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(IC) Quickleaf's Rime of the Frostmaiden

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“Psh. He can introduce himself, little jerk.”

The raven looks at Mak scornfully, then back at Russet. “I’m Tim. I’m from Accounting.” Tim says in a scornful and vaguely British accent.

“Yeah, got a spell to summon a familiar, and I get one who has to tell me exactly how much gold I'm losing every day. So I make him look like a raven. He doesn’t like looking like a raven.”

“It’s degrading,” Tim says.

“Shut up and keep watch. Let me know if danger is coming and all that.”

“Yes, My Lord.” The raven says the title like a curse, then flies off the table. Two feet away from it, he turned invisible and disappears from sight.

“Don’t mind him. He’s always kind of a jerk. I wonder if the barkeep has a deck of cards…”


Charming. See what's taking him so long with my ale, I'm dying of thirst here.

To Lumrolur: Strange fellah, insn't he. Who's every heard of accounting crows?
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The barkeep-proprietor Scramsax tends to your orders, mentioning, "We've mulled wine and mulled mead with ginger, if you drink to keep the cold at bay. Or we've dark ale and pumpkin hooch, if you need something stronger to keep memories at bay." The drinks are soon served.

After Russet polishes off two drinks in the blink of an eye, Scramsax sets down a tankard of dwarven ale before him. Offering a nod, yet fearing to make eye contact, he murmurs, "Some Dalesfolk remember the Ghostfur of Fireshear."

Overhearing Mak's inquiry about a deck of cards, Scramsax nods his head toward the older dwarven woman in the booth, her heels kicked up with riding spurs still on them. "I know that bounty hunter Hlin has been known to play a hand. That is, if she doesn't take your hand first."
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Russet's jolly mood is broken and he stares into his horn mug. Those dalesfollk should drink more of your ale, barkeep. They should forget me.

A strong gust of wind blows the door in bringing an icy breeze and snow into the dimly lit room. Standing in the doorway with a shocked look on his face is a diminutive figure. In the mist and snow beyond is a large metallic shape with glowing eyes. The gnome scurries into the tavern and grabs the door trying to muscle it closed. As he does the construct slinks in behind him standing protectively over the small gnome.

The gnome is small for his kind, not standing much over 3 feet tall. He looks young, if he were human he would barely be out of his teens. His face is clean shaven, and his unkempt red hair is just visible peeking out of his cloak. He is wearing scale mail which but oddly made from small gears instead of the normal metal disks. A large backpack is strapped to his back. A large monkey wrench is swinging from a loop on his hip.

The thing that drew more interest was the metal construct that followed the gnome. It stood as tall as the gnome at the shoulder. It could only be described as a metal panther. It was made from brass, bronze, and steel with arcane runes carved over the plates. A feint glow emanates from within the beast. Its head scans the room, its eyes glowing an eerie violet.


The gnome moves towards a table that suddenly clears of patrons and takes a seat. The construct looms over him. The gnome seems to finally sense the stares and turns to the beast.

”Ludo lay down. Your making everyone nervous.”

The construct makes a very cat like turn around then settles onto the floor next to the gnomes chair. The gnome smiles at Ludo and pats its head. He then looks around for the barkeep. Spotting him he waves him over.

”Sir, an ale when you have a moment.”

As he waits for his drink he pulls out some small metal bits and bobs and begins to tinker with them. As his drink is dropped at his table the metal bits have been transformed into the beginnings of a bear.
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Seeing the curious construct pulls Russet out of his introspection. He looks at it in wonder. He nudges Lumrolur and gestures towards Ludo D'ya think that things from Accounting too? I should visit.


Zeth Venagelida:

Putting one foot in front of the other Zeth did not stop, even when his destination was in sight. If he stopped it might vanish like a mirage.

Through storm and cold and hunger he'd suffered. Still, he'd made it. What passed for civilization in this frozen wasteland.

Now to determine what his next move would be.


The tavern door was opened again and a frozen figure staggers in from the cold.

Literally frozen, icicles hung from his clothing as if they'd been thawed and refrozen over and over. As if he'd been spat out of Stygia.

Which they had been, Zeth's ability to create fire with magic had been one of the advantages that had allowed him to survive in the cold.

As the inn's warmth thawed his clothing water began dripping off Zeth. Frowning, he mutters an incantation under his breath and moves his hand just so. The water dirtying a cubic foot of his clothing came vanishes. He does this again and again until his outfit is clean.

(OOC: Repeated use of the Prestidigitation spell)

Having made himself as presentable as he could, Zeth staggers to the table Logrim is sitting at and collapses into a chair.

He waves at the bartender vaguely.

"Wine, please...and do you have anything to eat?"

Other than his newly-cleaned clothing, Zeth was a mess. He was gaunt from malnourishment, his flesh hanging loosely from losing weight too quickly, and his pale skin was reddening as the inn's heat warmed him up and got his blood flowing. Looking into his emerald green eyes told another story though. They were cold as ice and sharp as steel, piercing whatever he looked at as he sized up the room. He may be exhausted, but he's far from beaten. Whatever may have happened to him was clearly a setback, but his determination saw him through it.



Alternating between staring gap-mouthed at the construct accompanying Logrim, and scowling at it, the proprietor-barkeep Scramsax seems uncertain whether to invoke the 'no animals inside' policy. He looks around for the sign to point to the Northlook's rule, but can't seem to locate it. Instead, he approaches the common table in a stiff gait.

"Little wine left with the idle merchants since the caravans stopped. I've a mulled wine for 2 silvers. Or a glass of Fireshear icewine for 2 gold," he rests his hand on the edge of the table by Zeth. "For food, if you're not staying upstairs at the inn, I can offer reindeer skewers for 1 silver, elk sausages with mustard for 1 silver, or wild hunter's stew with a side of trout cakes for 5 silver..."
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"Little wine left with the idle merchants since the caravans stopped. I've a mulled wine for 2 silvers. Or a glass of Fireshear icewine for 2 gold," he rests his hand on the edge of the table by Zeth. "For food, if you're not staying upstairs at the inn, I can offer reindeer skewers for 1 silver, elk sausages with mustard for 1 silver, or wild hunter's stew with a side of trout cakes for 5 silver..."
The thought of meat should sicken him more than it did, but Zeth needed food to recover.

Reaching into his purse without pulling it out (Zeth has no desire to make himself a target) he counts out silver coins.

"Mulled wine then. And the stew."

He chuckles.

"I have had an extremely bad week."

His chuckles continue, then turn into weak laughter as he leans back in his chair.

"Worse things at sea, worse things at sea."

Once his food arrives, Zeth finds himself unable to abide by good manners as his hunger consumes him and he quickly devours the meal.

Pacing himself, he tries to steady his mind by reading from his spellbook, which he conjures at his table.

(OOC: He casts Book of Shadows)

A moment later Zeth realizes he's not alone at the table.

Turning to the gnome sitting across from him building some sort of construct Zeth looks him up and down.

"What do you have there?"

(OOC: Zeth is speaking to Logrim Ronwod)

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