Raising her brows towards Russet, the old dwarf shakes her head, "They're Battlehammer." As if that explains everything. "By the rough shape of them, they look like they need help more than they need work."
After a long pull on her pipe, Hlin explains in a low voice, "Those dwarves were part of the last shipment of iron ingots from the Dwarven Valley. Clan Battlehammer is closing off their halls, whether it's from the cold or from dangers beneath the earth, who knows. Most of the dwarves in Bryn Shander are packing up their things to hole up in the Valley. Not me though. Besides, no good bounties to hunt in the Valley."
"Russet! You old warren-dodger," Jack greets, fluttering over to the harengon, with a hearty laugh that belies his small stature. "The last time I saw you, you were in a face-off with a whole gang of brigands and insisted you were just stretching your legs." Jack winks at Russet and flutters onto the bar, signaling the bartender for two ales.
He slides one of the ales over to Russet, a grin spreading across his face. "And look at that, I do recall an outstanding ale debt. It's your lucky day indeed!" Jack’s laughter is bright and effervescent like bubbles in the frothy ale. "Here’s to good fortune, and to always finding our way back to each other, in taverns, in tussles, or in the heart of blizzards." These words carry a deep-seated sentiment that contrasts from Jack’s usually carefree and flamboyant demeanor. Yes, here was a true friend, and Jack would go to the ends of Faerûn to ensure that his Russet’s luck finally turned around. He certainly owed him more than an ale, considering that Russet had saved his very life up in the mountain pass.
Jack’s face takes on a playful smirk. "Just make sure, my good Russet, that you don't trip over any rabbit holes in your excitement, okay?" he teases, knowing full well of the fighter's solid footing and agility. As he clinks his ale mug against Russet's, a sparkle in his eye shows his genuine affection and concern for his friend.
For a moment, there's a forlorn glimmer in the battle-scarred dwarf's eyes as she gazes toward the hearth. Jack's entrance, however, quickly changes her expression to an unmistakable blend of exasperation bleeding into a roguish smile she can't help spreading across her face. "If it isn't Jack Everfrost," motioning toward Jack with her pipe, Hlin wags her finger. "The last time I saw you - how did you phrase it? - you were engaged in a snowball fight 'to the doom' with invisible 'frost sprites'? And the snowballs juuust happened to hit a town's Speaker, two merchants, and three frontiersmen?" There's a touch of sarcasm to her voice as if frost sprites aren't a real creature, despite the wintery fairy right before your eyes.
"Yes, it's about the murders, Jack." She lowers her voice here, not wanting to draw undue attention and hinting at a prior conversation between her and the fairy. "I was able to convince Sheriff Markham that you had nothing to do with them," she says, before adding wryly, "this time."
Addressing the rest of the group, she nods down to the fairy. "Jack can keep you forewarned of winter storms and knows a bit of magic that helped me catch one of my bounties. Just don't let him cheat you at cards." Nodding toward Jack, she gestures for him to join the table, "Timely arrival per usual, Jack. What kept you up? Have to jump a candlestick?"
Jack listens to Hlin's recounting of his exploits with a grin that stretches from ear to ear, wide enough to fit a whole day’s worth of laughter in it. His twinkling hazel eyes twinkle with merriment as the dwarf recounts his snowballing antics. He chuckles and flutters his wings in a way that sends tiny flecks of frost to dancing in the air.
"And who, dear Hlin, ever said that a snowball fight 'to the doom' couldn't be an effective method of diplomacy? At least those merchants won't forget our encounter anytime soon!" Jack retorts, his voice light with amusement. His mirth is infectious, bubbling out and spreading throughout the tavern. Tipping an imaginary hat, he adds, “Invisible frost sprites or not, at least it wasn’t a snowball to your lovely head, now was it?”
“And jumping candlesticks? Oh, darling Hlin, you give me too little credit," he says as he settles into a seated position in a seemingly invisible chair at the table, his voice warm with affectionate teasing. "Candlesticks are far too pedestrian for my taste. I prefer to hop over disgruntled ice mephits, really gets the heart pumping."
As Hlin recounts the recent murders, Jack’s face grows serious.
Some while later, once he is sure they wouldn’t be overheard, Jack leans in closer to Russet, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "This one, eh?” he nods towards Mak, “loaded with gold and looking for a way to lighten his purse? Not as loaded as that lot, though…” with a discreet nod discretely in the direction of the Mintarn mercenaries.
“A few games should do the trick. Not to worry, I'll make sure our new friend Mak and I have plenty left to buy the next round."
As Jack turns to Mak, his grin widens. "Y'know, Mak," he begins, leaning against the table with an ease that belies his diminutive size, "I have a proposal for you." He gives the man an assessing look, as if sizing up his potential for mischief. "See those fellows over there?" He subtly gestures towards the Mintarn Mercenaries, a group of burly individuals who seem to have as much love for gold as they do for brawling. "They look like they could use a little excitement. A game of cards, perhaps?" The glint in Jack's eyes is pure mischief as he shuffles his deck of cards, a soft rustle that fills the space between them, "And I'm thinking, you and me, we could give them a run for their money. A bit of team play, if you will. What do you say, Mak? Fancy a little friendly competition with the Mintarns? Remember, the game’s not always about winning. Sometimes, it’s just about having fun and making a few friends… and if we win some gold while we’re at it, well, that’s just the icing on top!"
