Old Fezziwig
this is a low-flying panic attack
Of Sound Mind, Session 1, Part 2
18 Kythorn 1372 DR
Overcast, threatening.
Morning at the Elk & Star. Whitman rises early and heads down to the main room and orders breakfast. The rest of the party mills down eventually, Drona spending a little extra time in his room praying to Gorm. Lucille does not show up for breakfast.
Weasel, as is customary, is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Ready for just about anything, he seems to have latched himself on to a tall, handsome stranger dressed in shining armor, tending to a meagre breakfast of bread and water.
"Hi, I'm Weasel. That's quite the sword you have. Someday I want to have a sword like that." The boy continues to fire out questions and observations, until, finally, the man speaks.
"Weasel, I'm Jasper of Lowenstein, holy warrior of Torm. Perhaps, when you are older, and ready to embrace the Might and Glory of the True Faith of Torm, you too may have a Sword. It is a great Responsibility, my Little Friend. The true path of Justice and Righteousness is hard, but no one should fear the retribution of a vengeful god, IF, in their Hearts, they have obeyed Torm's Rightful Law." Jasper's speech continues growing more rhetorical. He reaches to his side and picks up a flag leaning against the wall and unfurls it. Sewn onto the flag is a open palmed gauntlet on a purple field. "Behold, Weasel, the Flag of Justice and the Glory that is Torm."
Weasel beholds. Drona, coming down the stairs, notices Weasel beholding and hurries over to the table. "Excuse me, sir, but you'll have to forgive the boy, he's a little impetuous and a trifle bothersome..."
Jasper smiles benignly. "There is nothing to forgive. Someday this one," he places his hand on Weasel's head, "will be a Great Warrior in the service of Torm."
The poor boy is overwhelmed with ecstatic joy. "WOW! Did you hear that Drona? I'm going to be a warrior in the service of Torm! Will I get a sword like that? Hey! I've got an idea. We're heading to Whiteford, Jasper, why don't you join the group!" By this point, Fagan and Whitman have come over to see what the disturbance is.
Before anyone can say anything, Jasper unsheathes his sword, strikes a glorious pose, and smiles. "Of course, little one. It is, in fact, part of my Holy Quest!"
"Oh, boy!" Weasel runs off and tends to the horses. He's practically skipping. Resigned to the alliance with the knight-preacher, the remains of the party introduce themselves and finish breakfast.
Soon, sometime around midday, the Company is ready to go. All, that is, except Lucille, presumably still asleep. Drona heads up to her room, knocks, and tries the handle. The door, still barricaded, won't budge. "Aye, lass, are ya all right in there?" He hears a groggy affirmative from the other side of the door. "Well then, ye best be getting your things together, we'll be headin' out soon. Time to get a move on." Somehow, Jasper has wandered up and is watching keenly from behind Drona. The knight, however, does nothing and heads back down to the wagons.
Eventually Lucille does show up, hair wet, still groggy, and in a slightly sour mood. Ignoring the fact that everyone is waiting on her, she begins to assemble a small ritual circle with bones, small rocks, and sticks. Finishing the circle, she sits down to meditate. Jasper, horrified, intervenes as Fagan and Drona stand dumbfounded.
He makes a move to scoop up the young woman, and she jumps up and away from the warrior. "My Lady, are you all right? You must be Sick. No worries, I will Protect you. It is, in fact, part of my...Holy Quest!"
Under his breath, Drona mutters to Fagan, "Aye, I'll bet it's part of his 'Holy Quest.'"
After everyone settles down, and after Whitman somehow manages to separate Jasper from Lucille, the Company sets out. The weather, initially dreary, quickly turns for the worse as it starts to rain, heavily. Progress slows, and before long the party has reached farmland and a main road. Whiteford must be close now. As the caravan turns down the road, Fagan spots a clearly frustrated farmer throw down a length of rope. Curious, but skeptical, the party halts the wagons, and starts to consider pulling off the road. Too late, the farmer has spotted them and runs down the road towards them, waiving his arms and yelling, "Heya! Hey there! Ho, how about some help?"
