The cast...
Katarn was becoming bored with the halflings at Vjelpamiri. Was this damned snow ever going to melt? He’d learned all the songs that the happy little folk had to offer, and the adulation of the young ladies was wearing thin. This was not what he’d been looking for when he set off from the Eternal Forest over 5 months before. The journey here had been dangerous and exciting enough and he’d learned a few tricks on the way, but he itched for more. Would Springthaw bring an opportunity? Rhythmic hammering knocked at the edge of his attention and he turned to see what this tall fellow was nailing up for the halflings’ attention.
Dariol, gazed out at the snowscape, the eagle perched on his arm and his fine elven features focussed on the tree line. He whistled once more, and furrowed his brow thoughtfully until there, at last emerged Fang. Amiably ruffling the hair of one of the ever-present gang of halfling children he strode forth to meet his companion wolf away so long in the woods over Wintertide. Fang seemed thinner, and hungry despite his sojourn with his own kind. The Halfling child had bolted in sudden fear as the wolf trotted forward. Dariol smiled, yes, perhaps time to go now he thought. Striding through the slushy streets between the little humped houses, he espied one of his Elf kin, the Bard, reading a newly nailed poster. Hmmm………?
Alavarielle beamed her widest smile at the Sun as its light poked through the watery light filtering over the distant mountain peaks, warming her closed eyelids gently in the chill air. She sighed and began the morning ritual of blessing required by her faith. May Corellan bring fortune and wonder this day as all days, and perhaps a curious worshipper from the small ones? Opening her eyes she saw that her only companion again was a mouse foraging at the edge of a hedgerow. Spring at last, Corellan be praised, now perhaps these men might stir into some kind of action and leave the confines of their hilltop bastion in search of adventure. She was determined to be with them. She dawdled over the ritual, revelling in the words as they rolled forth in beauteous adoration of Corellan’s wonder, and still mildly entranced nearly missed the poster as it blew along the ground at her feet. Frowning over the blocky mannish Northron script it became clear, aha, they move…
Drucilla stroked her bat thoughtfully and gazed through the haze of weed-smoke from the pipes of the morning customers in the bleak quarter stew that passed for a tavern. Oh well, the smoke masked the stench of the strewn herbs that had long lost their therapeutic aura and turned to matted mush over a particularly long and drawn out winter. She narrowed her eyes, imagining each of the patrons as a walking corpse. Ah, to witness time’s steady march accelerated, to watch the flesh peel from the bodies layer by layer, the muscles twitching off to reveal cartilage and bone beneath, jaws dropping as the ligaments frayed and parted, fascinating. She jerked her head up suddenly, nearly dropped off there. Must get out of this place. She stood and ducked under the doorway into the street, latching quickly onto the tail of a passing runner who, laden with a great underarm of rolled posters seemed intent on nailing them as decoration on every wooden surface to hand. Snatching one down from it’s perch she scanned the words. That ambitious adventurer Vladimar was planning an early exit this Spring and was hiring on. Huzzah for fools who rush to death for they shall bless us with gifts of fortune.
Beyoncay muttered a quiet blessing to Olidammara and slid out of her hiding place as the guard finally left his post at the gate to pass muttering, inside the gatehouse seeking his ever late replacement. Slipping silently out of the courtyard she dived into the early morning streets, still wet with dew, and away to the hovel on the edge of town that passed for home. A petty haul again, some bread, a few cheap trinkets, thin pickings. As she passed inside, she noticed that the roof that had held all Winter was leaking now as the snow melted. A final hint from the tricksy God of rogues to move on. But where to go? Oh well, off to the Green Griffon to pawn these baubles.
Clint was frustrated. Another damned letter from the Reeve demanding payment on the loan against his lands. Didn’t these fools know that he was ruined? How in Sirra-penta did they truly expect him to come up with that kind of cash. He cursed his errant Father for the gambling ways that had got the family into this state in the first place, and the separation from his family necessary from his inability to support them. Hmmm……..where to go? Perhaps his merchant drinking partner Vladimar might have some suggestions, and he could do with a beer to get his brain going at this early hour. He crunched the demand in his clenched fist and tossed it contemptuously into the empty fire grate. The Green Griffon then, where they’d have a fire and still honoured his credit, ha! The fools.
Fareena crooned at her lantern, pressing her face close to the little hinged door. Swinging it open she bathed her face in the heat, revelling in the infinite wavering patterns of light, breathing in the heady smell of combustion, her spine tingling with each little crackle of flame. Ah……….friendly fire, come to Fareena. She jumped suddenly at the barked order from old Madje ‘stop dreaming and get on with baking the bread’. She rounded on the flabby martinet. Enough! For a moment she contemplated her tormentor with a steely gaze, her red tresses floating around her head dancing in the zephyrs of heat from the big fire grate. With one flick of her wrist... no. That was not the way, but this would be the last day in this pit of despair, for tomorrow the wagonners would be seeking service for their journeys across the plain, and they liked a hearty dinner those fellows. Always room for a good cook amongst the waggoners, and Fareena had a talent with fires.
