As a group, you trod to the closest tavern in the garden district, the Emperor of Curd, the clatter of your steel-shod boots an accompaniment to the boisterous shield-clappers, performing from atop balcony and beneath awning, for all who will listen.  They smash their towers and bulwarks together to the delight of the dancing ladies who twirl their shiny-stone necklaces in mad appreciation.  With deafening insouciance, revelers splash frothy coconut rum concoctions upon the chests of your armors.

Hastily, you duck away from the revelry and find yourselves under the awning of your destination.  Through the smoky glass, you can see the silhouettes of patrons inside, playing cards, eating from platters, drinking from tankards, talking it out, or sleeping it off.  You want some of that.  You tumble inside.

Into loneliness.

No patrons.

No cards.

No platters.

No drinks.

No slumber.

Worst of all, no talkin' it out.

Just a spare lobby with a few sickly palms and dusty couches.  A reception area, unmanned, is off to the side, with a counter between guest and concierge (but no concierge at the moment).  On the counter sits a single bell, tapped to be rung.  Beyond the counter and the space behind the encounter is a wall lined with cubby holes.  Depended from chains, a sign proclaims this establishment to be The Emperor of Curd.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:19, Thu 26 Mar 2009.

Gethin stops short in the doorway, eyes dark with suspicion as he looks around the dusty and eerily empty room.

"That's strange."

He steps back outside.  Looks at the smoky glass again.  Then back into the dingy establishment.

"Hello...?"

Gethin's tries to slip back outside but a crush of revelers sends him crashing back in, the door in his face.  The Bearded Shield-Clappers, dwarven masters of the craft, must be conducting a street performance, right outside the inn.  Peering through the panes of beviled glass, Gethin sees but the mass of people, making space for the masters.

The sudden explosion of people and noise almost had Quinn reacting in a way that would have been ...... unfortunate for all concerned.  Stumbling into the empty lobby he looked around with a slightly shell shocked expression, his mind running through a repetitive chant that started with a hot meal and ended with a long soak.

Not seeing anyone, and frankly out of patience, the mage slams his staff into the floor.  Instead of the expected thump of wood, there's a peal of thunder that echoes through the building.

"Aaaaaaurgh!" Matwau is already feeling claustrophobic, regretful of having ever stepped inside this crazy place. When the mob rushes Gethin his panic starts to build. With a mountain lion's snarl he draws his tomahawk and barks at the crowd to stay away.

Now it is time for Faedran to place a hand on Matwau's shoulder.

"Easy now, the ways of Loudwater are strange but outside there is no threat, merely celebration," he says in a calm voice, his lilt turning the last word into a singsong.

Inwardly, he curses Brother Griffin for ever sending him away from the garden-in-the-city.  Still, an errand was an errand, and he meant to be about it eventually.

The tavern reminded him of a dead tree - the shell of life was there, but the heart was long gone.  "Something is amiss here," he declares, looking about for any sign of life.

Ravex wasn't sure what to think, so he settles on his default: anger. "What trick is this?!" He bellows, placing his hand on his Khopesh. "This town reeks of magic-tosser insanity!"

"What Trick is this?!"
     "What Trick is this?!"
          "What Trick is this?!"

Ravex's own voice mocks him as it echoes through the empty lobby.

The reception counter remains unmanned.

A fly buzzes annoyingly about one of the flickering torchères.

Three egresses lead out of the lobby. One of them is blocked by throngs of revelers.

Ravex growls and turns toward the exit. "This is a waste of time." He doesn't try to force his way into the crowd, instead he grabs the first adult male reveler he can get his hands on and drags them into the lobby through strength and force of will. "Why is this place empty?!" He demands with a snarling roar as he gestures around the room.

21:43, Today: Ravex rolled 18 using 1d20+8. Intimidate.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:49, Thu 26 Mar 2009.

Antillios looks around a bit at a loss for words.  All we wanted was a few rounds and a bed, he mutters.

Ravex's fears of a magicker messing with them sends Matwau into a crazed panic. He rushes the window and hacks at it with his tomahawk.

Antillios rushes at Matwau and launches himself at the wild wild man in a classic two point tackle.  They a bit on the floor and come to a stop in the corner.  Easy there friend, Antillios says as calmly as is possible while latched onto Matwau's arm and leg.

Gethin wonders a moment if the place has already driven them mad.  Much seems to point in that direction.  But he doesn't himself feel out of his wits, only... befuddled.

It's not an uncommon feeling.

He steps toward the counter and looks for sign of any one, or anything to summon someone.

He finds a bell.

"Hello?" he calls again, as he gives it a hopeful ring.

=====================================
(( only if no one answers the bell ))

"We can just find a rear exit away from the revelers."  Gethin keeps his sword and shield stowed -- readying them in a public house, no matter how eerily deserted, seems unconscionable to him.

