0: Tavern

TREASURE and glittering gems; dark places beneath the earth where monsters dwell; magic circles, pentagrams and pentacles; runes of evil import, and iron-banded doors of mouldering oak; wizards of vast power, living in their isolated towers above black seaside cliffs; great-horned demons in their bloody lairs; massive stone idols with jeweled eyes and hieroglyphic pedestals, carved in the distant eons before the young civilizations of humankind; strange and glowing orbs, floating in the air above rusted metal grates leading to deeper levels of the underground passageways…

It is about flying carpets and cursed blades, about hooded priests gathered for unspeakable rites in their forgotten temples; it is about adventure and about perilous undertakings, forcing back the evil creatures of Chaos from the borderlands of embattled civilization; it is about battle-scarred warriors and deadly sorcerers…

It’s about SWORDS & WIZARDRY

Day Zero. Evening. Somewhere in the Eastreach Province.

You have been hearing rumors of a strange event in the hills nearby. About two months ago, lightning filled the skies over a remote monastery dedicated to the Iron God. According to the peasants who live near the area, all the buildings of the temple were destroyed in one night by hundreds of bolts of lightning. The peasants believe that the Iron God destroyed his own monks as punishment for their greed; they claim that the heretical monks had been accumulating great treasures in the underground catacombs beneath the temple instead of maintaining the spartan life required by the God. So far, no one has dared to explore the catacombs, so the monks' ill-gotten treasures must still be there, ripe for the taking.

And so you find yourselves at a tavern. The nondescript roadside inn offered respite for your weary feet from your travels, as well as cold ale to wet your parched lips. And if you are to delve into the catacombs of the monastery, hired help as well. The door is heavy, and the room inside dark aside from the light from a flickering hearth. Upon entry, all eyes seem to be on you, and one table stands empty. And there are seats for four. Many of the faces, difficult as they are to see, are of simple farmers and artisans of the area; at another table sits a pair of men-at-arms likely heading home from a recent conflict. No guards seem to be in the tavern, nor did you see any wardens on your recent travels.

The thick-shouldered dwarf, clad in chainmail, wears a crowbar thrust through his wide leather belt and carries a brutal-looking shovel over his shoulder; it is one of the sturdy spades that are used for moving shattered rock and coal deep in the mines. "Also," he may confide to you with a chuckle, "it's handy for goblins." A backpack, obviously replete with supplies, sits at his shoulderblades. His auburn hair and beard are neatly trimmed, short and thick like himself. His face expresses pleasant interest as he looks about the tavern room.

Focusing on the men-at-arms, he moves to them. "Good evening," he says politely, "could I buy you both a drink?"

The men-at-arms look Czespecem up and down before responding. "They say that a dwarf only offers a drink when he has something dangerous in mind. But we would not turn down an ale on a night like this." One pushes out a poorly balanced chair with a foot, inviting the dwarf to sit.

"My name is Czespecem," the dwarf says as he leans his shovel against the table and then slides his pack to the floor by the table leg. He hoists himself onto the chair. His chin is a little bit above the table height as he sits up. "I'm looking for help to plunder the Tomb of the Iron God." He waves a blocky hand in the air, trying to catch the attention of a waitress. "You men look likely able to help."

A young man wearing a loose silk tunic, piped trousers, and a patched wool cloak enters the tavern and spends a few moments looking at the assembled patrons. He's perhaps in his early twenties, though the dark rings under his eyes hint at a mind much older than his otherwise young appearance might suggest. The young man doesn't appear to be a mercenary--he carries no obvious weapons and wears no armor--though he also doesn't look like a farmer or a laborer of any sort.

No, his spidery, ink-stained fingers, taken with other visual clues, suggest employment as a scribe or perhaps a playwright. In any event, after he takes in the crowd, he confidently approaches the table where a dwarf and a couple of mercenaries are now discussing something of exceptional interest to the young man.

He makes a direct line to the table and interrupts, "Pardon me. Did I hear you mention the Tomb?" he asks.

"As it turns out, I have some interest in such a proposition..."

He awaits a response, but will readily introduce himself as Benetolio, an aspiring apprentice of none other than Filion the Fulminate. He says his master's name as though it might carry some weight as to his pedigree.

"Good evening," Czespecem says to the young man, "we are waiting for ale ... the service here is not so good I guess. Have a drink with us!" He makes his scrutiny obvious. "I see you are a learned man," he adds. "What interest do you have in the dangers of the Tomb?"

A halfling woman, as short as she is voluptuous, scurries up with more steins than one would expect her to be able to carry. She deposits three at the table before rolling her eyes at seeing the newcomer, then heads out to drop a few off at various tables.

