Beregost

Beregost is a small town. Unlike Candlekeep or the Friendly Arm Inn, this place has no protective stone wall around it. Most of the town lies dark, but a pair of lanterns reveals two guards keeping an eye on the road through the night. Their tabards and shields bear the tell-tale fist wreathed in fire of the Flaming Fist.

The two guards squint into the darkness, waving when they see the wagon. "Late night to be out, eh? From where do you hail, friends?" They exchange a glance when they see the prisoners tied up. "And what's this about?"

The guards shake their helmeted heads at the mention of the drow. "They've been chasing that drow since Nashkel, so I heard. Something to do with a string of murders. Hopefully they catch him soon!"

They examine the prisoners closely, then point the party towards the local Flaming Fist garrison. "Glad you were able to handle yourselves out there. Helm knows there have been too many raids and deaths due to banditry, in spite of our best efforts."

One of the guards scowls and adds, "I wouldn't be surprised to find out that Amn is supporting the banditry here. Strike us where it most hurts during this Iron Crisis, cripple us before the war even starts."

His partner gives his shoulder a shove. "Quit spreading rumors! You want folks to get riled up? That'll do no one any good..." He waves for the party to continue on as the beratement continues.

Aside from the bickering guards, the night is quiet as the party enters Beregost. The wagon wheels creak, and the horses' hooves seem to ring out into an empty void. Then they round a bend in the street and find light pouring from the windows of several buildings - most certainly taverns, by the faint music and voices drifting through the air. They continue on their way for a few more minutes and arrive at another lit building, the apparent garrison of the Flaming Fist. From the outside it doesn't seem like much of a garrison; it's likely just a former household that the Flaming Fist appropriated and converted into their office.

A knock on the door results in a yawning soldier opening the door. "Excuse me!" he says, gauntleted hand over his mouth. "What can I do for you?"

Feeling that the prisoners are secure enough now at the garrison, Sheemish heads to the taverns. While the bandits had obviously earned the consequences coming to them, seeing people in chains was not going to sit well with him. Informing his party where he was heading, Sheemish heads to the tavern with the most music. He needed something to drown out certain memories.

The soldier blinks, then shakes his head to clear it. "Bandits! You nabbed them yourselves, you say?" He peers out at the six bound men. "Generous of you not to simply kill them."

He glances inside for a moment, speaking softly, then a moment later pokes his head out again. "We don't have much, but we'll give you 50 gold for each of them."

A few minutes later the prisoners are out of the adventurers' hands, and in their place is decent-sized coin purse filled with 300 gold. The tired guard suddenly raises his hand to his forehead, looking rather sheepish. "I was really supposed to get your names before handing out any gold. Would you mind writing down your names and those of your companions, and as well as the name of your party?"

Runeson and Sheemish (and Tulco) find lodging and food in the loudest tavern, an establishment called the Jovial Juggler.The Jovial Juggler's common room has many happy patrons, and most of them seem to be common folk, all clapping along with the music in between sips of various beverages.

In the center of the room, standing up on a table, is a young man playing a cheery jig on the fiddle. He seems fairly skilled, able to stomp off-beats on the tabletop while his bow zips across the strings.

On the whole, it seems like a run-of-the-mill tavern.

The tired guard shrugs. "I mean... I guess that's fine... But you guys really should have a name. Bandits aren't an easy lot. When word gets out, people will probably want to hire you for other adventuring work." He fights back another yawn, nods, and shuts the door.

The Burning Wizard is Beregost's finest tavern and inn. Rather than raucous cheers and the pounding of ale mugs, Aiwë hears the murmuring of polite voices accompanied by the soft clinking of fine wines.

The attire is different as well; embroidered dresses and coats adorn the men and women here, and there is a proliferance of hats. Wide hats, tall hats, hats with ribbons and bows, hats that lean to one side... It seems that everyone in here has one, and no two are alike.

A flash of metal in the corner reveals a woman quietly tuning her flute. It would seem she's set to perform soon.

Aiwë immediately draws stares. In her armor and travel attire, after a day traipsing through the woods and across the plains in humid heat, and some blood (probably from bandits) decorating her here and there, she certainly stands out.

At this time of night Dieter finds the bakery closed, but the bakester is still there cleaning up. Recognizing Dieter, she lets him have some of her leftover sweetbread. As for trinkets, he finds one seller of wares lingering at the mouth of a alley. The fellow must be nervous, because he jumps when Dieter calls out to him. Still, he has a decent variety of shiny knickknacks that Dieter thinks the kids will find interesting.

Dieter's knock on the door is answered immediately with the baying of at least two dogs and the thumping of many solid little feet. When the door opens, he sees a dwarven woman with greying hair trying to hold back a tide of children. It's Marianne, Tulfgar's wife. Two small dogs immediately slip past her and run up to Dieter, tails wagging wildly, and one of them latches onto his boot with needle-like teeth.

"Chisel, Mallet! Get back in here! No, Dwain, you can't go out, I - Briselda, enough! You should know better! Will you all stop trampling little Tulfy!" For all the chaos, when she finally gets a chance to look up and see who the visitor is, her smile is immediately warm and welcoming. "Dieter! Come in, come in!"

Sheemish walks through the merry raucous and orders a drink from the barkeep. Just a mild one. Ale can definitely drown out certain memories, but Sheemish was looking to make a different tactic. His artificer awareness was not just good at studying the history, strength, and habits of metals - people tended to be made up of some of the same composition. Some were brittle, some were dense, others false, many in need of mending, those that held under pressure, and those that became stronger when combined with others - and they all had a history. Taverns were always filled with words, stories, and songs. What stories did this tavern hold?

Sheemish watches and listens, stitch once again fluttering around and lending her own set of observations to his own.