"Alright.  We passed a tavern on the way in.  Let's head back there."

"Go ahead. I'll catch up to you guys in a few minutes." Farren carries the idol back into the grove, and begins tending with a spare knife from her pack. She works quickly, weeding and pruning, but tries to do a as thorough a job as she can in less than half an hour. When she's satisfied that the little goddess of the earth and sea and its little clearing are presentable, she heads to the inn.

The only sane thing to do in the middle of a torrent in a strange town is to take refuge in a hostelry until the sky clears.  You've only seen one so far, so you backtrack, pausing to make way for a horse-drawn carriage sloshing through street. It disgorges a single occupant who gazes longingly about the tavern square before dashing inside.  On the carriage a sign reads The Ashenport Carriage which you can only decipher from a couple feet away on account of the darkness and rain.

You survey the building before entering:

Different styles of architecture suggest the building before you was once two or three separate shops, before someone sealed up the spaces between and knocked down the intervening walls. It now forms the largest structure on the block. Smoke rises from several chimneys, only to vanish into the falling rain. Firelight gleams through several windows, and the sound of conversation—nearly inaudible in the storm—leaks from the doorway. A sign above that door, portraying a ship at full sail on a waveless sea, flaps violently in the wind.

Brother Zelias also studies the building, perhaps a little longer than expected for a sick man in the rain.

Three different patterns of wooden floor, at three slightly different levels, make up the common room. Beyond this single quirk, however, this might as well be any other tavern: a bar stands on one side of the vast chamber, a staircase on the other, with a smattering of chairs and tables scattered throughout the area. Two fireplaces radiate a comforting warmth throughout the room, and several serving staff whirl about with tankards of ale and plates of smoked fish.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:32, Thu 23 June 2011.

Time: Late Afternoon
State: soaking cold, hungry, wounded, and sick.

The inn is bustling, that's for sure, and you only manage to seize a table after human merchant and his guards abandon theirs. Before grabbing the attention of the servers, you scan the common room and its occupants.

There is another table with a merchant, this one a half-elf lady with a wandering eye and six husky men to guard her.

A nervous looking man sits at a table by himself. He's sipping fastidiously from a wine glass as he rolls colored stones back and forth in front of him. Perhaps, he's anxious because he only has two guards and neither one of them looks nearly as capable as the woman with a quiet aura of confidence sitting in the back, warming herself by one of the fires.

There's the man who arrived just before you. He's talking to the innkeep behind the counter.

While there are many other people at the inn, they are clearly commoners who don't command your attention.

You have your choice of accosting three different servers: a swashbuckling-type with a glistening black mustache, a corset-bursting blond wench, and  worldweary career waitress.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:24, Fri 24 June 2011.

Brother Zellias fights off a chill as he steps inside the tavern. He appears somewhat distracted, as if running through something in his mind. It's unusual enough behavior for the typically disciplined monk that the others may notice. Perhaps it is the effects of the slaad's attacks, but it could be something else.

He pays little attention to the other denizens of the barroom. His eyes are drawn to the fire, which promises a source of warmth. He looks for a table close to the fire and, if one is open, he heads that way. Before doing so, he speaks quietly to his companions. "This place is eerily reminiscent of a village of which I once read," he says. "Perhaps if I think on that story it will give us insight as to our next steps."

History 22, Insight 29

10:02, Today: Brother Zellias rolled 29 using 1d20+11. Insight.
10:02, Today: Brother Zellias rolled 22 using 1d20+3. Skill Check - History .

"Ha! I know exactly what the next step is!" Ravex declares loudly as he fellows Zellias toward the fire. "In fact, the next three! Food, warmth, and a good hard sleep!" He plops himself down into a chair with a good view of the room and knocks on the table. "We need a waitress here! Food and wine for my friends! We have a victory to celebrate!" Ravex declares, happy to be out of the rain and willing to count any success where he finds it. "It's on me, tonight." He gives the others a toothy grin.