Whitman groans and moves into the back of one of the wagons. He didn't sign up with the Harpers to help farmers plow or sow or whatever they do. There weren't, as far as he remembers, any ancient Netherese farmer-linguists.
The farmer catches up, and, panting, relates his story. In short, he's having trouble getting his horses into the barn. They had been missing, they're back now, but they're a bit unmanageable. If the party could help, the farmer, Othic, would be "mighty obliged." Said horses are currently grazing blandly on some clover at the far end of a nearby field.
After a short debate among themselves, with Whitman and Lucille not wanting anything to do with the problem, the party decides to help out the farmer. Easier said, of course, than done. Fagan, Drona, and Jasper have little to no skill with animals and spend the better part of the hour chasing the beasts around the fields. One of them would get close, almost loop the lasso around the horse's neck, only to have the animal trot off to another part of the field. After multiple tries, the three men decide that since they are, in fact, smarter than the horses, they will outwit the beasts by encircling them and then sneaking up on the surprised horses. This doesn't work either. Eventually, a barely interested Weasel is enlisted by Drona and Jasper to give it a try. The boy drover has much more success, and, soon, Othic is leading the party and his horses back towards his home, promising to cook the group dinner.
Whitman, Jasper, and Lucille head directly into the farmhouse with Othic, while Drona and Fagan take another look at the horses. Each of the horses has a scab on its forehead. Cursory examination of the wounds reveals that whatever caused the wound was forceably entered into the horse on a trajectory aimed directly at the animal's brain. Odd, surely, but the horses seem to be healing well and none of the other animals look to be injured, so no worries. The dwarf and halfling head into the house to the smell of a fresh lamb stew.
"Heya, I'm sure glad you all could help and it's mighty nice to have folk in for dinner. My family, you see, has all but up and moved away, so I'm alone here, just me an' my horses. I'm just cooking up some lamb stew right now, but I've got some fresh bread, a little cheese, and some fresh mead. Just brewed it a day ago."
Drona perks at the mention of mead, gladly accepting the offer. It's good. Really good. Othic, for an amateur brewer, makes an outstanding mead. "Well, Othic, this is a fine mead here. We're merchants, travelling merchants, and if you're game, why don't you meet us in town at one of the inns tomorrow morning. I'd love to buy some of this for us. It's a far sight better than the watered down aboleth-piss they serve over at the Elk & Star."
"I'd be delighted to do so; I'll be in town anyway, so—say now, why don't we have breakfast? It'd be nice to have some civilized, pleasant talk in town for a change. Here we go, lamb stew. Help yourselves, please, there's plenty of it."
"What's wrong with the folk in town?" Fagan asks.
"Well, nothing's wrong with them, they've just been a tad...surly as of late. Grouchy, touchy, you know, a bit henpecked. From what my fieldhand says, folks aren't sleeping right and there's a nasty virus going around, gives folk nasty, pounding headaches. Well, that's what they say, I mean, it could just be me. I get lonely and sometimes I ain't as pleasant as a man should be to his neighbors. Whiteford's been a swell town since the dragon died. Swell town. How's the stew?"
Throughout the meal, Othic and the party talk and eat and talk and eat some more. The stew ends up being not half bad. It isn't as good as the mead, but, truth be told, what is? In addition to finding out that things are generally odd in town (most of the spellcasters, healers and wizards alike have left town for parts unknown), the party discovers that the corpse of the dragon still rests where it was killed, up in the old mines. Lucille can hardly contain herself at the thought of seeing the dragon—"A dragon corpse? I want to go look at it now."
"Lass, ye cannot look at it now, it's late and we need to be getting into town."
The girl frowns. "I'm not going into town."
"What?" Whitman spins around. "Why not? You have to."
