Rhun's Greyhawk OMEGA Campaign (ToEE) - Continued

Looking at the hostel, Bellus says, "So, how well-known are you folks around here. I mean, is being seen with you going to put off the sorts of people I need to talk to about whether Mick's been around." The dwarf scratches under his eyepatch. "Also, they got ale in there?"
 

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Aeron, Last Prophet of Caria - NPCing

"Not well known, no," says Aeron, taking a seat on a bale of hay. "Most of our forays have been against the Temple itself, though there is a chance that minions of that bastion of darkness might recognize us here. Other than that, we've merely asked a few questions."
 

"ah, that is good. So this is the life of adventurer's eh? Not exactly what I imagined. I suppose bunking down in the hay wouldn't be so bad if I had a little company" Vaseda says with a wink
 


"Er....what.... no I wasn't speaking about any of you. Never mix business and pleasure. No I was thinking that a town with this kind of reputation, I might be able to find...ahh...distractions if time allows" the wizard replies, red-faced.
 

Bellus laughs and slaps Vaseda on the back. "Well, I'll try not to take that personally. Let's go grab an ale." The dwarf lumbers toward the hostel.
 

Ciaran, returning to the more morose character of his from previously, notes the hay.

"At least you will get to eat well," he says. First, it appears that it is to no one in particular, but then it is clear that he is speaking to his horse.

"You, too," he adds, looking at his hawk. "Where there's hay, there are mice, especially in a place like this. "

Convinced of his animal friends' opportunities, he joins the others in the tavern.
 

Zirat

If you drink several mugs of ale, the grief feeling abandon you.
Imagines of Deren and him float to the surface. The two had their fun in this place.
Zirat sigh and joins the others into the Waterside hostel.
 

"Well, we should likely keep our wits about us, especially if this place is as dangerous as Sir Merrick has stated." Vaseda says
 

The door creaks open, letting you into the cluttered, dim and smokey taproom of the place. The smell of liquor and pipeweed is heavy in the air, and you can only imagine that it will become more potent once business picks up. As it is, there are only about a dozen folks in the place, scattered among three or four tables. While most have the ill-favored look of bandits and other rough sorts, a couple look to merely be farmers.

Two slovenly serving wenches carry drinks about, while a pair of men stand behind the bar, talking and pouring drinks as necessary.
 

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