Gameplay 2 - Deranged Poisoner

The mayor addresses the now attentive crowd.

"Kind sirs. Yesterday was a hard day. A somber day. If not for the courage and skill of strangers, it would have been a much grimmer day.

Our children and neighbors have fallen on dark times. Made choices that have lead them into corruption. The problem is worse than we thought. Consorting with demons, mutilation, and organized mayhem. It is a darker day than we thought.

Still we're not alone here in Marian Town. We have allies, and broader neighbours. We need to warn them if what may be coming, and ask for their vigilance, and assistance. This duty is no light matter. The forces opposing us would no doubt hope we fail. May even attempt to ensure we fail, and remain isolated from their predation. We have letters explaining this. We need reliable people to see that the king gets these letters. I call for volunteers.

Now don't go jabbering at me all at once. See Mr. Applebeck there at the table if you want to go. We'll take some of you, but no more than 10 should go. You youngsters have chores, no doubt."

A number of people have lined up at the table. As Cyrind'ae makes her way, she sees that a dozen people have written their names (or Xs) on the sheet. The scribe asks her: "Good ma'am. Name and fighting experience?" He has her mark her name on his sheet, and listens to her recitation. "Excellent, the mayor will choose the contingent shortly."

Shortly after, Owen is asked to mark his name, but the scribe nods at him with familiarity and doesn't ask about his experience.

The scribe looks grateful as Kelvin approaches, and nods at his name. Again, he does not ask for you to review your experience - yesterday's exploits seem sufficient.

Skipping ahead, assuming no one isn't going to volunteer, (and Grok will only be asked to mark an X)....

The veterans and three teenagers, the shopkeeps and the soldiers alike, all who have gathered make their way to the table. In short order, the process seems complete, and the scribe and the mayor briefly discuss the candidates.

"Kind sirs," he begins, "Thank you all for volunteering. I'll, er, read the names of the ten we have selected. If your name is read, please see Mr. Applebeck," he gestures to the scribe, "who will see that you get a horse, saddle, and tack. Now, these are militia horses and the good captain would like to get them back in good shape, so don't wear them out."

He consults the paper, and then calls out: "Yesterday's heroes, being Grok, Jhishma, Kelvin, and Nar. Locals Owen Daughtery, Davo Plop, Wilma von Wolf, Katyd Strom, and Tren Eckheart. Lastly, sorry fellows, the talented Cyrind'ae Torviel. Thank you to all who volunteered!"

The congregation cheers at Jhishma's proclamation!

The ten of you get all kitted out. It is a three day ride to the capital, and you are given provisions for yourselves and the horses. Your goal is to deliver the letters to the king, but the precautions are due to insecurity about the road safety. It's been awhile since travelers have come from that direction, and the townsfolk are worried about that.

If you can find out what is going on, that would be great.

You pack your horses up and head out of town. Standard horse travel with these horses is to ride for an hour, walk for an hour, to give the horses time to rest.

Davo Plop appears to be a stout man a few years into adulthood. While he is not dressed as such, your intuition tells you that he may be a blacksmith. He is armed with a breastplate and a pair of longswords, all in perfect condition as if they were freshly forged.

Wilma von Wolf is a scowly eyed hardass. She has that look of someone who has been on the wrong side of wanted poster. Her leather armor, hand crossbow, and plethora of daggers complete the stereotype.

Katyd Strom is a hefty girl, all muscle and forehead. Her close cropped hair and ragged smile gives you the impression of a capable yet not very imaginative soldier. She is wearing chainmail and has a number of fighting spears.

Tren Eckheart looks like a rich kid. His clothes are fine and tidy, his leather armor is thin and discreet, and his boots are barely worn, and his compound bow looks pristine. Still, he sits a horse well and has callouses and muscles in the right places for an archer.

He nods at the half-orc in greeting. "He is my grandfather. He raised me after my father was killed by orcish marauders." He gives you a hard look, mistrust burning in his eyes. "Har, I'm just kidding. He was only killed by ogres."