Gethin takes his seat and grins at Ravex's enthusiasm, but the smile is a little false.  He's worried about the disease.  For all the half-elf's size and militant equipage, he can be a bit mother-hennish at times.

But for the time being, he gladly warms himself in the room's glow -- both physical and social.  He orders a tall mug of the local brew and leans back in his chair, scanning the interesting faces in the crowd, an easy smile and a cocked eyebrow ready for any who look back.

OOC: Looking through the crowd for anything noteworthy about the people mentioned.

Insight = 20
Perception = 9

Gethin catches the eye of the worldweary career waitress a motions her over to their table.

"So... crazy weather, huh?  Are the storms normally this bad?"  He makes small talk for a few minutes, asks about the town, the normal sorts of things one does with a waitress before making an order.  But his manner, from his laughter at her dry sarcasm to the smiles and nods, is meant to gain her confidence and promise generous tips and generally make her like the group.

Maybe that will earn them a few extra fries on their platter.

Streetwise = 25

10:28, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 20,9,25 using d20+13,d20+6,d20+7. Insight, Perception, Streetwise.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:45, Fri 24 June 2011.

Manelda, as she introduces herself, reveals that this storm's no different from any of the countless others that she's weathered over the years: "Storm, squall, tempest, they're all the same: they rob good women of their men and douse the rest of us head to toe. This one won't ruin the fair; Alderman Ritter said we'll wait it out like all the rest."

After the smalltalk, she gets down to business, translating Ravex's request into three pitchers of Ashenport Pale Ale which she'll have in a "blink" and the Sea's Bounty which she'll have in "three."

Both Gethin and Brother Zelias detect an underlying tension to her manner, a tension that is not reserved to her alone. However, maybe she just perfers quiet, offseason days. Again, she seems friendly enough but like the Ash Grove, the two men sense an undercurrent, something hidden.  The monk seeks vainly to connect his thoughts to some record of history, but if the doings of this town are a matter of public history, he cannot determine.

But then she's back with the pitchers of ale and chilled mugs. And before three more blinks, she's back with a massive platter of the sea's bounty. It's a three-tiered affair with gargantuan shrimp on the top swimming in a pool of butter and garlic.  The second level sizzles with fried fish, haddock, mackeral, and five other varieties, garnished with lemon.  The bottom is actually more of a cauldron, steaming with Ashenport's signature stew, a spicy mix of shellfish, tomatoes, and onions--with garlic bread for dipping.

About this time, Farren joins the party and snatches the crispiest piece of garlic bread before anyone can clear the dust from his eyes.

OOC Ravex owes 6 gp for the current tab.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:47, Fri 24 June 2011.

  Lyriel briefly looked up from her woodwork - engraving and tinting a set of small wooden tiles that were destined for later assembly as a puzzle - as the latest set of sodden strangers entered the inn. She judged them to be mercenaries, albeit not of the common variety - the three-member (soon to become four-member) company was too eclectic and too well-equipped for that. She also sensed some tension among them, but was unsure as to the source; everyone in town seemed to labor under it, and apparently even new arrivals such as these were not immune.

  She returned her attention to her handcraft. While they were the most interesting lot to arrive over the past couple of days, they probably needed time to settle in - 'wet, hungry, and tired' were bad conditions under which to make uninvited introductions.

Farren smiles and tucks in with abandon. Her gusto messily dispels any notion that her mysterious background involved royalty or, indeed, any kind of class.

Farren pays no attention whatsoever to anything in the room but the food in front of her, nor is she likely to at any point before she's had her fill.

After a few hours of local food and ambience, you retire to your rooms, two of you fervidly praying that some sleep will banish the itching and wooziness you have felt since the slaad laid strips of your flesh bare.

The rooms are cozy enough, complete with shuttered windows, fireplaces, and beds with heavy woolen blankets.  There is no waiting for sleep this night.

