Chapter 1: The Village of Hommlet

Your party is now approaching the Village of Hommlet, having ridden up from lands of the Wild Coast. You are poorly mounted, badly equipped, and have no large sums of cash. In fact, all you have is what you wear and what you ride, plus the few coins that are hidden in purses and pockets. What you do possess in quantity, though, is daring and desire to become wealthy and famous. Thus your group comes to Hommlet to learn. Is this indeed a place for adventurers to seek their fortunes? You all hope, of course, to gain riches and make names for yourselves. The outcome of this is uncertain, but your skill and daring, along with a good measure of luck, will be the main ingredients of what follows, be it for weal or woe.

The small community at the crossroads is a completely unknown quantity. What is there? Who will be encountered? Where should you go? These are your first explorations and encounters, so chance may dictate as much as intelligence. Will outsiders be shunned? Are the reports true—is the whole community engaged in evil practices? Are the folk here bumpkins, easily duped? Does a curse lay upon those who dare to venture into the lands which were once the Temple's? All of these questions will soon be answered.

The dusty, rutted road is lined with closely-grown hedges of brambles and shrubs. Here and there it cuts through a copse or crosses a rivulet. To either hand, forest and meadow have given way to field and orchard. A small herd of kine graze nearby, and a distant hill is dotted with the wand stone chimneys with thin plumes of blue smoke rising from them. A road angles west into the hill country, and to either side of the road ahead are barns and buildings—Hommlet at last!

The adventure begins...

As your party travels up the well-trod path into Hommlet, you pass a number of small farms. Some field hands stop their work to watch you pass by, but most ignore you completely. As you near the town proper, you see that the road splits into a Y. Heading west, you know that the road will curve north and eventually reach the much larger town of Verbobonc. Directly north along the road lies the the village itself.

Nestled right into the center of the crossroads is a small home (#1 on the Map). This wood and plaster house is well kept, and the barn beyond is bulging with hay, grain, and so forth. Several fat animals are about. Two large farm dogs bark at your approach, and a rosy-cheeked goodwife appears at the doorway. With a smile, she raises a hand and calls out a warm greeting, "Hail and well met, travelers!" she says, "What brings you to our quaint little village this fine day?"

Itkovian has turned his boot upside-down, banishing a stowaway pebble from the Wild Coast, when the goodwife springs cheerfully from her door. Her rosy cheeks and wide smile reminds Itkovian of his oldest sister, and he feels at ease.

"Hail and well met, ma'am. I'm Itkovian, a humble servant of Bleredd. Expectin' to make the rounds to the craftspeople of Hommlet to impart blessings; much obliged for some help in finding 'em, when the time is right of course. Say, these are my comrades in arms."

He gestures to his allies and steps aside so that they might make their own introductions.

A halfling standing just shy of 3 feet tall steps forward. He wears a spotless and shiny chainmail. He is flanked by two other halflings - both identical in appearance - both portly with blonde hair carrying a backpack filled to the brim with sundry items. Behind him is a young halfling lass wearing large round spectacles and carrying arrays of parchment rolled up in her backpack and several in hand. She has a feather quill stuck in her right ear and around her belt is an assortment of ink bottles.

"Portia write this down: The party, led by holy knight Sir Alonzo Perrin Mirthollow the third, arrived at a small backwood village call Hommlet in the afternoon sun. Although, such land of farmers is not ideal place to seek heroic deeds, the knight and his merry band of do-gooders may yet find misdeeds to correct, foes to punish, maidens to save. Sometimes, adventures find you in places you least expect it. Portia, that last part was quite clever - make sure to record it word for word." The halfling lass furiously writes on a piece of parchment as Alonzo speaks. She gives a subtle eye-roll at his last directive and finishes recording the dictation.

After the dictation is done, Alonzo turns to the goodwife with a wide smile. "Good day madam farmer. I am Sir Alonzo Perrin Mirthollow the third, a holy knight of Yondalla. You may have heard of me." Alonzo pauses expectantly. When he spies no indication of recognition he continues.

