entirely sure she follows the logic of it, but rather than sleeping off her first few glasses of ale, she’s instead walking along a dirt road looking at the furry back of the gnoll. Somewhere up the trail, Hop and Tavoritch are checking for potential ambush by goblin forces. Hop has his bow out, a fist-full of arrows clenched in his hand. Tavoritch just keeps the big axe handy, his long hair tied back to keep it from falling into his face while fighting.

This, apparently, is the best way to impress Master Paryn. Getting out of bed, and making a foray into a den of monsters the locals call the Caves of Chaos. It wasn’t exactly enough to get the one-eyed barman to smile, or even be nice, but he did hand over a few potions of healing and mumble something about making sure they didn’t die.

On the whole Evanna can’t help feeling it would be better to sell the tavern and be done with whatever is underneath it, but the gleam in her companions eyes says that’s never going to happen.

Hop is suddenly next to her, a hand on her arm. She snaps out of her haze, noticing for the first time that everyone is readying weapons.

“Just up there,” Hop says, pointing to a fork in the path. “It leads into a valley with caves across its walls. Floor full o’ bones and markings on the wall in goblin. Probably the place.”

“How many caves?” Evanna asks. She flashes back to Paryn’s warnings that there are goblins and kobolds in the lower caves, but much worse creatures as well. Goblins she can handle, a lifetime in Fort Doom does that, but she knows enough to be scared of the word bugbears even if the others do not.

“Thirteen or so,” Hop explains in a whisper. “It’ll be daylight in a few minutes, so most o’ them should be asleep. We’re going to sneak into the first cave we come across.”

“Then what?”

“Then, little babushka, we kill the monsters inside,” Tovaritch says. He’s tightening his arm greaves. Grroulth just flashes her a canine smile, taking experimental swings with his axe.

 

[Capellan]

"Thirsty work, all this walkin'. Probably get even thirstier soon, what with the monster killin' 'n' all. Anyone care t' join me for a drink, before we start?"


- Hop

 

[Mathew_Freeman]

Mine's a pint.

 

[Graywolf-ELM]

A pint sounds good to me. I'll buy the first round. They closed "The Blue Corn" and are opening a micro brewery just down the road from work.

GW