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 . . .

Eagerwish had arrived to the tavern yesterday, after being dishonorably discharged from his druidic circle. The wound upon his forehead still burning, a cruel reminder of great injustice and a gryphon that had been asking for it.

Currently in the midst of drinking his newly acquired existential dread (a.k.a. "what am I going to do with my life now") away, he does not pay the visitors much attention.

"Things didn't go well," Czespecem says to the barkeep. "I need a place to rest and heal, a week or so. And right now I need a damn stiff drink. My mule's outside, is there someone to stable her or should I handle that?"

Seeing the exhausted dwarf, Eagerwish kicks one of the chairs away from the table in such a way that it is possible to sit on it.
"Sounds like misfortune walks around these lands. Can't say about the mule, but if you need a drinking companion, my table's free."

The barkeep looks down at the dwarf and nods. "Such things happen when one delves where none should. If'n ye asked me, I'd have said to leave that damned place crumble. But I'll not hold it against you for surviving. There's rooms for rent, 3sp for a night or 10sp for five. Stables are five copper a night, no weekly rate. And the first drink is on the house, with you looking like that."

Nodding gratefully to the barkeep, Czespecem takes his drink and wearily walks over to the table where Eagerwish sits. With a jingle and rattle of chain mail, the dwarf climbs up into the offered chair. Glancing to the door where he left his shovel propped, he shakes his head ... "I'm grateful of the company," he says to the branded man. "Looks like you've had a rough time of it, too." He chuckles. "At least I got to chop a goblin's head off. Big fellow he was, too." Then he frowns. "But Rogar and Brogan, Benetolio, Derric, Lith ... they didn't make it out. The goblins overtook us, slew them all. I barely escaped with me life."

Wilric’s ears tingle from what he overheard as he left his table and moved causally past the Dwarf. ’This one has been on an adventure, maybe this will not be so boring’.
The Halfling makes his way to the bar, "I’ll have three of what he is drinking please Barkeep."

Once he has his order he carries them to the table and promptly places the tankards before each of them, "I am sorry but did the Barkeep just say you went into a nearby ruin?"

One to perpetuate a stereotype, Nim had been skulking about in an out of the way corner of the tavern for some time. He found it was best to observe any situation for a bit before committing to a plan of action. The dwarf, halfling, and human congregating around one of the tables looked promising. Adventuring types. Just the sort of folk he would need if he was going to make a run on the tomb.

He listens with some degree of concern when the dwarf rattles off a list of former companions. Lone survivor! That's some grim stuff, he thinks to himself. Well, at least I know the dwarf has some sense about him.

Needing to refresh his drink anyway, Nim decides to use this as an opportunity to introduce himself.

The wiry elf glides out of his chair and dances across the tavern floor toward the barkeep. Well, he doesn't so much dance, but the fluid-like grace he moves with gives less of a sense of walking and more of the hint of a jaunty jig.

He nods politely at the halfling in passing and comments to the barkeep, "Allow me to cover the next round, but first, I could use a fresh splash." He places his empty tankard on the bar.

Once that is complete, Nim approaches the trio and introduces himself. " I couldn't help but overhear what sounds like ill news, all around. My condolences." He offers a toast.

"Oh. Terribly sorry. I'm Nim. Truth be told, I happened to travel here on a business venture and couldn't help but notice you all appear to be businessmen, if you know what I mean. Mind if I have a seat?" he says, not skipping a beat while half sliding into an open chair.

Wilric nods to the newcomer to the table and extends a hand, "Nim is it? Nice to meet you I am Wilric." A look comes over his face like he just remembered something, "Whoops how rude of me, Wilric is the name." He says extending a hand to each of the others sitting around the table, before taking his seat and resumes scanning the room for potential investors into his future funds.

"Oh ... ah, sorry," says the dwarf, "Czespecem. A digger by trade." he gestures toward the shovel by the door. Its blade has an odd gleam.

A look of merriment comes across Wilric’s face, "I too have been known to do some digging in my time, gold is my favourite thing to target." The Halfling gives a little knuckle at his own joke.

The table with the sailor and two guards begins to laugh raucously. It would seem they were well in their cups.

The sudden loud laughter brings Wilric’s eyes away for the barmaid and upon the burly group, "Maybe some muscle could be helpful on this trip, I think I get signatures while they are feeling bold."

Getting up from the table Wilric purchases three more ales and approaches the guards and sailor, "Now this seems to be where the party is at, may I join you? As you see I have my invitation," he holds the ales up. "I also have a proposition of paid work that may interest you."

A sudden clang of metal rings from the entrance. Those who look see a tall and muscular man in the entrance, his sword currently hitting his shield to announce his presence. He is adorned with ring mail with a brightly colored surcoat. He pauses when he notices that he has drawn some attention, which he seems to relish. With a booming voice he calls out, "I have heard that many a soul have entered the ruins and never returned. I know that this must have caused all of you great concern. Well, Worry no longer, for your savior is here! I shall lead an expedition into the heart of the ruins and slay the darkness within. With the gods by our sides, there is no foe that we cannot defeat."