The jocose fairy flutters towards the mercenaries, his confidence undaunted by their hulking figures. He addresses the table with an air of casual nonchalance that contrasts starkly with their hardened features. "Good evening, gents!" He greets, raising a tiny hand. "Might I join you?"
His eyes skim over their table, landing briefly on the youth in the ermine-lined robes. The sparkle of the diamond-shaped brooch draws Jack’s attention. A good gamble always needed an intriguing prize, after all. "Quite a sight you all are, hardened warriors with a sense of style. Tattoos, mother-of-pearl sword pommels, and splendid scale armor! My friend and I were just discussing who among the tavern patrons could possibly match our love for a good card game and, I must admit, you seemed the most formidable opponents. Well, not opponents so much, rather fellow sportsmen, sharing a round of jests, tales, and cards."
Jack spreads his deck in a magnificent flourish, an array of colorful cards that shimmer in the tavern light. "Now, a small wager wouldn't hurt, would it? A bit of harmless fun to make the game more exciting?" He locks eyes with the mercenaries, his gaze resolute. "Unless, of course, you’re worried that you might not be as fortunate at cards as you are in battle. I’d hate to think you might be, ah... timid. Surely, a group of brave Mintarn Mercenaries wouldn't be so fainthearted as to shy away from a friendly game?"
A teasing lilt carefully embedded in his words, Jack’s voice rings as smooth as the finest honeyed mead. The challenge had been set. To decline would be to question their courage and audacity, and Jack can’t help the twinkle in his eye as he awaits their response.
Rolled 24 Persuasion while attempting to convince the mercenaries to join us for some wagers over card games.
At the exuberant invitation, the mercenaries are quick to direct their attention from rough humor and battle tales to the swaggering fairy. The blonde youth rolls his eyes at their marveling at Jack, closing the book he was studying with an audible 'thud' as he rises to excuse himself. "That's my cue. We leave early in the morning. If you value your commission, don't be late. And try not to let him take all your coin." Arching his brow at Jack, the blonde young man slips past and heads upstairs to the inn portion of the Northlook.
Laughing in wonderment at the invitation from such an unusual creature, one of the mercenaries pulls up a chair for Jack, placing an extra worn pillow atop it to compensate for his height. "You're a little fellow, but you have..." he gestures pendulously with both hands, "...of brass. I am Thidrik Steingrimsson. My cousins Ottar and Osvic, and the rest of the guys."
The other mercenaries with their luxuriant hair and expensive armaments offer toothy grins, waves, and raised tankards. Some of them gesture to Jack and whisper words in the Illuskan language (Nordic) as if trying to guess what sort of creature he is.
"What do you call yourself, little fellow? And what game did you have in mind to forget these long winter nights? Whist? Elemental Empires? Three Dragon Ante?" He rattles off a few of the card games he's played on ships and on shore.
Laughing in wonderment at the invitation from such an unusual creature, one of the mercenaries pulls up a chair for Jack, placing an extra worn pillow atop it to compensate for his height. "You're a little fellow, but you have..." he gestures pendulously with both hands, "...of brass. I am Thidrik Steingrimsson. My cousins Ottar and Osvic, and the rest of the guys."
The other mercenaries with their luxuriant hair and expensive armaments offer toothy grins, waves, and raised tankards. Some of them gesture to Jack and whisper words in the Illuskan language (Nordic) as if trying to guess what sort of creature he is.
"What do you call yourself, little fellow? And what game did you have in mind to forget these long winter nights? Whist? Elemental Empires? Three Dragon Ante?" He rattles off a few of the card games he's played on ships and on shore.
Turning to Thidrik, Jack's gaze appraises the man's impressive armor. "Thidrik Steingrimsson, your armor is quite the spectacle. Impeccable craftsmanship, akin to the intricate patterns of frost on a winter's morn."
Then he nods at Ottar, eyes dancing over the man's vibrant tattoos. "And Ottar, I've seen many a story inked onto skin, but the tales your tattoos tell... They're sagas of the seas, battles, and honor, aren't they? Truly a living testament to your courage and exploits."
Lastly, Jack addresses Osvic, his gaze settling on the mother-of-pearl gleaming on the man's weapon. "Ah, Osvic, your steel has the elegance of a frost-covered dawn, truly mesmerizing. The way that mother-of-pearl catches the firelight... It's like dawn breaking over a frosted sea. A fitting symbol for a warrior, wouldn't you say?"
He turns his attention back to the mercenary leader. “You’ve a keen sense indeed, Thirdrik. Most I've met are unaware they are, in fact, entirely of brass…” Jack’s eyes widen as he reaches down below his belt. “My bountiful brass flask!” He grins from ear to ear. “Filled with the chilliest fairy nectar you could ever taste. A swig of that, and it feels like you've bitten into the heart of a winter apple - cold, crisp, and tantalizingly sweet."