"I don't have to do anything. I'm not going. There's a plague there."
"It's actually just some headaches and poor sleep. Not a plague." Fagan returns to his stew.
"It doesn't matter. I've been through this before and I'm not going into town. That's it. Let's go look at the corpse." She smiles hopefully.
"No. We've got business in town, important business." Important sounds an awful lot like a synonym for Harper when Whitman says it. Despite his general lack of responsibility, the older bard manages to add some authority to his voice. He hasn't won the argument, but Lucille's quiet (if a bit sulky) now.
Drona looks at her and frowns momentarily. Then his expression brightens. "Aye, I understand, lass. No worries. So, how about that mead? You look t'be almost done with it. Maybe a bit more?" He offers the pitcher.
Whitman pokes Drona. "What in the hells are you doing? You can't get her drunk; in the mood she's in, getting her drunk will..."
Drona glares at the bard. He whispers to the bard, "Getting her drunk will get her into town, no questions asked. She'll quit whining about the bloody plague and we'll be able to tend to business. So, aye, I can and I am getting her drunk. We'll just have t'make sure t'get her safe in her room before some rogue gets his hands on her."
Whitman nods. Although dubious from an ethical standpoint, the plan has some merit. If we can protect her from ill intentioned locals, it might all work out and no one will be the wiser, excepting the unlikely possibility of a hangover.
Meanwhile, Lucille finishes off another glass of mead as Drona pours her another mug.
Notes: This session, which still has at least one more post to go, took place back in December, I think, so I'm reconstructing it from a rather basic recap I sent to the players and my rather shaky memory. Jasper, in play, really does speak as I've written it above. He's all about capital letters. Certainly. As for his Holy Quest, it's come up at least fifteen times and I don't think any of us are any closer to figuring out what it is. The best I can figure is that it's exceedingly complex.
As for the drunken wizard, we spent a good amount of time trying to talk her into coming into town with us. I can't remember how we got to getting her drunk, but I think it was her player's idea. She nearly made me choke when she started hinting at it. Surprising to say the least.
18 Kythorn 1372 DR
Overcast, threatening.
Morning at the Elk & Star. Whitman rises early and heads down to the main room and orders breakfast. The rest of the party mills down eventually, Drona spending a little extra time in his room praying to Gorm. Lucille does not show up for breakfast.
Weasel, as is customary, is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Ready for just about anything, he seems to have latched himself on to a tall, handsome stranger dressed in shining armor, tending to a meagre breakfast of bread and water.
"Hi, I'm Weasel. That's quite the sword you have. Someday I want to have a sword like that." The boy continues to fire out questions and observations, until, finally, the man speaks.
"Weasel, I'm Jasper of Lowenstein, holy warrior of Torm. Perhaps, when you are older, and ready to embrace the Might and Glory of the True Faith of Torm, you too may have a Sword. It is a great Responsibility, my Little Friend. The true path of Justice and Righteousness is hard, but no one should fear the retribution of a vengeful god, IF, in their Hearts, they have obeyed Torm's Rightful Law." Jasper's speech continues growing more rhetorical. He reaches to his side and picks up a flag leaning against the wall and unfurls it. Sewn onto the flag is a open palmed gauntlet on a purple field. "Behold, Weasel, the Flag of Justice and the Glory that is Torm."
Weasel beholds. Drona, coming down the stairs, notices Weasel beholding and hurries over to the table. "Excuse me, sir, but you'll have to forgive the boy, he's a little impetuous and a trifle bothersome..."
Jasper smiles benignly. "There is nothing to forgive. Someday this one," he places his hand on Weasel's head, "will be a Great Warrior in the service of Torm."
The poor boy is overwhelmed with ecstatic joy. "WOW! Did you hear that Drona? I'm going to be a warrior in the service of Torm! Will I get a sword like that? Hey! I've got an idea. We're heading to Whiteford, Jasper, why don't you join the group!" By this point, Fagan and Whitman have come over to see what the disturbance is.
