The Approaching Storm

The rain comes down like an iron sheet, hard enough to sting the eyes. Still it isn't enough to wipe the stink from Thistle Hold. While not even a city, the town holds 6,000 permanent residents, but nearly 10,000 dwell there at any given time. The press of so many is cloying, and the peltingly harsh rain cuts that. Some.

In the shadow of the Beacon lies a large, circular plaza surrounded by taverns and dives, including the Salons of Symbaroum (the notorious and varied pleasure house). If one were to name one single place as the most dangerous in town, it would have to be the block neighboring the Toad's Square. More deaths occur there than in the rest of Thistle Hold combined, and it is in close vicinity to the Beacon's foundation that most of the town's shady affairs take place - affairs that often go overboard since active town guards aren't seen in the district.Of course, it is in Toad's Square that you find yourselves tonight. You're headed for The Infested Bole, a seedy tavern with a reputation for dour business. A place of drinking oneself to oblivion, rather than making friends. Unfortunately, the dogged pursuit of oblivion is not what draws you here, but instead, rumor of a new exploration contract, just today. A contract would come with an Explorer's License, a somewhat expensive writ to allow one to enter the forest of Davokar for a specific and limited purpose -- the Queen guards the forest's secrets carefully. Anyone who wishes to travel the woods without risking hefty fines or the loss of fingers/hands there is no alternative but to come up with the sum dictated by the authorities.

When you enter The Infested Bole, few eyes turn to the door. A damp and smoky atmosphere obscures much, and an Ambrian barkeep leans on a keg, trying to coax a few murky drops from the dregs into a stained, wooden tankard. You're each looking for a woman named Revora.

---

Describe yourselves as you enter the tavern, and include two things: 1) the name of the person who gave you a hint of this contract, and 2) what hope you have for the expedition.

Vargos sighs as he pushes open the creaking door and finds the interior of the tavern worse than the exterior. These city folk had no pride. And whatever that foul drink was that they had the nerve to call ale... It wasn't looking like the sort of place that Devil would frequent. But he had the blight and wealth of one who frequented the Forest, so here they were.

Peering inside and seeing that most of the danger was obvious, Vargos holds the door open for his ward. She could handle a lot, but he worried about her perspective... and vision through that mask. Shutting the door behind them, he stretches up to his full height. Though not a massively tall man, he was broad enough to dwarf others. His worn clothes hung with the weight of armor hidden beneath, and an axe and shield adorned him to present the image of a true warrior. A barbarian.

He instinctively tugs at his sleeves to hide the runes tattooed upon his flesh. Though they are a sign of pride and honor in his tribe, they were often misconstrued as blight scars or signs of evil... and often led to conflict. That was precisely what he was trying to avoid here. He scratches at his scraggly beard before heading to the bar. Scarred hands against a scarred face, no surprise for a man of battle approaching his age.

Without needing to speak, he wills Aolita to find a seat, preferably one without broken glass or other guests. They had traveled long enough together to be able to do this. After all, they had left their village together. And all to find that Devil. Who Aolita had spoken with to get this lead (and when she had done so) was a mystery to Vargos, but that woman was full of mysteries. All he knew was that this might be another chance to find the man that had killed her sister. But there was a reason they had travelled so long; bad luck. And it wasn't likely to end here.

Gristle huddled in the muddy gutter trying in vane to stay beneath the crumbling eaves of the Infested Bole while Kverula wallowed contentedly. "Sure," she said, "enjoy the source of my misery." Gristle despised the rain, it wiped away all of the good smells she had built up and in a place like this she rarely found respite inside the buildings and so she waited outside for the perfect opportunity. It arrived a few moments later, a towering barbarian escorting a female through the muddy streets and making a bee line for the Bole. Gristle patted Kverula’s flank "Stay here, and don’t get yourself into any trouble." It would be hard enough for Gristle to slip her short bony body through the crowded tavern and impossible to do so with 17 stone of mud caked hog flesh. Gristle pulled the simple stitched leather cap down low though her elongated ears were keenly focused. She crouched low and pressed her lithe bony frame against the outside edge of the three wooden stairs leading to the front door, trying to keep as still as an awaiting spider. The thought of spiders set her stomach to grumbling and she lost a moment's focus. It nearly cost her as already the barbarians were slipping through the doorway. She sprung to action vaulting soundlessly onto the wooden platform and slinking her way through the closing doorway in the shadow of the pair immediately slipping to the right when inside the tavern pressing her back to the wall.

The smoke was playing hell with her sensitive nose and Gristle could feel the steady thudding of her heart in her chest. She spied the object she needed and spent a tense few moments crossing through the most heavily shadowed areas of the tavern seeking it. At last she wrapped her long slender fingers around the smooth wooden shaft of the broom. She felt more comfortable with the item in hand. It was a pale substitute for the spear she had left wrapped in oilcloth outside, but if things got messy she could use it in a pinch. Casually she began passing it over the floorboards, keeping her eyes down low and her head bowed, putting a stoop in her back and steadily working her way around the periphery of the room. All the while her ears were flicking this way and that hoping to pick up the whisper of the name Revora.