Gethin heads for one of the remaining exits.

((ooc - If one looks more likely to lead outside, he'll take that one.  Otherwise, it doesn't much matter.  I'll say the left.))
This message was last edited by the player at 12:12, Fri 27 Mar 2009.

At the rear, Faedran acts as shepherd, ushering the others after the other half-elf.  "A back exit, probably through a kitchen, and we're gone."

He grips Pealmaker tightly, a strange feeling in his gut.  In a world full of magic, the fantastic became ever more ordinary.

Matwau bares his teeth, growling at the warlock and trying to wrestle free. But he remembers this is not his lake. Strange rules doubtless apply.

"Okay. Okay. Let me go. I'm okay." he says, halting his writhing and calming himself. "I'm okay. I understand this is the city. How many gold coins do I pay to leave?"

Flinching away as Matwau, followed by Antillos, charge past him, Quinn continues to glare around in confounded irritation.  He stomps along behind the others, keeping an eye out for the bar or the kitchen.

Antillios pats Matwau friendly on the shoulder and climbs up to his feet.  Sorry about that, but we can't have you going around destroying other people's property.  I don't know if we can pay our way out, we might just have to.. er.. hunt around for a back door.

Before Matwau can crack the glass with his tomahawk, Antillios subdues him.  At first, the tribal warrior resists Antillios's pleas for restraint.  He struggles, snarling, attempting to raise his weapon for a shattering blow, but the dwarf not only matches his effort but reassures him with language.

"Now, now, Matwau, my man, remember what you said about the ambush..."

"...you must learn new ways to hunt.  The cub can't strike the lioness that would teach him..."

Matwau's arms fall limp and the tomahawk drops to the ground.  When he tries to get Antillios to tell him how much he must pay to disappear, the warlock instead comforts him, a brotherly hand upon his shoulder.

They talk it out.

~~~

Meanwhile, Gethin walks to the counter and taps the bell on it.  It vibrates at a high frequency, keening, although for what it might mourn can't be known.  A full ten seconds pass and then ten more till the bell ceases its lamentations.

Clomp.
  Clomp.
    Clomp.

That sounds comes from below, not from above, and draws Gethin's attention to the floor behind the counter where he notices a trapdoor.  As he watches, the door opens, and a neatly-dressed concierge emerges.  He's a slim man, wearing a white and blue vest and a tidy bellboy hat.  His voice, resoundingly chipper and cheerful, beckons:

"Welcome to the Emperor of Curd.  I'm Chester.  We're a full-service hotel.  Do you have any more luggage?  My name is Chester.  Trans or Res?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:54, Sat 28 Mar 2009.

There was a reason this place was empty, and trapdoor-lurking pages might be it.

Faedran considers asking questions, such as, where in the name of the Oakfather the nearest exit was, but a feeling in his gut tells him there'd be no point.

 Anyone who introduced himself twice wasn't listening, not even to himself.

"No, no more luggage.  I suppose you could say it's our first stay here at the ... I'm sorry I didn't understand the name?  In any case I'm sure it's very nice.

Curds ... wasn't that something you threw away making butter?

At a loss for anything else to say, he gets to the point.  Some townsfolk liked that .. others didn't.  Chester would have to put up with it if the latter, and like him all the more if the former.

"We're looking for a place to rest our weary feet and have a drink and maybe even a bath.  Is that acceptable?  Or ...?"
This message was last edited by the player at 03:28, Sat 28 Mar 2009.

Looking at the man with suspicion, Quinn continues to study the rest of the building as Faedrun arranges for lodging.  The strange behaviour of the people in this town was making him uncomfortable.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:36, Sun 29 Mar 2009.

Gethin's expression remains thoroughly puzzled as the smartly dressed little man emerges from under the floor.  He's tried to put off suspicion (Brother Aldric always said it was an uncharitable emotion), but the circumstances here are quite strange.  And the fact that the Emperor's Curd looks like it hasn't seen use in some time is certainly no ringing endorsement of the service.

He studies Chester intently for a moment, but the man's oddity makes him almost inscrutable to the simple paladin.  ((Insight roll=13, passive=20))

He nods through Faedran's introduction, but before Chester can answer, he leans in.   "What is 'Trans' and 'Res'?"
This message was last edited by the player at 17:57, Sun 29 Mar 2009.

Antillios helps Matwau up to his feet and whispers conspiratorially to him.  Keep your head on you.  This isn't normal for any city folk.  I think we're knee deep in the strange stuff.  Don't be the first to draw your weapons, but keep your hands close.  We might have to use the old rock crusher, he taps his forehead, to figure out what's going on here.

Would he were to pull one person inside the inn, Ravex could have done so, but when he grabs hold of an arm to yank a motley-dressed man within, not only the man resists, but all those pressed against him.  Even with Ravex's force of will, he cannot overcome the will of the crowd.

