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NOW LIVE! Into the Woods--new character species, eerie monsters, and haunting villains to populate the woodlands of your D&D games.
The Game of Kings
- Thread starter Ringmereth
- Start date
MadMaxim
First Post
Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (evening) – Doral, Morika, Partash
Partash looks around the room to make sure nobody's hearing anything they say before answering: "Well, I don't know how well Morika is doing, but I doubt she's getting a whole lot of information from her drinking buddies. Personally, I've never been much of a diplomat, so I'd leave the talking to you. But can you think of anyone who'd like to see Gaardasci released? To me it would sound like the aspiring nobles just got rid off some of the competition, so I doubt we could find much support for our mission amongst them."
Partash quickly empties the glass and puts it down before continuing: "I think our best chances would be with the city's thieves' guild. They are bound to possess information we could use. It will perhaps cost us to acquire it, but I think their sources would be a whole lot more reliable than some power-hungry nobleman. The question just remains; how do we get in touch with the thieves' guild?" He starts contemplating their next move but still listens to whatever Doral has to say.
Partash looks around the room to make sure nobody's hearing anything they say before answering: "Well, I don't know how well Morika is doing, but I doubt she's getting a whole lot of information from her drinking buddies. Personally, I've never been much of a diplomat, so I'd leave the talking to you. But can you think of anyone who'd like to see Gaardasci released? To me it would sound like the aspiring nobles just got rid off some of the competition, so I doubt we could find much support for our mission amongst them."
Partash quickly empties the glass and puts it down before continuing: "I think our best chances would be with the city's thieves' guild. They are bound to possess information we could use. It will perhaps cost us to acquire it, but I think their sources would be a whole lot more reliable than some power-hungry nobleman. The question just remains; how do we get in touch with the thieves' guild?" He starts contemplating their next move but still listens to whatever Doral has to say.
Deuce Traveler
Adventurer
Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (evening) – Doral, Morika, Partash
Doral ponders a moment before answering. "Working through the thieves' guild can be a dangerous endeavor. We'll have to offer them something better than what they would get if they turned our hides in. Also, if they are in good standing with the Prince, it will be foolish to get involved since they'd likely betray us sooner than help us. We need more information. Meanwhile, it sounds like Morika might get herself hired on for some rough work for the Prince. It might behoove us to allow her to gather some information as a mercenary under his pay. I suggest you and I walk the streets in the shadier districts and ask around. Beggars here things, and their generally non-threatening. A silver piece goes a long way for such people. We can move up the food chain from there."
Doral ponders a moment before answering. "Working through the thieves' guild can be a dangerous endeavor. We'll have to offer them something better than what they would get if they turned our hides in. Also, if they are in good standing with the Prince, it will be foolish to get involved since they'd likely betray us sooner than help us. We need more information. Meanwhile, it sounds like Morika might get herself hired on for some rough work for the Prince. It might behoove us to allow her to gather some information as a mercenary under his pay. I suggest you and I walk the streets in the shadier districts and ask around. Beggars here things, and their generally non-threatening. A silver piece goes a long way for such people. We can move up the food chain from there."
Dark_Jackalope
First Post
Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (evening) – Morika, Doral, Partash
“How wretched!” gasped Bertrand, drunkenly surprised by Morika’s story. “All-f’r bread…” He regarded the ale mug between his hands with a depressed expression, swirling the ale around a little bit.
Disonda just looked at him a moment, partly disgusted, before addressing Morika: “I’m sure, traveler, that our Prince’s men would do the same. Or perhaps worse… they are not known to be gentle menkind.”
“Ah, Dis’nda, stop tryin’ to scare ‘er… You make it soun’ like Port Verge is prowled by monsters at nigh’. Sure, the Prince’s men are a very…”—he fished around for words—“…brutish, and brut’l, crowd. But there’s-a reason they don’ leave the barracks complex much.” He leaned towards Morika, gesturing with his hands the locations of things, enthralled by the subject. “Th’ compound’s righ' near the Prince’s man'r, bu’ not in it of course. Not those lot. Strange thing is, though, tha’ you nev’r see them going into the man'r…”
Disonda glared. Bertrand didn’t notice, and continued, “They don’ really come an’ go much. They go drinkin’ sometimes… but we townsfolk avoid ‘em. Th'only common fo’ who ever really see th’m are th’ whores, really!” He broke out in drunken laughter. “They sure go to th’ barracks plenty…”
The table thumped loudly, as Disonda’s mug flew down and slammed hard onto the worn wood. “Another round!” she called demandingly. “But you, Bertrand, are becoming terribly drunk. Perhaps you should fold from this game?” she offered coolly, handing him his next mug.
