RP Session 1: "A Hart's Errand"

Wide-eyed the two inn staff looked between one another, and then reaching an unspoken accord they both scurried into the kitchen, the boy returning a few moments later with a gleaming butcher's knife. The girl took a few moments longer, balancing a steaming kettle alongside a large white apron.

The night had no reply for Breuddwyd, which might have meant a number of things. Was stealth a priority? That would seem in line with their strategy in Abbadiel - bold attacks under the noses of armed settlements. But why then send a warning? Why not storm the place and be gone before anyone knew it? Did that suggest that their numbers were few enough that a fight would take too long, or even that the doubted victory? Or was poor Aeric merely a decoy, a conjurer's trick meant to hold their attention while a different plan unfolded? Or had they stumbled into an ambush potent enough that their foes could simply wait them out? That would explain how swiftly and quietly their numbers had already been thinned. But then if victory was such a certainty why not simply take the place? No, they'd believed the elven wyrd's ruse, otherwise the threat would have been as good as a refusal. They were held back for now. Or at least that was the hope.

For now the choices seemed clear - find a place to hold, or a path top flee down.

The pair of youngsters were farmers kin, and the sight of bloodletting seemed not to trouble them so much as the prospect of a fight. The girl replied quickly "aye miss, there's a door through the kitchen to the alley", and her younger companion nodded in needless affirmation. At that the pair scurried back towards the kitchen to fetch help.

Adding that to the one she'd seen in the stairwell, Tovrunn counted three entrances. And with the town gated there was likely little cause for a public house to lock its doors until the proprietors were abed. With Aeric feverishly in and out of consciousness that left four able bodies to hold three doors were they to stand here - and that was if Salien could hold his own - the man did not appear to go armed.

Tovrunn and Corson, with the added burden of Aeric, made their way toward the door at the rear of the tap room beyond which lay a cloakroom and a stairwell. As the door opened Tovrunn was reminded of the stout back door that led out to the stables, but thankfully no armed men lunged in from it. No doubt Breuddwyd's ruse had given them pause. Or perhaps the men outside hadn't had time to scout the inn?

Mounting the stair she passed innkeeper's quarters and the darkened chamber she'd scouted as a cat not long before. The rooms they had rented were not together, but both lay beyond the turn in the passage and the common area where four other travellers deep in their cups were already hunkering down for the night, some snoring loudly. Six rooms besides stood barred, candlelight still apparent beneath a couple. A dozen more patrons might well be abed here.

The nearest of their rooms had a single window commanding a view of the inn's yard and the street beyond. The farther shared all of its walls with other rooms. If they were to try to hold a single room it would be close quarters, but holding the stairwell would put the wealthy traveller with the crossbow at their back. But either seemed easier to hold than the taproom below.

While it would put them at opposite corners of the building, the stairs were the most natural chokepoint, and so while Adalric barred the door to their room Tovrunn, Corson and Beuddwyd dragged one of the beds from the common area to the landing and stood it on its side across the arch. A few of the sleeping drunks put up a complaint, but most seemed to sense the urgency of these travellers, and just watched on warily.

Behind them a door opened revealing the redoubtable proprietress in a night gown, a hefty table leg in her hand. "What in the Rider's range is going on here?" she barked gruffly, looking at the upturned bed.

The woman scowled. "All I see is guests ruining my linens. You'll be paying for that mattress come morning, mark me." She drew herself up to her full, surprisingly imposing height, and as she did the uncanny sidhe's gaze fell on something beyond the woman: Another stair wound down from the owner's private quarters into the kitchen. It was another front to hold, but doubtless the woman's complaints would be a fine alarm, callous though it felt the door to her quarters would be easier to hold than another stair. These mercenaries hadn't proven themselves ruthless enough to target civilians so far. After a few moments of grim silence the woman blustered back into her quarters with a snort. Then all was still.

Bardenhold was quiet; it's citizens abed and the night pensive. Sounds of movement below were cautious - it was clear that Breuddwyd threat had impressed itself on the men outside. They didn't even hear the heavy front door groan.

Then a door up the hall opened and a face poked out - a ruddyfaced man with a bristling beard glanced down the hall. He took in the scene then stepped back from sight. The shuffling of feet from the stairwell below said someone had braved the rear entrance. The men outside were in, but they weren't coming up yet. They were scared of fey dweomers.

In one of the rooms someone stomped a crisp rhythm on the floor, and then silence reigned again for a long stretch. Downstairs the shuffling feet of two... maybe three bodies? This was a smaller party than Abbadiel then. How long had these men had to summon reinforcements? All night? Would they just pin them down here until overwhelming numbers arrived? But then why bother revealing themselves now? Perhaps then something had forced their hands and they weren't so certain of their victory?

Speculation was pointless. There was a task to do, and once done this would all be behind them. As if to punctuate that the door to the first room off the landing suddenly swung open and the gaudily attired guest shot out into the corridor, a pair of short, straight blades flashing in his hands.