Before anyone can say anything, Jasper unsheathes his sword, strikes a glorious pose, and smiles. "Of course, little one. It is, in fact, part of my Holy Quest!"
"Oh, boy!" Weasel runs off and tends to the horses. He's practically skipping. Resigned to the alliance with the knight-preacher, the remains of the party introduce themselves and finish breakfast.
Soon, sometime around midday, the Company is ready to go. All, that is, except Lucille, presumably still asleep. Drona heads up to her room, knocks, and tries the handle. The door, still barricaded, won't budge. "Aye, lass, are ya all right in there?" He hears a groggy affirmative from the other side of the door. "Well then, ye best be getting your things together, we'll be headin' out soon. Time to get a move on." Somehow, Jasper has wandered up and is watching keenly from behind Drona. The knight, however, does nothing and heads back down to the wagons.
Eventually Lucille does show up, hair wet, still groggy, and in a slightly sour mood. Ignoring the fact that everyone is waiting on her, she begins to assemble a small ritual circle with bones, small rocks, and sticks. Finishing the circle, she sits down to meditate. Jasper, horrified, intervenes as Fagan and Drona stand dumbfounded.
He makes a move to scoop up the young woman, and she jumps up and away from the warrior. "My Lady, are you all right? You must be Sick. No worries, I will Protect you. It is, in fact, part of my...Holy Quest!"
Under his breath, Drona mutters to Fagan, "Aye, I'll bet it's part of his 'Holy Quest.'"
After everyone settles down, and after Whitman somehow manages to separate Jasper from Lucille, the Company sets out. The weather, initially dreary, quickly turns for the worse as it starts to rain, heavily. Progress slows, and before long the party has reached farmland and a main road. Whiteford must be close now. As the caravan turns down the road, Fagan spots a clearly frustrated farmer throw down a length of rope. Curious, but skeptical, the party halts the wagons, and starts to consider pulling off the road. Too late, the farmer has spotted them and runs down the road towards them, waiving his arms and yelling, "Heya! Hey there! Ho, how about some help?"
Whitman groans and moves into the back of one of the wagons. He didn't sign up with the Harpers to help farmers plow or sow or whatever they do. There weren't, as far as he remembers, any ancient Netherese farmer-linguists.
The farmer catches up, and, panting, relates his story. In short, he's having trouble getting his horses into the barn. They had been missing, they're back now, but they're a bit unmanageable. If the party could help, the farmer, Othic, would be "mighty obliged." Said horses are currently grazing blandly on some clover at the far end of a nearby field.
After a short debate among themselves, with Whitman and Lucille not wanting anything to do with the problem, the party decides to help out the farmer. Easier said, of course, than done. Fagan, Drona, and Jasper have little to no skill with animals and spend the better part of the hour chasing the beasts around the fields. One of them would get close, almost loop the lasso around the horse's neck, only to have the animal trot off to another part of the field. After multiple tries, the three men decide that since they are, in fact, smarter than the horses, they will outwit the beasts by encircling them and then sneaking up on the surprised horses. This doesn't work either. Eventually, a barely interested Weasel is enlisted by Drona and Jasper to give it a try. The boy drover has much more success, and, soon, Othic is leading the party and his horses back towards his home, promising to cook the group dinner.
Whitman, Jasper, and Lucille head directly into the farmhouse with Othic, while Drona and Fagan take another look at the horses. Each of the horses has a scab on its forehead. Cursory examination of the wounds reveals that whatever caused the wound was forceably entered into the horse on a trajectory aimed directly at the animal's brain. Odd, surely, but the horses seem to be healing well and none of the other animals look to be injured, so no worries. The dwarf and halfling head into the house to the smell of a fresh lamb stew.
"Heya, I'm sure glad you all could help and it's mighty nice to have folk in for dinner. My family, you see, has all but up and moved away, so I'm alone here, just me an' my horses. I'm just cooking up some lamb stew right now, but I've got some fresh bread, a little cheese, and some fresh mead. Just brewed it a day ago."