The two men-at-arms explain that they are in fact soldiers coming back from a conflict where they stood around and did not actually fight, meaning their pay would be less than expected. They seem happy about (or at least not entirely against) the notion of heading to the monastery to search for treasures, and explain that they would be of more use watching their backs at a rate of no less than two gold pieces per day. After all, the monastery has an aura of mystery and danger, and who knows what caused the lightning storm?

The men introduce themselves as Rogar- a dark-haired and darker-eyed man- and Brogan- a fair-haired and scarred man), soldiers who live not too far from here. They have heard of the monastery of the Iron God, though they explain that very few know what sort of occult rituals were practiced behind their stone walls. All they know is that the underground halls of the priests were used to embalm and purify corpses before consigning them to the catacombs below.

Using his spear as a makeshift walking stick, a man in leather armor enters the door to the tavern. His looks are shockingly average, from his average height to his brown hair. At his waist is a long sword and a shield is attached to his backpack. All of his equipment gives off the impression that he has finished a shift as a town guard. His armor and weapons are well worn, but are well maintained. He moves to a table near the group of people discussing something.

As he sits down, he stretches and relaxes after a day of traveling. He Tries to wave down someone in hopes of getting a drink of ale. Currently he seems content to listen in on the conversation going on next to him. The conversation seems to interest him though, as he perks up and says, "Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Are you going to be delving into the monastery? I travelled here in hopes of exploring it, but if you are going to travel down there I would love the company. I might not be the finest fighter around, but I should be able to hold my own against whatever we find down there.

The harried halfling hefts and hurries heavy-handed horns hero-ward.

A silver-haired elf clad in leather amour enters the bar, greeting the halfling owner respectfully. Carrying tools of an adventurer, such as a crowbar, a shovel, or a rope with a grappling hook attached, there is little doubt about this mans profession. Yet the cleanliness of his gear might suggest close to no experience.

He may have arrived a bit later than most, and upon scouring the tavern and its patrons, his choice of company is clear.
"Good evening," the elf bows slightly, upon coming to the table of the men-at-arms, "my name is Lith and adventure is my profession. I dare to say that you all seem to share a similar fate. May I ask whether you seek another to join you?"

Czespecem looks up at the elf and grins. "More hands make light work," he quips. "With us and Rogar and Brogan, we have a decent chance at success I would think. They were quoting me a price of two gold per day for each of their swords. Is that right, Rogar? I venture we could share that expense."

The Inn door opens and a well groomed human walks in, he plays absently with the curls at the end of his well cropped and marvellous moustache. His leathers look to be of good quality as does the heavy mace and shield upon his back, though an average type of guy he has an air of nobility to him.

As he scans the room the shadows of the inn make his dark skin and eyes seem darker, which adds to the brooding expression upon his face. As he turns his attention upon your small group a flicker of light shines off a solid silver medallion, which has the bust of a lion’s head upon it. In fact now you notice the same bust located upon his leathers.

His eyes focus upon you as his hand drops to his medallion, speaking quietly to himself he approaches. "I believe you are the group I am here to meet." He expression doesn’t change and his belittling looks have you feeling of annoyance at him. "May I join you." he says more than asks as he dusts off a free chair and pulls it up.

"To unearth wondrous treasures, no less," the young man says. His eyes brighten as he continues, "hopefully many of them, magical!"

Benetolio exchanges pleasantries with each of the new companions and seems quite eager to join forces with them.

Day Three. High noon. Somewhere in the Eastreach Province.

Czespecem finds himself entering the tavern around noon, exhausted and filthy and still dealing with the recent experiences. The bar room looks mostly empty save for a few guests at various tables and one table with curious guests. Two guards sitting across from a sailor-type, chatting over some pints. The bartender looks to Czespecem, and then glances to the door as though expecting more to enter. When they don't, he gives the dwarf a curious look.

It had been a boring couple days of travel since leaving the last village, having only met a few farmers, one lovely farmer’s daughter and that band lead by a rather self-important Knight. Though Wilric had managed to fill his purse again, along with his quiver from the Archers that followed him. But all be said it was a rather boring couple of days travel.

When he finally spied the tavern on the horizon his newly acquired coin was burning a rather large hole in his purse, or should we say other people’s money was waiting to be spend on his entertainment . . .

Wilric spies Czespecem coming into the tavern and is about to dismiss the Dwarf if it was not for the curious look from the Innkeeper. He runs his fine manicured fingers through his tight curled fro and then onto his fine bushy sideburns.

Maybe there is something to this ragged fellow . . .