Agreed.

The broad-shouldered priest militant re-emerges from the arena battleground.  He casually flicks away some remnants of snow that had nestled in creases in his heavy black half-cape.

Looking about, he sees that the other combatants have not yet rejoined the common area - and that the tally board has not yet been updated with the results of the fight.  A sort of torpor appears to shroud the room - the waitstaff, too, seem to be moving more sluggishly than usual.

No matter; the Sealer is in no rush, himself.  Lyssander heads back to his accustomed table, and signals for a snifter of sherry.  And a glass of red wine, for the Waukeenar - when he shows up.

Levis snorts, and a light moan escapes her. Her eyes lazily slide open to see a table, and drool has pooled around the side of her face.
"Eh?" voices a confused Levis. She sits upright and wipes her face and the table off.

Looking around, she decides she needs something to bring her more awake.
"Will anyone have a match with me?" She asks politely to the room, though with her shyness, she didn't really speak loudly enough to reach the edges of the room.

<Tap, tap.>

The metal-shod walking-staff raps smartly on the gathering area's flagstones.  The staff's holder looks around him, taking in the sight of the large chamber, with its clusters of chairs and couches, and the long bar running along one impressively-decorated wall.

The newcomer is dressed in travellers' clothing appropriate for the chilly North - sturdy breeches, thick wool-lined boots, a hooded sealskin cloak to ward wind and rain alike.  His features mark him as an Ulutiun, one of the inhabitants of the utternorth beyond the Spine of the World, though his face is not quite so flat, his nose not quite as broad, and his torso not quite as stocky, as the norm for that people.  A halfblood, perhaps.  His skin is the hue of rich earth, almost nut-brown; his hair, a much deeper brown, is an unruly thatch; and his black-colored eyes are quick and curious.

Appearing to come to some sort of decision, he steps lightly toward the bar, whispers something to the drink-keeper, and points to one of the tables.  When the burly man behind the counter nods, the traveller bobs his head in thanks, then makes his way to the table.

<Tap-tap.>

Isigar - for such is his name, or rather, such is the name he gives out in these parts, styled in the Illuskan pattern - leans his staff against a couch, and settles into an adjoining arm chair, scanning the others in the room pensively as he waits for his drink to arrive.  His eyes narrow briefly as his gaze alights on the heavily metalbound Mezzarn; he does not appear to recognize the powerfully built dwarf personally, but identifies him as a Gondsman - though, how an Ulutiun might have previously encountered the Gondish faith is a mystery.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:48, Thu 06 Nov 2014.

With the Waukeenar nowhere in sight, and the tally board officials having apparently taken off for parts unknown, Lyssander's attention is drawn to the newcomer.  He notes in particular the man's reaction to Mezzarn, with whom Lyssander himself has had an instructive match in the arena grounds.

The dark-robed Sealer rises from his chair and walks over to the newcomer's table, bringing his nearly-finished drink with him.  "A good day, traveller," he offers, in an urbane tone that masks his curiosity.  "Art seeking a match?"

The druid stands quickly as Lyssander approaches, and ducks his head when the other addresses him.  "Yes," he answers in subdued tones, "am seeking battle-match.  But not fighting opposite bonespeaker - is geforbidded - taboo."  Isigar's eyes rest pointedly on the Sealer's insignia, with emblazoned jawless skull, underscoring the northerner's words.

"Am gecalled Isigar," he gives the other his name.  "Perhaps you are knowing of good battle-match for me?"

The handsome knight in shining armor slowly settles his cup. Perhaps I could do?

The priest gives his own name in trade for the stranger's, then both turn to look at the well-groomed challenger.  Lyssander's head tilts back slightly in contemplation, giving him the air of a man pursing his lips, though the firm set of his mouth does not, in fact, bend.  "Sir Gawain the Gallant," he identifies the fair-haired warrior in gleaming armor for Isigar's benefit.  "His offer is meant in good-natured jest; he can slay a dragon in a blow.  As for appropriate opponents for you...  The tiefling rogue, Kail, is unlikely to challenge you strongly.  The Gondish cleric Mezzarn - yon dwarf - might be a good opponent, certainly I found him so myself."  The Sealer indicates each named individual with a glance and nod of the head, designating them for the winterland druid.  "The two young mages, Garath and Levis, are far deadlier than their years; avoid them, initially at least.  Adamar and Belanor Venali are both credible combatants - though the two brothers have very different styles in the arena.  Adamar fights with dagger, disguise, dweomer and derring-do, and is probably rather a difficult match for you, though a loss to him would be educational; Belanor is a more straightforward, honorable foe, though he too combines spell and sword and is not without his tricks."