Drona perks at the mention of mead, gladly accepting the offer. It's good. Really good. Othic, for an amateur brewer, makes an outstanding mead. "Well, Othic, this is a fine mead here. We're merchants, travelling merchants, and if you're game, why don't you meet us in town at one of the inns tomorrow morning. I'd love to buy some of this for us. It's a far sight better than the watered down aboleth-piss they serve over at the Elk & Star."
"I'd be delighted to do so; I'll be in town anyway, so—say now, why don't we have breakfast? It'd be nice to have some civilized, pleasant talk in town for a change. Here we go, lamb stew. Help yourselves, please, there's plenty of it."
"What's wrong with the folk in town?" Fagan asks.
"Well, nothing's wrong with them, they've just been a tad...surly as of late. Grouchy, touchy, you know, a bit henpecked. From what my fieldhand says, folks aren't sleeping right and there's a nasty virus going around, gives folk nasty, pounding headaches. Well, that's what they say, I mean, it could just be me. I get lonely and sometimes I ain't as pleasant as a man should be to his neighbors. Whiteford's been a swell town since the dragon died. Swell town. How's the stew?"
Throughout the meal, Othic and the party talk and eat and talk and eat some more. The stew ends up being not half bad. It isn't as good as the mead, but, truth be told, what is? In addition to finding out that things are generally odd in town (most of the spellcasters, healers and wizards alike have left town for parts unknown), the party discovers that the corpse of the dragon still rests where it was killed, up in the old mines. Lucille can hardly contain herself at the thought of seeing the dragon—"A dragon corpse? I want to go look at it now."
"Lass, ye cannot look at it now, it's late and we need to be getting into town."
The girl frowns. "I'm not going into town."
"What?" Whitman spins around. "Why not? You have to."
"I don't have to do anything. I'm not going. There's a plague there."
"It's actually just some headaches and poor sleep. Not a plague." Fagan returns to his stew.
"It doesn't matter. I've been through this before and I'm not going into town. That's it. Let's go look at the corpse." She smiles hopefully.
"No. We've got business in town, important business." Important sounds an awful lot like a synonym for Harper when Whitman says it. Despite his general lack of responsibility, the older bard manages to add some authority to his voice. He hasn't won the argument, but Lucille's quiet (if a bit sulky) now.
Drona looks at her and frowns momentarily. Then his expression brightens. "Aye, I understand, lass. No worries. So, how about that mead? You look t'be almost done with it. Maybe a bit more?" He offers the pitcher.
Whitman pokes Drona. "What in the hells are you doing? You can't get her drunk; in the mood she's in, getting her drunk will..."
Drona glares at the bard. He whispers to the bard, "Getting her drunk will get her into town, no questions asked. She'll quit whining about the bloody plague and we'll be able to tend to business. So, aye, I can and I am getting her drunk. We'll just have t'make sure t'get her safe in her room before some rogue gets his hands on her."
Whitman nods. Although dubious from an ethical standpoint, the plan has some merit. If we can protect her from ill intentioned locals, it might all work out and no one will be the wiser, excepting the unlikely possibility of a hangover.
Meanwhile, Lucille finishes off another glass of mead as Drona pours her another mug.
Notes: This session, which still has at least one more post to go, took place back in December, I think, so I'm reconstructing it from a rather basic recap I sent to the players and my rather shaky memory. Jasper, in play, really does speak as I've written it above. He's all about capital letters. Certainly. As for his Holy Quest, it's come up at least fifteen times and I don't think any of us are any closer to figuring out what it is. The best I can figure is that it's exceedingly complex.
As for the drunken wizard, we spent a good amount of time trying to talk her into coming into town with us. I can't remember how we got to getting her drunk, but I think it was her player's idea. She nearly made me choke when she started hinting at it. Surprising to say the least.
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