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Message: <blockquote data-quote="arwink" data-source="post: 1693606" data-attributes="member: 2292">The Keep in the Border PeaksThe Black Peak Mountains are hardly the favored post for loyal soldiers.  Tall, old and wild, they loom over the border between Karameikos and threaten the border with all sorts of hidden dangers.  Orcs and trolls are known to wander the mountain passes, as are goblins and giants and even more dangerous forces of chaos and entropy. Kirchev Keep sits in the heart of the mountains, on the very borderlands between the Grand Dutchy and it’s neighbor, protecting those small communities that cling to life in the hidden dales and valleys of the Black Peaks.  On a good day the watch can look out from the Keeps high tower and see the towering peaks of Mount Pavel to the East.  If the wind is still, the same watchman could look west and see the looming expanse of Mount Dread through the lingering mists.  Good watchmen know better than to look at such distant sights, for the orcs have never invaded from the sky.  Good watchmen keep their eyes on the paths and the cliffs that surround the keep, forever watchful of humanoid forces.  Kirchev Keep is in the heart of no-where. Soldiers learn to hate the place, but it becomes a haven for the mercenaries and adventurers who seek to pit their strength against the mountains untamed spirit.  To those that know of its existence it is better known as the Borderland Keep, the last bastion of civilization in the heart of the wilderness.  Gerbo Finnigan hates the Keep too.  It’s to wild, the taproom to full of muscle-bound brutes and militant blades.  He feels out of place in his crisp-cut suit, the neat coif of his mustache. He lurks in the back room of the Fallen Minatuar, away from the gathered crowd of cutthroats and mercenaries, and offers a wide smile to those gathered around the table.   Four of them have made it by the due date, and only the brewer seems inclined to offer a smile in return.  The gnoll and the northerner simply glare, confusion covered by a veneer of anger, and the sorceress seems too unsure of her surroundings to offer any response.Gerbo sighs and shuffles through his papers, setting the complex legal implications in his head as clearly as he can.  It’s been at least fifteen years since he’d prepared the documents, and even then he wasn’t entirely sure whether they were accurate.  Still, the spirit was there, and the group had made their verbal instructions implicitly clear.There was another one coming, if the firm’s reports were accurate, but waiting wasn’t really an option at this point.  “Hello,” he says.  “There’s not much point in waiting, I suppose.  We can catch up those who come late, if they show up at all.  I’m Gerbo Finnigan of Finnigan, Finnigan and Wake, Specularum’s most experienced lawyers for two hundred years, and I’m here to administer the last will and testament of The Company of the Minotaur.”“The what?” Toravitch asks.“An adventuring company,” Gerbo explains.  “A fairly prominent one, in the local area.  All of you had family members that were important members.  They have named the four of you, plus one or two others who can’t be present, as inheritors in their will.  Which..ahem ..is to executed in event of reliable news of the groups demise, or after a length of time not less than five years have past and our return seems unlikely.’”Gerbo adjusts his glasses and puts down the sheaf of paper.“To put it bluntly,” he says.  “My condolences – it seems likely that your Aunts and Uncles are no longer with the living.  Then, may I say, congratulations – the four of you have just become the co-owners of this inn and many of its contents.  I’ll explain the conditions over dinner, if you wish.”Gerbo watches the four sets of blinking eyes.  Most of them don’t seem to have realized exactly what happened.  He nods at Paryn, waiting at the doorway, and dinner is served.  The one-eyed manager of the inn nods and goes about his task with grim efficiency, and no one fails to notice his terse exchanges with the inn’s new owners as he services.Poor bastards, Gerbo thinks.  If they’re sensible, they’ll do the smart thing and organize its sale immediately.</blockquote>

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