Lyssander turns to scan the area, seeing who else is in the vicinity.  "The Waukeenar, Elias St. Clair, is overmatched for you, but you could perhaps challenge him with a team-mate.  I would say the same of Orophear, a member of the same Elven order as Belanor but considerably more advanced in his techniques.  Zar'Da, the dragon shaman, is also more powerful than you, though with Tymora's smile you could potentially battle him to a draw, and even a loss would be a learning experience.  Tristram, who spent some time as an actual gladiator and now fights in the arena at his own pleasure, should be a suitable foil for you, I expect.  Remember, too, that you may ask the arena's beastmaster for a battle against some creature or monster."

On hearing his name, the knight raises from his seat and salutes the druid by raising his cup. Older than Gawain, he too imposes a commanding presence.
Tristram exchanges a few words with a strangely monochromatic-looking young man with whom he appears to have sharing drinks with before stepping forward.
I am Tristram NightandDay, it will be an honor meeting you in the arena. Did you have a venue in mind? Also, might I suggest you try and face the elusive young fellow over there; Ossian Nightshade, next?
There is a faint jingling as he moves, as Tristram seem to favor the same weapon as Lyssander: a barbed, wicked looking, chain.

The druid looks carefully at Tristram, then smiles genially and makes a gesture of friendly greeting.  He still has not yet fully grasped this southron concept of "honor", but to enter a play-fight with a competent opponent is a welcome opportunity to test, sharpen and demonstrate skills, and if undertaken with the right spirit will leave one feeling satisfied whether one wins or loses.

"You are looking like fighter-in-near, Tristram NightandDay - perhaps we are fighting in circle of four parts of near-fighting?  Is that one -" he points at one of the maps of the Arena venues, and then reads the caption aloud, "Close Quarters Combat.  Is good?"

At the knight's prompt, Isigar looks at Ossian, then at Lyssander - who says nothing - and back at Ossian again.  The "elusive young fellow" and the death-priest were both somewhat monochromatic, but in subtly different ways - rather interesting.  The druid ducks his head in greeting to Ossian, not sure if more was expected of him.

Ossian makes a slight bow in return.

Close quarters it is, and I am indeed a close-range fighter. Tristram grins and begins to move towards the teleport.
For honor! he says before disappearing.

"Master Nightshade?"  The question, in a tentative tone, is posed by a fair-haired youth, a teenager by the looks of him; the one Lyssander had pointed out as the mage, Garath.

"If I might be so bold as to ask - how did you come by your...  Ahhh...  Oh.  Sorry.  I am Garath Darkstar, an academician of Cormyr; I overheard Sir Tristram introduce you.  I specialize in planar studies, you see, and in particular the Shadow Plane.  So your, ahem, condition, attribute - I am familiar with it to some degree, but am curious to learn more of how it develops, how people come by it.  If you would not mind sharing, that is."

The wizard looks hopefully at Ossian.

Pleased to meet you Garath. I'm sorry but you must have me mistaken for someone else: I was brought up north of Waterdeep, on a farm. I know nothing of the shadowy plane. Ossian replies. What condition are you referring to by the way?

"By your coloration, Master Nightshade, I expect some of the Plane of Shadow has touched you - this can happen even without visiting that plane.  If my diagnosis is correct, then you move somewhat faster than your peers; are less pervious to cold, indeed, you likely take no harm from even a protracted stay outdoors, in the bitterest Waterdhavian winter, even with no coat; you find that people startle when you approach them, not having observed you as you drew near; and your vision in the dark rivals that of a dwarf."

Garath pauses, then continues, "If you prefer not to talk about it - or to talk more privately - I understand, though there is no shame in this condition."

Oh that. Yes, I've noticed that I'm different from the norm, but so are many others. You think this may have an otherwordly origin then? Interesting. I have not studied the Planes, yet. But given time and opportunity it is something I would like to do. Ossian shrugs.

"In origin, yes - I have not heard of a non-otherworldly origin for these traits.  Though acquisition of those attributes does not necessitate that the subject himself travel off-plane."  The wizard reflects on a few of those intra-Material Plane methods of transmission.

"I would be happy to help you in your studies of the planes, and how the influence of the Shadow Plane can manifest on Toril.  For example, did you know there was a type of berrybush, called umberberry or darkberry, that has some of the essence of the Shadow Plane in it?  The berries concentrate that essence, and will, when crushed, create little pockets of darkness for a short while.  These bushes are found mainly around the Sea of Fallen Stars, though, apparently, transplants are viable if..."  Garath's voice trails off as he realizes that his rambling explanation is unlikely to be of interest to anyone listening.

