The Mist and the Moon

The Adventure Begins

Twilight darkened the clouds over the Mistral Verge as the second day of the Febtain Moon drifted toward the third day, via interceding night. Four travelers were abroad in the rugged hills, each for his own reasons. Millathos Faimaine, a halfling bred of the cities far from the Verge, made his way painfully through the thistles and gorse, looking for a suitable place to make camp. He glared up at the crest of the hill before him, and muttered to himself, “It may be a steep climb, but mayhap I can spot a road or a village from the hill’s crown.” He continued laboriously up the north face of the hill.
Jarsan Hallaser, doughty cleric of Dagnos, hummed as he worked his way up the south face of the same hill, confident that Great Dagnos would eventually provide a tavern and a foaming tankard of ale.
On the west face of the hill, Xes Caradtor paused warily, leaning on his quarterstaff to listen. Someone nearby was whistling, and the wind carried the sound. Xes took a moment to slip a leather hood over the head of the hawk sitting regally on his shoulder, in case the bird should cry out, then increased his speed to the top of the hill, stepping from one rock easily to the next, leaving virtually no trace of his passage.
On the east face of the hill, a yellow pony named Britengriseling, reins slack in the hands of a sleeping gnome, wandered up the hill, scenting barley or hops somewhere toward the south face of the hill. Britengriseling may not have seemed much to the eye, but he was a pony descended not merely from the strong shaggy ponies of the Moonfallows, but on his grandsire’s grandsire’s grandsire’s side from a warhorse (a tribute to the industry of his grandsire’s grandsire’s grandsire, and to the mountain ponies of the Moonfallows generally). Hence, as four people, one pony and a hawk stepped simultaneously into each others’ view (again, with the exception of the hawk), only Xes and the pony Britengriseling expected anything of the kind to happen, and Britengriseling was the least surprised. Britengriseling’s soft chuffing awakened the gnome Froedrich just before cresting the hill, and with the reflexes of the barbarian, Froedrich’s eyes were bright and alert as the unusual group stepped into view.
Perhaps the strangest thing, however, was not the simultaneous appearance of the four travelers, for a fifth person already stood upon the crest of the hill. A campfire has been laid but not lit, a frying pan sits next to the woodpile, and a man with a broad, open face is looking glumly up into the branches of one of the few trees on the hilltop. In the topmost branches of the tree, there is a dead stag. There is also a grappling hook badly snagged in the branches near the buck.


OOC: You may (and perhaps should, if you can work it in) include a physical description of your character in your description of your response. For reference, I am including a map of the Mistral Verge with this post.

Considerable campaign information, including world maps, pantheons, and country descriptions are located at http://mythmere.tripod.com/index.html

ooc
Here's the map

As 'Milo' clears the horizon of the hill simultaneously with the others he is probably the last one noticed. Shorter than most Swords (36 inches) and lighter than all but empty casks (36 pounds) when he is noticed it is not due to his imposing nature. He is dressed in traveller's gear with backpack that seems sloppily packed (It is, in fact, very organized, however Milo doesn't want anyone to know how he really thinks)

He appears with a big grin, cobb pipe in his mouth (not lit) when he sees the spontaneous souire'. "Well, the fates have done it again. It seems that there is always something bright in my life, even when the sun goes down. I hate eating alone...although 'tis better than not eating at all...and now fate gives me others to break break with. Is anyone else hungry, or is it just me...A long walk always makes me hungry...Then again, most things make me hungry. (Looks at the fifth man, the one in the middle) Mind if I sit here"

With that Millathos "Milo" sits down with out waiting for an answer and begins to pull food from his pack "Who wants some dried meat..anyone...how about an apple, I know I have one in here somewhere..."

While doing that Millathos will look closely at the group in hopes of seeing friendly reactions. If not, a dagger or three are never very far from his hands


GE

The Gnome was dressed in brown leathers, over a Breastplate of steel. A Green hat trailed a long tail down Froederick's back, this offset by his pointed ears and the whisps of blond hair poking out here and there. A pack, several small parcels and bedroll were upon the pony that the Gnome rode, along with a bow and quiver. Slung in a saddle-sling was the haft of a large battle axe, this close at hand for the Gnome. The pony himself looked every bit a miniature Warhorse,snorted,
smelling the Stag in the tree.
"Ho, Britengriseling!"
The Gnome stopped, taking in the scene before him.