He pauses to see who looks interested before he continues. "I will require all the capable men you can provide, as well as a map of the ruins. We will leave in the morning and will surely be back by nightfall. With me leading the way, nothing can stop us." He sits down at a table and awaits the many people who, moved by his speech, will inevitably come and join him.

The table looks up- or straight over- at Wilfric the Halfling. "If you're working with that dwarf, then we're interested. There's some rumors floating that he went down into the old monastery. Didn't expect him back so soon, though. The name's Gilsbead, and this is Gillaug. And this, uh, interesting fellow is...

"Wardhall, my tiny friend." The sailor flashes a toothy grin. "I've had my share of losing everything on the open sea, so I told myself I'd try somewhere else! Turns out these gentlemen had a similar idea. We meant to go it alone, but there's safety in numbers."

---

The tavern goes silent as Horace enters, and makes his case for delving into the ruin. Nobody else speaks, but all eyes turn to Czespecem.

"Ah, sir knight!" Czespecem calls out, "what is the name of our savior? How much will you pay for our assistance? I would be glad to hire on with you. Quote a fee!"

"Oh, did i forget to grace you with my name? It is Horace. Horace Atrio. I hail from lands to the west. There, the name Atrio is known far and wide. It is a name often associated with humility, kindness, fairness. It is a name as beautiful as the land itself. Why the land..."

He realizes that his monolog was beginning to loose the crowd. With a cough, he continues.

"Sorry, sometimes I get lost in the wonder of my family and land. Well, as for the payment, I thought I was clear. The payment would be the favor of the gods. That is much more rewarding than since paltry coins. What can a gold piece get you but a meal or two. Whereas the gods can, and will, provide you with whatever you need. Really, what I am offering is a bargin worth more than any coins. "

I look up at Horace and watch the production enjoying the show, I smile and say, "Well looks like one more to the party so it would seem I only need one other, what talents do you have that I can not get for free from him?"

The guards speak first. "We've been working together for some time. I come with my sword, and Gillaug here is a crossbowman. We bring perhaps some common sense that he may lack."

Wardhall the sailor speaks next. "If you need something clubbed, whether its a pirate or some sort of dungeon nasty, I'm your man. And I bring... Well, I'm quieter than him. Good money says he alerts the whole monastery the moment he walks in."

Wilric smiles at the answers and gives a warm chuckle, "Wardhall moving silently maybe the key, I think my companions will be joining up with Foghorn Leghorn over there so you’re with us. Be ready to move out when we do and I’ll give you the other gold piece." I lean over handing over one coin, shaking the sailors hand to seal the deal.

I then stand, "Enjoy the drink and thank for your honest answers." I move off to join Czespecem and the other (at whichever table they are at.)

Nim had used the past few moments to evaluate each of his prospective new companions. He liked their business-like nature and judged them to likely be a good fit.

At some opportune point, he presses Czespecem for any details the dwarf might share concerning the tomb's layout, defenses, or adversaries.

"It would be good to hear a bit about what we can expect once we get inside," he asks.

Czespecem informs the group of the entrance chamber with the statue holding the jug/chute down to the embalming room, the choice to go left from there, the return from LEFT to go straight, the almost-circling back around, how it seemed like they maybe wound up fighting the goblins below the embalming chamber. He mentions the room with valuable tapestries: "It wouldn't hurt us to hire on Gilsbead and Gillaug as well. Even if we see no hostiles, more hands will make it easier to extract the wealth."

Nim listens to Czespecem's account and nods at appropriate moments as the dwarf relays pertinent details. On the subject of hired help for the purpose of hauling treasure, he readily agrees, "I like the way you think. I have a good feeling about this business venture."

He says these words with as much confidence he is able to portray, though inside he wonders if others thought the same? Still, they weren't as crafty and cunning as he, clearly.

You rest for the night not too far from the safe structure, but do so because you recognize the danger of traveling this road at night. Eventually you make it back around noon the following day and find a bustling tavern with many enjoying their ales. You are dirty and tired, and missing two hirelings that seemed to be known around here. The bartender recognizes several of you and gives you a questioning look from across the room.

"So, my good fellows, where do we intend to stash away our earnings before returning to the, er, job on the morrow?"

Czespecem smile/frowns. "I think one of us or more must guard our winnings," he quietly replies. "It's sure that seeing mules laden and clinking with silver has whetted some greed." He slowly shakes his head. "Maybe it's better we go to a city where they have proper banks, to stash what we've gotten," he adds.

Horace raises his head when he hears czespecem's proposal. Surely if anyone is to guard the fortune it should be him. "No need for us to go to another city, for I shall guard the treasure. I won't allow any unsavory people near it. When tomorrow comes, you dark find narry a coin misplaced. I do wonder what we should do with our new found wealth though. What items should we buy to prepare for our next venture into the monastery. "