“No, no… You’d-be s'prised whatta comeback I c’n make…” he winked clumsily at Morika as the barmaid handed her her mug. “You jus' watch, miss…” Morika did so, as he flipped his coin into the center, and took a boastful swig of fresh ale… and promptly fell off his chair.
“Mm, seems to have passed out,” Disonda observed casually, seeming completely unsurprised. “Well, it’s just me and you now, Reacher. Seventh round. May the best woman win.” They collided their mugs over the haphazard copper pile, and drank up, letting happy drunkenness set in.
About and around town, Port Verge (evening) - Carver
Carver stepped out onto the quiet familiar streets. The sun was by now only a glow on the western hills that Port Verge was nestled into, and the lamps standing along the town's lanes and avenues were being lit one after another by a torcherbearer making his rounds. Remembering that given the curious ritual of resting at night that other races tend to practice, many shops will soon be closing, he hurried through the streets.
His first stop was The Cut, a tailor and clothier's shop owned by a halfling Bim had known. Feet clacking against the hardwood floor, the construct made his way to the back where bolts of cloth were kept, and quickly found the exotic weave he was searching for—a darkly-colored special silk suitable for extradimensional bags and pouches. After paying the not unhappily surprised owner a hefty sum, and exchanging a few brief words of familiar greeting, the artificer departed, bag of silk in hand.
His next stop was a small and luxurious smithy, where a young Brelander with a talent for working valuable materials sold his wares. Perusing his inventory, arranged carefully over dark cloth in glass cases and shelves, Carver found a handful of fine brass buckles and fasteners. He handed over his coins for these items as well, before walking on to his last destination: Banderelli Artifice and Alchemical, the shop he was raised in.
The black-plated Warforged pushed open the comfortable steel door for the first time in months. Pausing slightly, his magical eyes scanned the room, at once taking in both unfamiliar features and reminders of his home.
“How wretched!” gasped Bertrand, drunkenly surprised by Morika’s story. “All-f’r bread…” He regarded the ale mug between his hands with a depressed expression, swirling the ale around a little bit.
Disonda just looked at him a moment, partly disgusted, before addressing Morika: “I’m sure, traveler, that our Prince’s men would do the same. Or perhaps worse… they are not known to be gentle menkind.”
“Ah, Dis’nda, stop tryin’ to scare ‘er… You make it soun’ like Port Verge is prowled by monsters at nigh’. Sure, the Prince’s men are a very…”—he fished around for words—“…brutish, and brut’l, crowd. But there’s-a reason they don’ leave the barracks complex much.” He leaned towards Morika, gesturing with his hands the locations of things, enthralled by the subject. “Th’ compound’s righ' near the Prince’s man'r, bu’ not in it of course. Not those lot. Strange thing is, though, tha’ you nev’r see them going into the man'r…”
Disonda glared. Bertrand didn’t notice, and continued, “They don’ really come an’ go much. They go drinkin’ sometimes… but we townsfolk avoid ‘em. Th'only common fo’ who ever really see th’m are th’ whores, really!” He broke out in drunken laughter. “They sure go to th’ barracks plenty…”
The table thumped loudly, as Disonda’s mug flew down and slammed hard onto the worn wood. “Another round!” she called demandingly. “But you, Bertrand, are becoming terribly drunk. Perhaps you should fold from this game?” she offered coolly, handing him his next mug.
“No, no… You’d-be s'prised whatta comeback I c’n make…” he winked clumsily at Morika as the barmaid handed her her mug. “You jus' watch, miss…” Morika did so, as he flipped his coin into the center, and took a boastful swig of fresh ale… and promptly fell off his chair.