This was always the hardest part. Even the stinking barbarians had no trouble waltzing right into a place like this and asking after a person. Gristle would have to be more cunning if she was going to get onto this contract. She was eternally grateful to Tulga for passing the info along to her. Tulga had been working the laundry for weeks keeping an ear out for something interesting. She couldn’t help but share this juicy bit of overheard gossip with Gristle. She wasn’t so eager that she didn’t haggle a fee of 2 shillings and a bowl of Gristle’s recently prepared spider stew for the information. The thought of spider stew set her stomach rumbling again. Those 2 shillings had been hard come by and Gristle felt the paltry few ortegs left in her coin pouch, barely enough to clink together in a satisfying way. Gristle was going to need to find a way to make more coin, and it was going to be this contract. Gristle refused to go back to laundering.

Orlan blinks in the doorway of the Infested Bole, his eyes slowing adjusting to the light gleaming off the wafts of smoke clouding the air. It stinks worse in here than out by the alley he thinks, his mouth twisting in a silent deprecating laugh. You'd think Amelia would have better sense than to send me to a place like this. Ah well, at least it's dry.

We wipes a hand across his face to clear the rain and walks over to the bar, his stride sure and confident. He glances around the room, noting the variety of people and weapons scattered about. It could be worse. Honestly, the barracks were almost as bad on a rough day. Just need to make a name for myself, and I'll never have to set foot in a rathole like this again.

His chainmail clinks as he leans across the bar, watching the barkeep struggle with the barrel. "I can give you a hand with that, if you like," he states matter of fact to his fellow Ambrian.

Barbarian witches are not unknown in Thistle Hold, but the sight of one, and of her glowering escort, is still reason for the local populace -- and the watchmen, many of them veterans of the Great War with the Dark Lords in the south -- to sit up and take notice. The witches have a history in the place... after all, Mayor Nightpitch worked with Yagaba to provide the Queen with the salve that saved her mother. So while they aren't looked down upon in quite the same derisive way the non-human laborers from Blackmoor and beyond are, the clanfolk are often viewed with considerable suspicion and mistrust by the Ambrians.

Aolita has never been to Thistle Hold before, and she loathes the place. It's cramped streets -- once broad to protect against the spread of elven fire, but now filled in with ramshackle buildings and sheds and additions -- have spattered the woman's beautifully embroidered robes with shit and blood. Earth and rot and damp the witch knows well, but these invader strains bring a curl to her hidden lips. She peers through her mask, a bone-white covering with a red hand-print on the face and a pair of twisting antlers, looking up at the Beacon before she follows Vargos into the Bole. Several times her people have tried to burn the thing down, have tried to unmake this fortress at the edge of the Davokar. Her frown was deeper still when they passed by the stumps beyond the north gate, signs of just what the Ambrians will do to the mystical wood if given the chance.

Inside the bar, the witch has presence despite her diminutive size. Her mask, her staff and the sweep of her robes, the cock of her head -- it draws the eye. She nods when her companion silently indicates that she find a table while he looks for this Revora, and she finds one in the corner and sits in a way that lets her survey the whole room.

It was Pellio the watchman that told them of this expedition. Pellio as well that said he had information about the men Aolita has sworn to find. And Pellio who demanded more thalers for that information than the little witch has ever seen let along had in her hands. This foray into the woods is their best chance at finding riches enough to pay the man... and so the pair have decided to meet with Revora.

The barkeep takes Orlan's help, and then places the keg back on its stand. With his eyes, you see him look to a closed door to the back room, barely visible in the smoky dinge. "In there, if you're looking for Revora," he says, his voice raspy as he drains the tankard of dregs. "You want ale?"

Orlan nods and hands him a coin as he takes the mug. Thanks. He smiles, the expression taking years off his face, and heads to the back room.

Vargos, waiting for his own ale (and not really knowing the etiquette for ordering it), is pleased to overhear the location of Revora. That would save him some talking. Some. "ale... ALE!" He speaks louder than intended, but perhaps that was what one needed to get service in this dingy hole.

With two mug of what literally be ogre piss, he returns to the table. To Aolita. He takes a spot next to her where he can also observe; he, however, is looking for any danger. "We'll find Revora in the back room. Are you sure you trust this Pellio?"

When Orlan enters the room, he sees a sturdy woman on perhaps thirty years, sitting in the far chair. A rough cut rectangular table made of lengthwise beams held together from underneath is surrounded by a half dozen chairs. The room isn't overly large, and getting past occupied chairs may require squeezing against the wooden walls.

The woman looks up, an eyebrow raising as she takes in Orlan's fancy armor.

"Who sent you?"

Orlan dips his chin, giving a gesture somewhere halfway between a bow and a nod. "You are Revora I presume? My name is Orlan. I was sent by the Lady Amelia. She suggested you may have work for me."

There's a tap-tap-tap on the outer wall of the inn, and then again at the door. It doesn't really sound much different from the first, but to someone it does, because there's an audible, "Ah," and then the door's handle turns and a slightly hunched hooded figure appears. She turns to speak to someone behind her when she's halfway through the door. "No. You stay out here. Keep watch. Don't fight with the pig. He seems nice."