"What an odd camp, Brit,
where the fire be unlit,
and yon Man looks perturbed as can be
P'raps to aid, I'll inquire,
though his plight's hardly dire
-breakfast just seems to have climbed up yon tree"
The pony looked back at the Gnome and snorted twice.
"Yes, well nobody asked you, did they?" Huffed the Gnome, riding forward into the camp while mumbling about unsolicited opinions.
"I say good Fellow", Froederick adresses the Man, "might you need a bit of help?"

"Twas a good verse, to my ears," offered the large cleric. Only the silver cup marked the man as such, however. Tall and thick, well-armored and well-armed, he had the look of a mercenary, but there was a spark of something a bit deeper.

"This be not a tavern," he continued, "but surely we can all dine together and offer up a cup to the glory of Dagnos just as well. I am Jarsan."

The man on the hill seemed neither surprised nor put out by the sudden increase in the hill’s populace. He glanced around at the newcomers, and grinned.
“Luck of the whale to you all,” he beamed. “Master halfling, Master gnome, Cleric of Dagnos, Master woodsman.” His attention wandered back to the stag in the tree, and he sighed. “It seems that my dinner has strayed. A griffon dropped its prey, and the tree broke its fall, but it didn’t come all the way down. I would be most willing to share if the four of you have the wherewithal to, er, get it down.” He paused again, still looking at the tree, and mumbled abstractedly, “My name is Kerdelnus.” He scratched absently at the torc around his neck, a hank of green hair bound in silver wire, then tugged again at the grappling hook. To the surprise of the four adventurers, the grappling hook fell away freely, though it had appeared hopelessly snarled. Kerdelnus, however, seemed to take it as a matter of course, and began to coil the rope around his elbow.
“Are you headed for the village?” he asked, apparently somewhat brightened by the recovery of his grappling hook.

OOC Just to move the intro along, I’ll assume that Xes remains silent for the moment
Galtic characters click
here for some background information

"Greetings, Master Kerdelnus!" replied Jarsan. "Surely it is the luck of the whale which has brought us together."

"If the village has a tavern, and what village doesn't, than that be my destination. However, if I can aide you with your dilemma, I will gladly do so."

"Tavern...did someone say 'tavern' ...Luck o' the whale, indeed! First, new friends to break bread with then fresh (?) meal and someone who can point to the nearest tavern. Luck o' the whale, indeed."

With that, Milo puts down his pack at the foot of the rock he was sitting on, carefully balances his apple and dried meat on top of his things and scurries up the tree (careful to keep hidden the daggers on his body).[climb +8] He will cut the stag free and then lower himself down

Assuming this goes well...

"Who'll cook this fine offering?"

Xes breaks his silence, seeming to appear unbothered by the string of oddities.

"I'll be willing to roast the beast, if there are no objections?"

Not waiting for a response, he pulls a pair of stones from the pocket of his weathered leather pants and immediately sets about striking a spark. When one catches and the fire begins to burn healthily, he replaces the stones in his pocket and sets about carving the dead stag.

"I had not intended to be traveling towards the village, but with food already available," he says, punctuating 'food' with a particularly vigorous chop, "I'll have little else to do for the day."

"So, what brings you out into the forest? Mere wanderlust, or perhaps you are seeking someone? I know these woods very well, and could perhaps facilitate your quest."

[OOC: Sorry, I had intended to reply immediately after the correction to my character, but I couldn't think of what to write, so I did some other work for about an hour and then came back to find my internet connection down. ]

“Oh, I’m on no quest,” Kerdelnus responded, turning to the hitherto taciturn Xes and once again smiling with an infectious good humor. “I like to wander about, and Magog sees me through. I do a bit of tinkering work here and there. I would have been going to Banlorne, the hamlet across yon meadows, but I find that I dislike the feel of things in that direction. Accordingly, I intend to try and find the High Mistral Road and travel either to Marbolg or to Haarkongeld. In all honesty, I should say that I have been trying for a day to find my way toward the road. The landscape’s drifting more than usual, hereabouts. It’s fey work, that’s for certain. It occurs to me that a well-armed party of adventurers such as yourselves might find good work in Banlorne right about now.”

OOC: Chonicler - no problem, you said you couldn't post so frequently. I ran on ahead to get the story moving.