The Beginning
Rowlth stands atop a hill, peering ahead down the road ahead. There are rumors that there is a town just two days hence that is in desperate need of a smith - plows unmended, pots patched with mud. It is likely he could find a goodly amount of work there. But it is growing late now, and the road behind has been hard - were it not for Ice Cat's blessings, it is likely he would have starved to death. As it is, he has eaten small game and bird, hoping to preserve the rations he has. He was even beset upon the road by a pair of brigands, attempting to steal his glistening chain shirt he wears. Their bodies lie in an unmarked grave. The caravanserai just ahead looks warm, and seems fairly well frequented - a good place to rest.
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Haradoth takes another sip of ale. His last caravan trip was a fairly good one, but the profits were slim, and the pay wasn't nearly what he was promised. Most of the other guards agreed that this stop would be the last - the old man just couldn't pay them enough to go any further. They set out last night, leaving him to ponder his next journey. The old man is still here, nursing an ale in the corner, and obviously trying to decide his next move. Haradoth shrugs. The caravanserai is warm, and inviting, and road outside is dark, and cold. He looks up as a Giant in banded mail, bearing a well-worn falchion swings the door wide, letting in a burst of cold air, and a few traces of light snow. A faen stands at his side, looking about the room with interest, and muttering what seems to be a prayer to someone...
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Ar-Pharos sighs, and holds the door for the strangely dressed faen. Kyrlis? Kyraelis? Something similar. The faen had said little on the journey for the last few hours, content to walk in silence. Ar-Pharos had met him on the road, his wide steps catching up with the Faen. It seems they were both destined for the same caravanserai, and the faen was small, and travelling alone, so naturally Ar-Pharos had to travel with the fellow, to be sure nothing happened to him....
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Kyraelis surveys the room as they enter, snow blowing about his feet. The warmth of the room is welcome, and he mutters a quick prayer to Arsicus, the goddess of Warm Hearths on Snowy Days while Travelling. There was a odd assortment in the common room - a mojh sat drinking alone in the corner, dressed in soldier's clothes, but no armor, strangely. A pack of Litorians, 4 in number, are jesting loudly in one corner, two of them arm-wrestling with a third calls out encouragement. The giant beside him, himself a faen - nearly all the common races were represented in this remote outpost. Such vagrancies. He stepped in, shaking the cold off, and wondering what Sarsitis, God of Chance Encounters of a Varied Nature had in mind, noticing the two soldiers in the Desgrave's livery sitting at a far table, seeming to be waiting for something....
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Rupert looks back over his shoulder again. He's certain that a semi-sizable party is behind him on the road, but he can't ever catch sight of them. But there have been several outriders, outfitted in the Desgrave's livery, riding ahead to the caravanserai in the past hour, so something is occurring. Still, a warm fire and a good meal are always available, and the peace of the caravanserai is rarely broken. Morudai, the woman that runs this place, is a good woman, and she doesn't tolerate lawlessness. Her two giant enforcers help that as well, he supposes. And it will only be perhaps 5 more minutes before he is there, ready to order the roasted hen....
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Xen considers the room he has taken. It is of average quality, clean, but not particularly well-furnished or cozy. Still, the inn-keep was quick enough to offer it, and a discount as well. A champion of death often unsettles people. That he was Verrik as well seemed only to heighten her discomfort. He paid the fee, and took the room, laying out his things, and perform several rituals, as he often did. He supposed that he should head downstairs and partake of a meal, or at least some bread and wine. And figure out where he was going to go next.