"Ahem. Well, perhaps the story of my deeds have not yet spread to a remote place like this. Well no matter. We travel to help those in need, to punish knaves, subdue ne're-do-wells, and vanquish fiends wherever we find them. Do you know anyone in need of our service around here?"

New to the road, the young half-elf looks thin and ragged, wearing simple clothes. However, travel seems to bother her little as she hums a homily about endurance and perseverance, happily watching the farmers work and the animals do as they please. A portly pig draws her attention, and she almost squeals before she realizes that introductions are being made.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she begins, tipping her head down as a polite gesture. The holy symbol of a sun god hangs on a chain around her neck. "I am Esmenlara. Pleased to meet you. I.. uh, we... We hope to do some good, as the others have said. Much like the rising sun brings new light, we offer the warmth of our deeds."

Esmenlara considers what she just said. "I don't think I got that right. Ugh, how does it go?" She consults her prayer book, flipping back and forth through the pages to find the relevant texts, and manages to somehow end her part of the conversation.

Mahru, grateful for an end to the seemingly interminable ride on his pie bald mare, drops the reins and uses one hand on the small of his back and the other on his thighs in a feeble attempt to ease the discomfort. Bouncing around like a damned juggler... Although a capable rider, the young Elf never enjoyed the activity.

Lifting his eyes to meet the source of the growing conversation, his brow furrows at the haughty nature of his halfling companion. His eyebrows lower and a wry smile spreads from his lips to his eyes as he takes in the glorious awkwardness of the young half-elf along side him. He'd been taking his time observing and getting to know his companions, but it was still early days for the group, and his fellows remained a mixture of mystery and surprise.

Turning his attention to the woman before them, he tosses a quick smile and a gentle tip of his wide brimmed hat, but says nothing.

To Itkovian: "Just follow the road," she says, pointing north, "You'll find all sorts o' craftsman up there. May also want to stop at the Inn o' the Welcome Wench. Lots o' them in there could use yer blessings, I'm sure!"

To Alonzo: "There's been rumor of some strange noises at the old moathouse," she says, "Got some of the folk in town worried there's some evil afoot! If you wanna hear more, I'd suggest you head to the Inn as well. Lot's o' drink and rumors going around in there!"

To Esmenlara: The woman listens politely and smiles as Esmenlara tries to do her introduction and chuckles softly as she gets sidetracked by searching for her book.

To Mahru: The returns the smiles and gives a small curtsy.

"I say, this inn seems obvious choice for our next destination. Let us go there, secure our lodging and find out more about this moathouse and its nefarious machinations!"

Itkovian thanks the goodwife for the directions, but grimaces at the rumours of the evil at the moat house. His recent nightmares lend the rumours an uncomfortable credence. He doesn't let it show on his face.

"A good suggestion, Sir Mirthollow. Let's take care of the mounts, and the first round is on me."

Esmenlara had been walking the entire time with no complaint, either to the side of the procession or looking over Portia's shoulder for a peek at the knight's burgeoning memoirs.

"Do they have daily specials?" she asks of the goodwife in reference to the inn, having given up on finding the text in her prayer book.

"I'm sure that they do, though i don't know what it might be today," the goodwife replies to Esmenlara, "They're well-known for good food, so I'm sure that it will be delicious, whatever it may be!"

Esmenlara's stomach gurgles at the thought of eating something other than rations. With a curtsy, she takes her leave of the goodwife and begins to walk further up the road to the north.

Mahru, glad to be off his mount, feels a spring in his step as he heads toward the Inn with the others. I do love a tavern...

He follows the group as they head down the street, all the while taking in his surroundings. He scans the faces of the people as well as the facades of the buildings. Although he occasionally fiddles with his horse's lead, making sure not to be too overt, he continues to look for any detail of life that could give him some insight as to the daily routine and/or demeanor of the people. Are the animals well fed; are the people? Do the people walking down the street tend to have their eyes up or down? Do they stare at the newcomers or does the party's arrival seem a fairly commonplace occurrence? What condition are their clothes? The buildings? The road?