Satisfied with whatever response she got back from that, she shuffles into the tavern, tapping a long, narrow, slightly wispy stick on the ground in front of her. Her head stays low as she pulls off her hood with her free hand, revealing an elderly woman with silvering hair. Her eyes, though open, are dead white. She pauses, listening for just a moment, and then straightens up - as much as she can - and walks to the bartender, her stick stopping her before she crashes into the bar that's between the two of them. "Good evening. - It is evening, no? - I am looking for Revora. I was told she would be here."

She made no mention of who told her. It wasn't important to her, although it might be of some limited local interest. For the past three months, she'd been staying with a couple at the edge of town - Burley and Gail - waiting out an illness. They knew she'd travel again - she always did, and had alerted her of the local gossip that had led her here. She did not tell them, but she was sure that she would not be back this time. The headaches hadn't gotten better, though she'd hidden them, and there was a tremor in her chest now that was not there before. Her hands though, were steady, and her mind sharp. She could do one more journey.

The barkeep says to Vaila, "Back room," and then there is a baited pause. A few coins get placed on tables as wagers are made. Will she make it on her own?

Although it's surely impossible, she looks directly at one of the gamblers as if to remind him of his manners. She turns slowly toward the back of the tavern, and then past it. When she hears a snicker, she pauses, turns back a bit in the other direction, and walks. Her stick taps on the floor as she goes. When she reaches the wall, she taps along it, just as she did outside, until she finds the door.

Then she pauses. She fishes a thin line out of her pocket and ties it to one end of her stick. Then she flips it, bends it against the floor, and ties the other end. Turning back to the general direction of those seated, she reaches behind, under her cloak, and slowly draws an arrow from underneath.

She nocks it and pulls it back. Then she releases it and turns away, not bothering to check where it lands. It's got to be a coincidence that the arrow pins the snickerer's sleeve to the table as she enters the room, yes?

It closes softly behind her.

Gristle's ear twitches, another door, thrice damn the inventor of all doors. Slowly, casually, she plies the broom moving along the edges of the room and toward the door to the back. She pauses every few steps keeping her awareness strung tighter than the blind rangers bow for any hint of trouble. Thankfully the old woman had drawn most of the eyes in the room. Gristle waits after the blind one goes through the door, waits for the crowd to resume their revelry and forget about the back door before pushing through it herself. Inside the room she leans the broom against the wall and moves swiftly to one of the open chairs, taking a seat as if she belongs there. No need to continue playing at stealth, she was going to need to be seen here and show her value.

After you've all entered...

She grumps a little at the assembled adventurers. "Cose the door and listen close. An urgent situation has come up. We need a team to head into the Dark Forest and rescue a group that has run into trouble. This will be fast travel, a guide provided, it will pay well, and it's licensed by the Queen. I'll tell you nothing more until you each swear to secrecy. If word gets out that you blabbed about any of this, you'll be blackballed from Thistle Hold at the very least and likely executed for treason."

She leans back and takes each of your measure. "Agree and hear more, or leave, now's the time to decide."

"I am not," Aolita says to Vargos when he asks if she's sure they can trust Pellio. "He is an Ambrian and a soldier who faced the Dark Lords in the south. They are broken men, all of them, just shadows of themselves. But his is the only lead we have."

When others follow Orlan into the back room, the witch gestures for them to follow suit. Soon enough they are gathered with the others, and listening to Revora. When the woman poses her question, Aolita hesitates to see what the others will do.

Gristle makes a motion as if sewing her lips shut while she nods emphatically. Best not to break the stillness of the silence with her high whiny crackling voice, they might actually notice she'd taken a seat at the table and send her back to the streets.

Who would I even tell she thinks I mean, besides Tulga, she would want to know what came of the info she shared. And of course Kverula, but did sharing a secret with a sow even count. There was also Vorg, the cute butcher's assistant. I mean, how impressed will he be that I'm going on an honest adventure and a secret one at that. Maybe then he'll want to talk about something other than how much bacon Kverula could supply. Besides who cares if Gristle was blackballed from Thistle Hold, most of the tall-folk can't tell the difference between one goblin and another Gristle had proved that many times taking Tulga's work for a day here and there when she needed the coin and Tulga wanted the break. Besides besides it won't be long before I retreat into the Davokar and assumed my true form, I just know the soul of a troll lurks inside me. But the weird woman had said blackballed at the least and executed at worst. Hmmm, maybe best to keep it quiet for now, there will be time to brag when we return victorious. If it's secret it must mean it's important, like rescuing the Queen herself. Boy won't Vorg be impressed with me then!

Vargos nods at the demand. It made sense. These Ambrians loved secrets and lies. "You have our word," he say for both himself and Aolita. He did this sometimes, taking vows for the both of them.

Glancing around the table, Orlan scratches the scruff of unshaven hair on chin. A mismatched group, to be sure, but they seem capable of holding their own. He nods to Revora as Vargos speaks. And mine as well, he states.

Aolita nods in near unison with Vargos, somehow standing taller in the room than her bare five feet in height. The mask and horns help, of course, but the witch has a presence that outstrips her stature even when she is not so adorned.