“Mm, seems to have passed out,” Disonda observed casually, seeming completely unsurprised. “Well, it’s just me and you now, Reacher. Seventh round. May the best woman win.” They collided their mugs over the haphazard copper pile, and drank up, letting happy drunkenness set in.
About and around town, Port Verge (evening) - Carver
Carver stepped out onto the quiet familiar streets. The sun was by now only a glow on the western hills that Port Verge was nestled into, and the lamps standing along the town's lanes and avenues were being lit one after another by a torcherbearer making his rounds. Remembering that given the curious ritual of resting at night that other races tend to practice, many shops will soon be closing, he hurried through the streets.
His first stop was The Cut, a tailor and clothier's shop owned by a halfling Bim had known. Feet clacking against the hardwood floor, the construct made his way to the back where bolts of cloth were kept, and quickly found the exotic weave he was searching for—a darkly-colored special silk suitable for extradimensional bags and pouches. After paying the not unhappily surprised owner a hefty sum, and exchanging a few brief words of familiar greeting, the artificer departed, bag of silk in hand.
His next stop was a small and luxurious smithy, where a young Brelander with a talent for working valuable materials sold his wares. Perusing his inventory, arranged carefully over dark cloth in glass cases and shelves, Carver found a handful of fine brass buckles and fasteners. He handed over his coins for these items as well, before walking on to his last destination: Banderelli Artifice and Alchemical, the shop he was raised in.
The black-plated Warforged pushed open the comfortable steel door for the first time in months. Pausing slightly, his magical eyes scanned the room, at once taking in both unfamiliar features and reminders of his home.
Last edited:
stonegod
Spawn of Khyber/LEB Judge
Dining Room, Sail and Sceptor Inn (evening) – Vhir, Glasia
With the girl being quiet, the kobold is given the opprotunity to scruitinize the others in the room. He suriptiously tries to listen to the general conversation in the room while appearing to read, trying to get a feel of whether any of them could be of use to its inscruitable plans.
[OOC: Listening in and doing a Sense Motive (hunch) to get feel for the room.]
With the girl being quiet, the kobold is given the opprotunity to scruitinize the others in the room. He suriptiously tries to listen to the general conversation in the room while appearing to read, trying to get a feel of whether any of them could be of use to its inscruitable plans.
[OOC: Listening in and doing a Sense Motive (hunch) to get feel for the room.]
Morika grins savagely at the gnome as she takes another drink. "Bertrand seems like a nice fellow," she says very carefully. "I thought yer eyes were gonna glare straight through 'is 'ead. He's tellin' secrets no man should know, eh? Wot I gonna do wit 'em? Prince's got mean men, 'e don't like 'em in his house... Lots o' noble types don't trust their guards, don't trust nobody, not even their wives or kids. Now I know I gots to tone down m' savagery if I go lookin' fer a job wit 'im. Don't wanna end up dead for m' bread, ye see?" Morika says slowly, and downs another mug, her expression going a bit slack as the alcohol starts to catch up to her.Dark_Jackalope said:
Bront
The man with the probe
Carver looks around, wondering if anyone else had been here. Likely not, there was little that would be of interest. He grabbed what little he needed, and perhaps a bit more, knowing he'd be able to cary more later.
After getting what he needed, he went out to find Doral. He hated this messanger service thing, particularly when he had things to craft.
After getting what he needed, he went out to find Doral. He hated this messanger service thing, particularly when he had things to craft.
MadMaxim
First Post
Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (evening) – Doral, Morika, Partash
Partash nods in agreement: "It sounds like a reasonable plan." Then he looks over at the shifter who's getting ever more drunk and shakes his head. I wonder if that's the their way of playing the complicated game of diplomacy...Deuce Traveler said:
Dark_Jackalope
First Post
Shark Tank Tavern, Port Verge (later evening) – Morika, Doral, Partash
Disonda nodded a bit, but then stated simply “Bertrand’s good, p’r’aps, but doesn’t drink well. He le’s too much spill from th’ corners of his mouth.” She then sat in silence, drinking her ale contemplatively and watching Morika, making it clear that conversation was over.
