Chapter One: The Siege of Castle Rend

Ravathyra's hackles rise at the behavior of the so-called knight. The pomposity of this one, my god. In a smooth motion, he rises from his seat, confident in his position as he waves his hand shortly to Stellythra and Evelyn.

It is good to meet you, brother knight. Though we earned our spurs differently, the fraternity of the rose is a stronger bond than any blood. I have no quarrel with a fellow, and would be happy to lend whatever assistance the mayor, and yourself, may require. If all you require is that I remain here in pleasant company with good drink, that satisfies me quite well. Ah, forgive me for my lack of appropriate introduction, as befits a man of our station. I am Sir Ravathyra Erenaeth, Green Knight of Isana Thalas, protector of land and beast. If you have need, do not hesitate to send one of your retainers to call upon me.

Beneath his green and tan cloak, the hilts of a pair of scimitars gleam, and his mark of station is clear as a clasp on his cloak. A soft smile crosses his face as he extends one arm out in a customary greeting, sleeve slipping to show his well-adorned bracers.

Seated underneath the table amidst everyone's boots (a trait already known to the party), Knobbenkirk pauses mid-bite with oily bacon double-fisted in his small gnomish hands. He tilts his head slightly for a better look at the new kneecaps sauntering into the tavern, eyes naturally glancing upward to the waist for an assessment of accoutrements like weapons or moneybags.

He tucks the bacon into the emergency stash inside his shirt and against his body, which keeps things nice and warm. He wipes his hands in his wild hair, adding to the natural oils and general grime from good clean city living, then rubs his nose with a sleeve. Pulling his legs in closer to himself, he tries to stay out of sight and uses legs and chairs to conceal his silhouette.

As Sir Pelliton approaches, Knobbenkirk looks at and tries to figure out a way to remotely remove the knight's codpiece.

Brunhilde sits to one side of the table, her red hair showing faint hints of grey and a few crinkles around her eyes give an indication that she has seen a fair share of summers. As the ‘knight’ rattles off his proclamation she pushes her chair back with a loud scrape before walking over to the message board and tears the proclamation form the wall before studying it intently whilst Ravathyra speaks to him

Gulthrum kneels down slightly, setting the two small barrels down and easing the load off her shoulders. She can feel a slight pinch in her shoulder where the carrying pole bore its load on her shoulders. She quickly scooped up the horse dung and pressed it into one of the near-overflowing barrels.

«It's a good haul today, Crow,» she said telepathically to the black bird that landed on top of the barrel to snatch up a beetle crawling through the dung. Gulthrum has kept herself busy and more or less out of the way by collecting dung, drying it, and selling the bricks as fuel to peasants. Few guards care to bother a goblin carrying barrels full of shit, and most peasants seem to feel it is appropriate work for a goblin and correctly lower in stature than themselves.

Sticking a thumb out toward the Reluctant Pig just across the way, Gulthrum grins and says to Crow "Some meat in my belly too sounds like a good idea. I bet Knob is in and feasting already." She leaves the barrels packed with dung on the side of the street, carrying only her usual trappings - a simple dagger and what looks like a thin black club of sorts tucked into her belt, a pair of smallish books tied together and hanging from a loop about her neck along with a coin purse, both of which are tucked inside her shirt and under the soiled studded leather armor.

Just as Gulthrum reaches the tavern, she has to jump out of the way to avoid being trampled by a heavily armored gang of men that barge past. Three enter and two stop at the doorway. She dashes off around the side, waiting for the men to leave rather than draw attention to herself.

"Behold Sir Pelliton, Knight of Three Roses!...." a voice announces from inside.

«That's Pelliton! What has he done to have that fancy heavy armor? Crow, lets see what's going on inside.»

Crow will land on a windowsill and observe what's happening inside, catching the announcement and rest of Sir Pelliton's dialog while Gulthrum observes through the familiar's senses.

Erias adjusted the woven thorn necklace as it scraped against the leathery skin on the back of his neck. Listening to sir Pelliton and his boot-lickers go on made a vein in his forehead bulge. The Druid had no patience for politics in villages like this, and he had no patience for people like pelliton who had no real ambition to help the people of Gravesford.

Erias half turned his head to the door and spat on the ground making sure to not get any on Knobb in his customary spot under the table. He then lifted in mug to his lips and drank deep There is no enough ale in this inn to make that dolt bearable.

Nodding at Palator he said "I have no desire to help that piece of shit out, but I wouldn’t mind killing some orcs."

Knobbenkirk chews on a piece of hard tack and stares at Erias's spit on the floor. With an amused expression and a few gnomish phrases whispered beneath the tavern din, an invisible spectral hand scoops up the loogie onto a pinky and follows after the departing Pelliton, looking to give the knight a wet willie as soon as the nobleman crosses the threshold.

Knobbenkirk winces with appreciation for both the technique and the result. He nibbles on his hard tack and uses his Mage Hand to try and blindly abscond with more bacon, forks, and spoons from the party's table during the spectacle.

The gnome considers a Message to the fallen lackey bemoaning Pelliton's unstable mental capacity, but opts for silence.

Brunhilde folds the notice and moves to rejoin her companions. "Well, what we all thinking then? Gaining a position of knight in this town may help us rally the local forces against the troll blight...." she shares a rare smile "plus killing greenskins ain’t exactly a bad thing"

"Orc bacon," comes a thoughtful voice from beneath the table. "Ooo, I must test this idea."

Erias pokes his head under the table and says "I wouldn’t mind some Orc belly myself."

Knobbenkirk beams, "Maybe we'll find a big fat one!"

He pulls himself out from under the table. "When do we go? Oh, we should bring Gulthrum; she might like the taste."

Erias’ stands and pushes his chair in as teeth form into fangs and his fingers quickly grow into claws dripping with a caustic fluid as he makes a raking motion to an imaginary Orc. Just as fast, the claws and fangs shift back to normal. "I wouldn’t mind leaving right away. Does anyone need supplies, or did you get enough pocket bacon?"

"Never enough pocket bacon," says Knobbenkirk as he tries to nick a dirty plate into his shirt at the mention of supplies, along with any utensils within his short reach. "But maybe we need an umbrella?"