Salvation Outpost - Chapter 2

SheK watches the two enter with careful eyes. They, like her, look to be treasure hunters of sort.

She abandons her table and makes her way to the bar saying, "I will have whatever they are going order. And I will pay for it." It is her way of getting introduced. She brief motions to Vice and Kleber. SheK has a fey charming to her.

In the more dimly lit recesses of the tavern a figure sat at a corner table near the hearth, his presence shrouded in an aura of quiet nobility. Armat ir'Vallam, a middle-aged knight hailing from the war-ravaged lands of Karrnath, exuded an air of resilience that belied the scars etched upon his soul. With short, neatly-trimmed hair, and a visage adorned with sharp, noble features, he appeared every bit the embodiment of a veteran of the Last War. His red plate armor reflected the light of the fire in dancing patterns and showed all who knew how to read heraldry his allegiance. But the war was over, and none had bothered him over past grievances. The long halberd propped against the wall next to him might have dissuaded such an ill considered course..

The fires in the hearth cast flickering shadows across his weathered countenance, emphasizing the lines etched by years of conflict. Armat had once stood on the front lines, clashing with the forces of Cyre, a nation that had long been his adversary. But it was an adversary he could never truly vanquish, for the very land they had fought over had been forever changed in the cataclysm known as the Mourning. Now, with a heavy heart and a burning desire for closure, Armat had come to Vathirond, seeking something more profound than mere adventure. The Little Hen tavern had whispered tales of being a gathering place for adventurers of quality, those who would dare to venture into the perilous heart of the Mournland. It was there, among like-minded souls, that he hoped to find the companions who would accompany him on his solemn journey.

The ruins of Cyre lay shrouded in the mists of the Mournland, a spectral reminder of the horrors of war. Armat's quest was not for plunder or conquest, but for something deeper—an opportunity to come to terms with the inner conflicts that had lingered in the recesses of his being. To stand amidst the shattered remnants of his former adversaries, to gaze upon the twisted, haunted landscape of the Mournland, was a pilgrimage of sorts—a way to find closure in a world forever changed by the events of the Last War.

As the embers in the hearth danced, and the patrons of the Little Hen tavern exchanged stories of their past exploits, Armat ir'Vallam remained silently resolute, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His journey was about to begin, and the echoes of war and the ghosts of his past awaited him in the desolate heart of the Mournland. He had let Fauntleroy know he was looking for a capable and reputable crew to join, offering his own considerable martial expertise in return. Now all he could do was wait..

Before Kleber can ask about the price of the offered bubbling drink, another patron is already placing orders.
He turns to see another one of his kin, for some reason the dragonmark on his cheek itches. A quick scan of her gear, numerous scars, and the casual money flaunting makess clear the adventurer market here has some competition.

His inspection takes no more than a heartbeat, and he shifts back to the bartender to place his order.
"Some strong spirits to parch the throat, plus some meat to wash it down. Throw any good rumor if you want a tip".

Table next to widow. A middle age dwarf (that is 200+ years old) armed with nothing but a single handaxe on his belt and a simple screwdriver in his right hand. The only scars on his arms don't remind battle scars (rather tiny magical burns).
At the table next to him sits a half-orc. Dwarf is working with several locks and a lockable chest on the table. He cast a glance at the arrived and continue, never looking at the half orc though.

Vice, a gnome with light brown hair, olive skin, and wearing a garish outfit and a smirk approaches the bar. As usual, he is fidgeting with one of his many ringed and bladed chakram weapons. Twirling it, tossing up and catching it, or spinning it around his wrist. (nothing as elaborate as his performances back in the circus) One of the chakram, 'Envy' is hanging on his hip. It's has an eerie glow as its recently been enchanted, and he is hesitant to play with it.

He awkwardly says to the bartender; "Mr Fauntleroy, is this placed named after you? Because you are one of the largest hens I've ever seen. Top three for sure."

SheK doesn't seem be put off easily as Kleber seems to pass on her offer.

And the progressive Shek adds." And still I shall the same order and pay for his as well. I am called SkeK." She says to Kleber.

Peldan, the esteemed owner of the renowned establishment known as the Little Hen, a popular alehouse with an adjoining inn, stands in the kitchen doorway, his eyes sweeping across the bustling tavern. He revels in the lively atmosphere, where laughter intertwines with the clinking of glasses and the aromatic melodies of the hearth. It is a sanctuary of conviviality—a place where strangers become friends and stories are shared.

His gaze lands on Fauntleroy, the tavern's affable and charismatic bartender, engaging Vice, Kleber, and SheK in a playful banter. Peldan's lips curl into a warm smile as he witnesses the camaraderie that binds the patrons. Fauntleroy's infectious laughter reverberates through the air, infusing the space with an irresistible sense of mirth and joy.

As Fauntleroy expertly pours drinks, his every movement exudes grace and confidence. His eyes sparkle mischievously, catching the light like shards of sunlight dancing on a shimmering lake. With an impish twinkle, he directs his attention towards Vice, affectionately referring to him as a "pretty little peacock." Peldan watches with delight as Fauntleroy's charm and quick wit effortlessly weave a tapestry of lightheartedness, drawing smiles from all those in his orbit.

Yet, amidst the playful banter, Fauntleroy senses Peldan's presence behind the bar, and his focus shifts. Their eyes meet, and in that fleeting moment, a silent understanding passes between them. It is a recognition of shared experiences, a mutual respect forged through the trials and triumphs of running such a successful establishment. Peldan's heart swells with a sense of kinship, as if he has found a kindred spirit in Fauntleroy.