"Anyway.  Milady Luna might also be able to help your studies of the Plane of Shadow - if she is willing."  He indicates Levis Luna with a small, polite gesture, uncertain of whether the petite shadowcaster would be willing to discuss her background with someone who did not already possess close familiarity with the shadow.

PL

I'm training to be a hunter of monsters, and anything that may help me give an upper hand would be of interest. Lately my studies of undead, constructs, oozes and other monsters with very alien anatomy, or complete lack thereof, have provided me with insight on where to strike to hurt them the most. The problem being of course they actively trying to avoid it. I hope to repeat that success in some way to extraplanar creatures who in many ways are even more formidable opponents. Ossian speaks rather eagerly, happy to find someone seemingly eager to listen.

"Quite so, quite so," Garath responds.  "One must watch for the magical abilities that many extraplanar creatures deploy in combat.  A worthwhile field of study - here, you might find this book helpful as a primer.  You are welcome to borrow it if you like."  The young wizard digs a mid-sized tome from his pack and offers it to Ossian.

While the color-bleached Waterdhavian peruses the book, the mage pulls out a slightly discolored notebook from his pack, and, settling into a nearby chair, proceeds to lose himself in it.

The northern shaman appears in a small cloud of snow, which soon descends to the flagstones in a light, white dusting.

<Tap, tap.>  The staff raps twice on the flagstones, and a barely perceptible rumble from underneath suggests that something is responding.  Smiling affably, Isigar looks around, but Tristram has not yet returned from the arena - perhaps the medics are still checking him to ensure that the virtual damage of the fight has in fact been fully reversed by the match's ending.  Spotting Lyssander, the Ulutiun waves in greeting, and makes his way over to the dark-robed Kelemvorite, who is still sipping from his glass of... something amber-colored, Isigar isn't entirely sure what.

"Very effective," the Sealer comments to Isigar as the latter approaches the table, and does not fail to notice the shaman's gaze puzzling over the incurved glass he holds.  "Sherry," he explains.  "From Amn."

And a good sherry, too, though Lyssander - for reasons best known to himself, or to no-one - is incapable of appreciating more than a shadow of its savor.

"I fight with snow as well," he observes, drawing up, from within his robes, a pair of pale, ivory-like goggles set on a leather strap.  "These are from your people, I think; the shaman Rakturus gifted them to me."

Tristram finally returns, coiling his chain with a wistful look. Could have just left this at the bar. he mutters to himself.
Looking up he joins the others,
I have to excuse myself. That was hardly a challenge for you, but I need to see my opponents to do any good. I'm better in a straight up fight.

Isigar looks at the goggles, and nods in recognition.  "Yes," he starts, but then he looks more carefully at the item and changes his mind.  "No.  Is not...  is...  is looking-like...  is imitation.  Is good, clever imitation.  No Ulutiun is having bless this.  Reghedman, I am thinking."

Seeing Tristram approach, the druid gives a cheery wave.  "Is difficult seeing, where Ulutiu is watching," he acknowledges the knight's excuse.  Among his people, snowstorms are considered to mark the focus of the slumbering god's gaze as his attention wanders across the frozenfell.  "Good to be knowing fight...  knowing manner of fight...  even if no seeing.  Is using ears, nose, finger even.  But difficult."  Some warrior prodigies were reputedly able to fight as well blindfolded as sighted, but most could, even with advanced training, do no more than mitigate some of the disadvantages of sightless combat.

Isigar looks at the gathering area, head tilted a little to the side, trying to determine if anyone seems interested in challenging him.

The door of the inn opens and a hooded figure enters the room. Once inside she takes down the hood and reveals an anthropomorphic feline. Miarisha is about average height for a human woman but slightly on the taller side for her catfolk race. All of her body is covered in a dark fur coat that reminds one of the dangerous jaguar found in the jungles of tropical lands. Though not totally black as a panther it helps Miarisha a lot to blend in with her surroundings. The anthro-feline moves with the expected cat-like grace and is equipped with most of what you expect from a wilderness-runner: Studded leather armor, soft boots and pack as well as a composite longbow a pair of short swords and half-a-dozen daggers. Together with her backpack she seems well outfitted to handle most situations in the wilderness.

 Quietly she finds herself a place to sit and orders a simple ale.

(Re-posted from the OOC thread)

Ayesha lifted her head out of a puddle of booze, in which she'd been trying to drown herself since her last defeat in the ring. Through bleary green eyes, she caught sight of a familiar fluffy friend. 'Mia! Hi!' She burped.