He'd developed a routine whenever he arrived in a new place, and, so far, it had proven sound. Any detail could be useful even if he couldn't see how right away. And so he'd observe as much as he could without being too obvious about it.

A smile here, a nod there, but always the eyes taking in everything they can.

Itkovian heads to the bar, and with an easy smile and a friendly demeanor orders 5 tankards of ale. He returns to the group's table with the clanking pewter mugs and sloshes them down on the well-worn wooden table.

"Nothing like washing the dust from yer throat after a long journey on the road" he says as he distributes the tankards.

"Oh, sorry, I don't drink alcohol," says Esmenlara, politely declining the offer before the order is made. "I should have mentioned it before, but I forgot, and we haven't been to any tavern until now. I will take some warm milk, though!"

Alonzo graciously takes the ale and passes it along to Portia. "Cheers to that, good cleric."

He turns to Esmenlara, "Would you mind if I take that ale from you Lady Esmenlara if you won't be partaking?"

Alonzo orders two more ales for Orin and Dorin.

Harry brings up the rear of the group as it enters the village, he leads a roan obviously on its last legs, and watches the interactions without a word, his eyes darting from his companions to the goodwife, and back. Another backwater town with its bad wine and petty troubles. Perfect! Working in the city had been getting to him, and he'd begun to fear urban life had worn his nerves thin past some point of no return. Hitting the road again, meeting some new people, getting away from all the politics and intrigue all the other shit that inevitably collects in cities, this was the best idea ever! An impatient squirming in Harry's satchel tells him Bandit has roused from his sleep. The weasel will get cranky soon if he doesn't get to roam and hunt.

At the tavern, Harry raises his ale mug gratefully in Itkovian's direction before taking a long draught. "So what do we think of this moathouse business?" he asks the others in a low voice. "Another pack of feral dogs like at that other town? Or maybe another old innkeeper trying to drum up some business like that one with the lake monster hoax. Remember that?" Harry elbows Orin with a chuckle.

Harry's elbow jabs Orin just as he was about put his mouth around the mug of ale. Orin jumps with alarm spilling quarter of the ale on his face and the table. He wipes his face, "Uh, yessir. I do remember that Master Harry. Master Alonzo quite bravely charged the monster and made quick work of it too. It was unfortunate he got stuck in the water afterwards and the monster ended up being a painted wooden plank."

Alonzo gives Orin the stink eye.

As you wander up the road, you have a chance to observe the general populace and structures of the town. The people and animals all seem to be well taken care of and in decent health. The buildings are mostly in good shape – some are old and show it, but none appear to be in danger of falling apart.

Many of the townsfolk smile or nod as you pass, while others seem to preoccupied to even notice your group. For a small farming village, it’s surprising how few people even seem to notice how heavily armed and armored you are as a group. It seems that the people here are well-acquainted with adventurers and mercenaries.

The square wooden sign shows a buxom and smiling girl holding a flagon of beer. This must be the Inn of the Welcome Wench, a place renowned for its good food and excellent drink! Passing merchants make a point of stopping, as do many other sorts of wayfarers, and it is said that the place is always filled with patrons.

This large place is bright and cheerful. It contains several rough-hewn tables and chairs, boards, and benches. Natural tree trunk pillars support the ceiling overhead, all dark with smoke and age. A motley group of people is here.

You are greeted by the innkeeper, who introduces himself as Ostler Gundigoot with a smile, and served almost instantly despite the large number of patrons at the inn. There are many farmers and laborers, but also some other adventurers mixed in. It seems that the rumors of danger has drawn others in as well!

"Good times, good times." Harry chuckles again and winks at Alonzo. Looking the menu over, Harry remembers Bandit and lets the weasel out through one of the taproom windows to hunt.