With a lowered voice, Fauntleroy addresses Peldan, acknowledging him as the proud owner of the Little Hen. The words carry an unspoken reverence, a subtle nod to Peldan's dedication and success in curating an establishment of warmth and hospitality. Peldan meets Fauntleroy's gaze, and the lines on his face deepen, revealing a trace of gratitude and appreciation for the unspoken bond that has formed between them.

In that shared moment, Peldan recognizes that they are not merely tavern keepers but custodians of a sacred tradition—an art form that weaves together the threads of human connection, creating a tapestry of cherished memories and genuine relationships. It is a responsibility they both embrace wholeheartedly, understanding the profound impact their establishments can have on the lives of those who seek solace within their doors.

Unable to resist the magnetic pull of their infectious energy, he decides to make his way over to the bar and join the conversation.

"Good evening, my friends," Peldan greets them, his voice warm and inviting. "I couldn't help but be drawn to the laughter and camaraderie I see here. Truly, it warms my heart to witness such genuine connections being forged."

Drwar don't even make an attempt to hid he squint at Bilin's weapons while his hands keep doing the lockpicking job he is so used to.
Gnome just got a drink - he thinks - I will try to chat him when he is "warmer". Besides the crowd gathering around the gnome scares him (4 of them is many for the dwarf).

Kleber nods with a serious expression. "Bet some scrounger took something they really want back." he whispers back to Fauntleroy while discreetly passing a gold coin.

"something like a floating warship."The ranger adds in his thoughts. He can only hope that these raiders on Salvation are the only ones emerging from the Mist. One House rival tracking them is already enough to deal with.

Aware that Salvation is only a lightning rail trip away, Kleber can't help but scan his surroundings for any warforged nearby. He spots a dwarf figure eyeing Vice's enchanted circle blade and a Karrnathi soldier in red plate armor. Kleber wonders if his new half-plate also makes him this... obvious in a crowd. Pulling his scarf down to hide more his emblemed chest plate, makes sliver of his repeating crossbow becomes visible at his hip.

SheK who is surely shorter and leaner than Kleber holds a lot of her human side, except in her face and skin which show well she has Orcish background. Her voice holds a charming, strange sound to it and she seems to have some fey supernatural attractiveness (+4 to anything Charisma) about her which makes it easier for to talk to people, spite her odd appearance.

As she is nearby, her dear long ears with red tinting do well to catch conversations. Personality Trait: I have a habit of listening in on the conversations of others. She wonders what Kleber has been up to. Hopefully nothing that would come smearing back to the house (Tharashk). She has learned well how to do that without others taking note of it.

Only her ring shows that she is d'Torrn of the House Tharashk as she really never mentions it in conversation. Only a full family member of Torrn possess such a ring. It is really the only thing that gives hint who she is.

She moves and with an obvious intent of interrupting Kleber & Fauntleroy but really was probably a good time as they had finished their exchanges, "Kleber. Do tell of your adventures in the cursive lands. Where only the wise and fast survive."

Kleber's eyes narrow as he observes the woman, suspecting that their exchange with the bartender might not have been as discreet as intended. Well, he and Vice will need more hands to work with the problem Belaluur mentioned, and this one does seem competent.

"Never ventured into the Mist, have you?" Kleber begins, the hint of weariness in his voice slowy fading away. "I've only been in there twice, while I did left richer, those were some terrible experience..."

His gaze drifts into the distance, his thoughts back to those recent encounters. The airship nearly crashing when entering the Mist, 37 nearly dying if not for the rope. The uncovering of a warforged colossi. Convincing a Corpse Collector to leave the corpses alone. Nightmare visions that affected their bodies while navigating out. And then there was the circus, oh ancestor below, the ghost circus with it's grey...thing inside, an hydra, but wrong.
Kleber knows he should remember more about that encounter, but the harder he thinks, the more those memories are overshadowed by the eerie melody and those haunting, empty eyes.

After an some long seconds, the ranger snaps back to reality. He downs the strong drink in one swift gulp, using the alcohol to ground himself before responding Sheik.

"To cut the whole thing short, I found a team, we accepted a missing poster, then we went in. Ignored the Mist's faces, killed some warforged Blades, found the guy, killed something worse than the critters back home that I rather not think about, got out and paid. Then, the team went back, hunting trinkets to bring back while suffering nigh terrors. Nothing special." He shrugs.
"Anyone who brings along good steel, sturdy rope, and a decent people who won't buckle easily can do the same. The next step is holding into the prize long enough to find a buyer, then get checked on by a good priest. If you don't feel rich enough after everything, invest in better gear and head back into the Mournlands until satisfied, or dead."

Kleber tries drinking from the cup again, only to find it empty. He signals Fauntleroy for a refill, and returns to the talk.
"Honesty, if you need help with the buyer part, I can introduce you to the fairest scrap seller on Salvation. We were supposed to find her here after all."

SheK says as she drinks down hers, "All interesting. Seems, you have enjoyed the offerings of Mournland. Yes. I have indeed been there and back a few times. I can't say that I haven't gained a bit. But right now, I don't have anything for sale. So, I'm rather open for new adventure. Mournland is the place for those with the skills to survive it. And a wise person never goes there alone."

She adds on, "Ah yes. I thought when I saw you that you were the type to take on Mournlands and win. What would be the next plan that you are looking to do? And by looks you could use a few more partners. Surely the two of you would be highly challenged." as she motions to Vice.

"Why I would just die if I didn't. I'm so much wanting to hear what you have to say." SheK get a a drink on her way there. "Oh. I'm just called SheK. It is simple."

Vice almost spits out his drink when he realizes Belaluur is there. "Well well, what brings you out this far from salvation? Business or pleasure?"