You awake earlier than expected:

Slowly, gradually, a new sound penetrates the pounding of the rain and the howling of the winds. Barely audible at first, it resolves itself into an alien, high-pitched keening. It resounds with loss, with sadness—the lament of a mother who has lost her children or of the sailor stranded far from home. It echoes from over the waves and grows ever louder until the storm has receded into the background. It fills your ears, insinuates itself through your mind and your soul, until you can think and dream of almost nothing else.

It is not beautiful. It is not comforting. And yet you find yourself overcome with an irresistible urge to follow.

Irresistible that is for Ravex and Brother Zelias.  Why do the two leave their warm beds for the coldness of the seawater? Does Ravex long to explore subterranean tunnels beneath the sea cliffs?  Has Brother Zelias already heard the call before?

OOC The call interrupts your extended rest. This is not a standard encounter.  Instead, when you post, describe what it is you want to do. Those not affected by the call are wakened by it.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:48, Tue 12 July 2011.

  Lyriel's eyes snapped open and her breath caught itself mid-intake as the sound pierced the walls; she sat bolt upright with her ears flattened back to ward off the vicious auditory assault, though it was readily apparent - even having just woken to it - that there was something more to it than the threat of teeth being set on edge.

  Something unnatural. Something dangerous. She threw back the covers and stood; the sound of doors opening and people moving about in the hall were evident amidst the cacophony. With time a possible factor, she strapped on her weapon harness and a few smaller accessories while peeling back the corner of the curtain in hopes of catching sight of the source of the disturbance.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:02, Thu 30 June 2011.

A distant look in his eye, Zellias rises from the bed, where he has slept in his clothing. Moving slowly and with much more deliberation than his usual easy grace, he walks to the door, opens it and heads to the entrance of the inn. The distant call is strangely intriguing, and he will follow it. He wonders if, perhaps, it will lead back to where they began ...

Clearly, whoever was making all that racket needed to shut their trap. So, compelled or not, Ravex grabbed-up his sword and shield and set-out with a determined step to find the source and shut it down.

Gethin comes groggily out of a deep and pleasantly snoring slumber.  "Somebody's in trouble," he mumbles thickly as he tries to pull on gear in the dim light.  He has to hastily jerk the last few pieces in place, pulling on buckles and latches as he jogs to catch up with the others.

Armed but not armored, Lyriel peers intently through her window. Even through the rain and darkness, she observes figures clad in the garb of sleep walking unerringly for the wharf and once there into the roiling waters of Ashenport harbor.  With the obscuration, she can't make out their faces or identities.

Time: Call of Dagon +1

No amount of compulsion could force Ravex to leave his khopesh, javelin, and shield behind.  They will accompany him wherever his scaled feet lead which is currently out of his room and down the stairs.  Although he doesn't notice, he's slightly ahead of Brother Zelias. Looks like he'll be the first to get where he's going.

Back in their room, after slapping his breastplate in place, Gethin fumbles with the straps to his vambraces, slipping the cords in the wrong holes.  Would the fight be over before he even geared up? That would be a nightmare. Maybe it is?

With his comrades already out the door, Gethin shoves whatever he has not had time to don into his pack, slings his shield over his arm and his sword belt over his shoulder, and rushes after them.

"Ravex! Brother Zellias! Where are you going?"  The persistent call in the back of his mind worries him.  Gethin has always been uneasy about any water deeper than a pig trough.  This longing for the sea is entirely unnatural, and if the same compulsion is on his comrades, they might be in up to their necks before he can stop them.

"Wait! Come back!"

If Gethin does not have 5 minutes to don armor before the others are out the door, he'll grab his pack & sword (MINOR), stow the armor (MINOR), equip his shield (MOVE), and follow after them with a double-run next round.

  Lyriel emerges into the hall as several figures shuffle past in the thrall of whatever madness has seized the town, but the shouting human to the right offers some hope that it hasn't taken hold of everyone - not yet, at least. The human clearly hadn't taken a look out his window, though. "Something has seized their minds and they're all going to hurl themselves into the sea!"