“Call me Jack Everfrost,” he chirps while fluttering onto the pillow-top chair. “The EverFrosty. Jack of all Chills. The Blizzard Bluffer, if you fancy that one." The fairy gives a dramatic flourish of his snowy white cape.
"I've been known by all sorts of monikers in my day, each with their own wondrous tale. Mind you, back in the feywild, a name can earn you quite a reputation.
“Everfrost, you say? That's because I once played a game of cards atop an iceberg with a white dragon. Nearly froze my wings off, but I won and got away just in time!" Jack strikes a triumphant pose, wings fluttering with glee.
“The EverFrosty? That one's from a game of riddles I played with a Winter Eladrin. It got so cold, even my jokes froze mid-air. She chuckled so hard, she caused a blizzard. Hence, The EverFrosty.” Jack shrugs as if this happens all the time, smirking at the disbelieving but amused faces of the mercenaries.
“And the Blizzard Bluffer? Well, let’s just say I once convinced a brood of frost giants they were suffering from snow-blindness during a perfect sunny day. All in a day’s work for Jack Everfrost.” He chuckles, clearly delighting in his own storytelling.
"Anyhow, enough about me. Let’s get back to the main event. Three Dragon Ante it is! A game as wild as the dragons themselves, perfect for such a spirited group and so many players all at once. Let’s keep it friendly, shall we? At least a modest buy-in of say... one gold piece? Unless, of course, you're as fearless as you are bold? Or let's dare antes as high as five gold apiece? But I must warn you, that's all I have at the moment. Blame it on my frivolous fairy nature. It’s the thrill of the game I’m after, not the gold!” His eyes twinkle with unspoken mischief, a clear challenge to the mercenaries. After all, what kind of Mintarn Mercenaries would they be if they backed down from a dare issued by a half-pint fairy?
Alma silently watches Jack flutter off towards the table with the mercenaries. Her attention catches on the journal the blond man is holding, and her eyes follow it when he gets up and retires from the hall towards, presumably, his room. When he's out of sight, she snaps back to the table. Then suddenly stands.
''Well. If we're going to wait for them to play card games, I will go speak with the leads in the bar. Those two in the blue robes, they seem to hold some social standing. Is either one of them the Sheriff? Also, if anyone wishes to accompany me, I've been told I can be very offputting to strangers.''
Russet watches Jack in his element. He can't help but smile and his legs twitch restlessly under the table. Jack's energy is contagious and soon Russet leaps from his table, clumsily knocking over a barstool. He puffs out his chest and strides confidently, but swaying, to the bar.
Barman! Buisness is booming I see! No doubt because of your fine ale. I'm sure everyone who passes through town comes for a sup. You've told of your fine memory, let me put it to the test.
He tries to channel Jack's silver tongue, but he was never very good at that. Thornley always did the talking for the gang, especially after the freeze. He leans in conspiratorially to Scramsax.
You remember the ghostfur. What do you remember of Torrga Icevein's caravan?
His demeanour is friendly, but the threat is clear. The Early Spring gang prayed on merchants and anyone who aided them made themselves into a target.
I'm giving Mak a chance to join in the card game & anyone who wants to join Alma, before responding to those situations right away. But I can reply later today.
In the middle of drying ceramic tankards as fast as his meager waitstaff can wash them, Scramsax offers a quick grin towards Russet, but avoids making too much eye contact. "Torrga Icevein. The only dwarf kicked out of Kelvin's Comfort," he tilts his chin towards his shoulder, gesturing to the other dwarf-run tavern in Bryn Shander. "Her crew are a rowdy lot, and had to toss 'em out a few times myself. Torrga has a knack for picking up strays, as it were. Heard she picked up one of the Folcey boys after Worvil "the Weevil" Forkbeard's gang was disbanded."
Reaching below the table, Scramsax produces an old longsword in its sheath with a scrimshawed pommel. With a sly turn to his grin, he holds the sheath and taps it with one finger. "But don't worry, Ghostfur. I've faced rogues before. When "The Weevil" tried to rob me, I gave him the name Forkbeard with this sword right here," Scramsax drops his eyes to the sheathed sword meaningfully before tucking it away behind the bar. "As long as Torrga keeps her men to guard duty and not outright robbing folks in Bryn Shander, they're welcome to drink here. Came in a few days ago. One of them - a pirate if I had to guess by his tattoos - outdrank half the damn tavern."
Russet gives Scramsax a smile. I'll bear that sword in mind meself, else I'll be known as Russet One-ear! You can count on my help, friend, if you have more trouble with robbers.
The Weevil and his gang were new names to Russet. history on gang: 1D20-1 = [5]-1 = 4
Did you see anyone from her crew here a few weeks ago?
Raising her brows towards Russet, the old dwarf shakes her head, "They're Battlehammer." As if that explains everything. "By the rough shape of them, they look like they need help more than they need work."