They waved for more drink, and the skeptical-looking barmaid nevertheless brought them their eighth round of ale. Both of the women were getting very drunk at this point, the alcohol catching them swiftly like a poison. To Morika, the sound and light in the tavern became a smear across her senses, and her addled brain tried failingly to coordinate with her surroundings. Clumsily yet continuously, she brought the thick mug up to her mouth and poured more of the draft down her throat and then brought the mug crashing back down to the table again.
She noticed Disonda too was having trouble staying steady, and she seemed to swoon a little bit halfway through her drink. Or maybe it was just Morika, because the whole crowd seemed to be swooning somewhat. With a glance at the coppery heap, she raised the mug once more. The warmish brew met her lips, but in a sudden rush the ill feeling surged up, and she could no longer stand to swallow. Morika let her hand fall, sloshing ale out onto the table and floor.
She blinked very slowly at Disonda, groaned a little and buckled forwards into a hunched position, about to wretch. The gnomish woman just studied the pale and profusely sweating shifter, before saying in a slow and slurred voice “I’ looks’like I’ve won, Reach’r… You’re nah’ so cunnin’ aft’trall.”
With that she swept the copper pieces, forty of which were Morika’s, off the table into a cloth purse, and smugly staggered out of the bar. Morika sighed, but felt a little less ill than in that first wave. Though she had not passed out or thrown up, her eight ales had caught up with her very badly. Not only was she physically ill, but her mind was in a fog. She thought she recalled once knowing a spell that had cured a friend of hers from much the same predicament, but alas could no longer remember it.
With new determination, at least to somehow crawl into her bed at the inn, Morika pushed herself very weakly and shakily up from the puddle of spilt beer on the table, just in time to stare in confusion as what appeared to be Craver strode into the bar and over to where her other companions had been sitting.
OOC: Even though Morika’s pretty much totaled for the night, she may spend an action point to recover quicker, so she’ll be fully functional by tomorrow morning instead of grossly hung-over.
Disonda nodded a bit, but then stated simply “Bertrand’s good, p’r’aps, but doesn’t drink well. He le’s too much spill from th’ corners of his mouth.” She then sat in silence, drinking her ale contemplatively and watching Morika, making it clear that conversation was over.
They waved for more drink, and the skeptical-looking barmaid nevertheless brought them their eighth round of ale. Both of the women were getting very drunk at this point, the alcohol catching them swiftly like a poison. To Morika, the sound and light in the tavern became a smear across her senses, and her addled brain tried failingly to coordinate with her surroundings. Clumsily yet continuously, she brought the thick mug up to her mouth and poured more of the draft down her throat and then brought the mug crashing back down to the table again.
She noticed Disonda too was having trouble staying steady, and she seemed to swoon a little bit halfway through her drink. Or maybe it was just Morika, because the whole crowd seemed to be swooning somewhat. With a glance at the coppery heap, she raised the mug once more. The warmish brew met her lips, but in a sudden rush the ill feeling surged up, and she could no longer stand to swallow. Morika let her hand fall, sloshing ale out onto the table and floor.
She blinked very slowly at Disonda, groaned a little and buckled forwards into a hunched position, about to wretch. The gnomish woman just studied the pale and profusely sweating shifter, before saying in a slow and slurred voice “I’ looks’like I’ve won, Reach’r… You’re nah’ so cunnin’ aft’trall.”
With that she swept the copper pieces, forty of which were Morika’s, off the table into a cloth purse, and smugly staggered out of the bar. Morika sighed, but felt a little less ill than in that first wave. Though she had not passed out or thrown up, her eight ales had caught up with her very badly. Not only was she physically ill, but her mind was in a fog. She thought she recalled once knowing a spell that had cured a friend of hers from much the same predicament, but alas could no longer remember it.
With new determination, at least to somehow crawl into her bed at the inn, Morika pushed herself very weakly and shakily up from the puddle of spilt beer on the table, just in time to stare in confusion as what appeared to be Craver strode into the bar and over to where her other companions had been sitting.
OOC: Even though Morika’s pretty much totaled for the night, she may spend an action point to recover quicker, so she’ll be fully functional by tomorrow morning instead of grossly hung-over.