  She grabbed hold of the nearest sleepwalker and gave him a good shake in the hope that it would break the trance. If that failed then a slap across the face would follow, and if neither worked... well, this probably wasn't the time to worry about concussions; a dagger-hilt to the back of the head would either wake them up or knock them out.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:55, Tue 12 July 2011.

"I'm gonna' shut this lady up, damn it!" Ravex belts out at Gethin as he stomps down stairs and out of the inn.

OOC: Not entirely sure why Ravex can do in this "state." Walk forward, I presume?

In reply to Autarch (msg #35):

A column of ash, wind, and fire moves through the sky. It swirls, rolls, and moves itself onto the harbor near the party. Then it seem to become solid, and burst into 100's of green crystal shards. They hover in the air for a moment, before flying back together and take shape. A statue made of a crystal substance-expect it has a staff, traveling leathers, a pack at the small of its back...

Then it moves-and its near featureless face moves. Only eyes are visible-made of crystal like the rest. It studied its surroundings, and leaned on its staff. Glancing at those who look at it-including the party.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:59, Thu 14 July 2011.

Time: Call of Dagon +2

Neither Ravex nor Brother Zelias respond to Gethin's pleas. Perhaps, the pleas lack conviction on account of the paladin of Pelor taking time to neatly stow his armor in his pack before rushing after his sea-bent comrades.

Gethin is 2 minutes behind Ravex and BZ.

After exiting her room, Lyriel grasps a husky man-at-arms by the shoulders as he passes by moving foot by foot to the sea.  She gives him a good shake. No good! He walks on. Frustrated, she slaps him back and forth across the cheeks, moving uncomfortably close to him to do so, the scent of his rank garlic sweat thick in her face. His eyes blink.  For a moment, she thinks he might see her, but, no, he continues his march.  He repeats a few words to himself, "Drown with me," again and again. Not tonight, Lyriel swears.

OOC Man-at-arms failed save granted by Lyriel.

Lyriel is 1 minute behind Ravex and BZ

Meanwhile, Ravex and Gethin do the only thing they can do--listen to Dagon and thirst for the watery bed.

The waters gonna drag you down
Come drown with me
We're gonna sink to the depths
Come drown with me
The elders drag the humans down
Down, down, down

They don't, not even for a moment, notice the crystalline sentry in front of the inn.

This is DawnStone who is one minute ahead of Ravex and BZ.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:55, Thu 14 July 2011.

In reply to Autarch (msg #41):

Seeing all the people moving in one direction, Dawnstone wondered if there was some kind of holiday or festival. The strangeness of the flesh folk always struck him as odd-but then, the suffering their kind was forced to endure would make anyone act oddly. However-he had been told this place needed him. Whatever was going on, he doubted it was any good. He noticed two well-armed fleshlings, and decided to reach out to them first.

In Ravex's and Brother Zellias's minds they heard a very monotone voice. Excuse me, but where are you going? The same place as everybody else? He listened into their minds for a response...

Gethin runs to catch Ravex and Zellias before they drown themselves in the sea.

  Lyriel drew a combat knife, reversed her grip, and brought the hilt down on the back of the guardsman's skull. The blow was meant to stun or knock out its victim rather than to cripple or kill, but in the heat of the moment there was no sure thing. If nothing else, maybe this would be sufficient to snap him out of it.

  Even as she struck, she realized that this one act wouldn't solve the problem - almost everyone in the inn seemed to be caught up in the spell, so rather than spend any more time in the hallway, she pounded down the stairs to the front door, where she promptly exchanged her dagger for her greatsword and stood ready to block whomever tried to leave - with a blow from the flat of the weapon if need be.

  "Snap out of it!" she snarled at the oncoming crowd. Bared teeth emphasized the point, but sharp as they were, the gleaming length of cold steel held far more painful promise.

  Lyriel hit the guard for 14 damage. (Unconscious if reduced to 0 HP.)
This message was last edited by the player at 19:11, Thu 14 July 2011.