~~~

Faced with two inquisitive half-elves, Chester chooses Gethin's question to answer first: "Stay for a day or stay for a lifetime!  We at the Emperor of Curd pride ourselves on being a full-service hotel.  Many, at first, just intend to stay for a day."  His words trail off as he loses track of his thoughts.

Tapping the counter, he adds, "5 gold per night or 20 for a week.  One room for each of you, but," winking conspiratorially at the two men talkin' it out, "there are interconnecting doors should you become lonely."

"The Emperor of Curd, we're a full service hotel," Chester then replies to Faedran, while nodding his head slowly--as if he were talking to a slow child, and as if that answers his question.

"You can relax in the lounge," he explains, "which is through that door," pointing to the one egress far from the lobby.

From behind the counter, he retrieves a ledger and bids you sign in so that he can fetch keys for your rooms.  The one too many sparkles in his eyes and the complete absence of creases from his uniform and bellboy's cap bespeak his tenuous grasp of sanity.  Everywhere you go, eh?
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:08, Mon 30 Mar 2009.

Watching the man carefully as be speaks to Gethin, Faedran can't help but feel he's stepped into a parlour of glamours.


As for the price ... five gold represents almost all of Faedran's petty cash, and he knows that his length of stay in the city will be dictated by how long he could string it out.  The others had money, but he was not about to start asking for coins.  City-folk never gave anything away for free.

Not caring a whit for material wealth, the Half-Elf does however know its value.  Unlike in the wilds, here one's stature and status was determined by the weight of one's purse.  Spending five gold here would be unwise.

He shakes his head.  "Chester, I think I'll take a look around first, perhaps get a drink, and see if this place is to my liking."

"The lounge sounds like a good place," he adds, as he quickly heads there to take a peek beyond the portal.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:43, Mon 30 Mar 2009.

"Interconnecting doors... no... no I need a room with no roof for to see the sky." Matwau stammers out, trying to keep the panic from his voice like a tribesman trying to hide his fear from wild dogs. "I cannot sleep with a stone above me. I can pay... I have gold coins..."

Quinn's eyebrows rise sharply as Chester quotes the price, that's easily double what he's ever paid for a room at an inn.  Feeling even more twitchy, the young mage has no intention of signing his name to anything until he understood what was going on.  "I'd also want to look and see what I'll be paying for first."  He peers past Faedran to look into the lounge.

Gethin's suspicion grows to alarm.  "What sorcery is this?  You keep people here for a lifetime?  Where are these people?  I demand that you let me see them!"  His newfound forcefulness surprises Gethin, but then he's never been in a situation where people may be locked away, hidden from the light of Pelor or the blessings of their own gods, in need of rescue.

Well, there was the time old Marvin locked his cousin in the barn until she would promise to marry him, but that situation lacked the uncanny urgency of this one.

"Better yet." Ravex walks up to the counter and draws his weapon. "Tell us why the view through the window doesn't match what's happening inside."

"If you wanted to sleep outside, perhaps you shouldn't have come inside," Chester suggests to Matwau, somewhere in the gray region between curtness and condescension.

"But we're a full-service hotel.  Why would anyone want to leave?  I have the ledger here for you to sign your name in.  Maybe this will help," he says as he retrieves a card from behind the counter which he gives to Gethin.

It reads: "Hi! I'm Chester."  It also has "Ext. 4251" in small print on the bottom.

Then, his eyes flick from the wholesomeness of Gethin to the antagonism of Ravex.

He gulps at Ravex's cruel ice-tinged blade.

He stammers, "I don't go outside.  Why would I go outside?"  Then, his tongue finds familiar territory.

"Because...

We're...

a full-service...

establishment."

~~~

Those of you who saunter to the lounge discover an ill-considered room.  Scarce feet from the entrance, three tables cramp a corner, abutting the back wall and the bar, which zags away from the tables halfway down the counter.  Behind the counter, a barkeep absentmindedly scrubs the lone clean spot with a filthy rag.  On his red bartender's vest, he has a pin, but you can't read the writing from the doorway.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:51, Tue 31 Mar 2009.

Antillios swagers up to the counter and plants his elbow down, as much as that is possible.  Maybe we take a room, maybe we just want a drink, maybe we just were looking for something else and your establishment can't provide what we want.  Me, I'm always on the look out for a good back door.

You guys got a back door?

The barkeep had the look of despair made flesh.  Faedran casts a sidelong glance at Gethin, his eyes tinged with confusion and his face betraying a return of the animal fear that the initial foray into the town had shown.

"What do you make of this?" he whispers.  "Sorcery?"

Or had one of Brother Griffin's exotic plants exuded a potent hallucinogen?
This message was last edited by the player at 05:37, Tue 31 Mar 2009.

With his back and belly cruelly creased between table and counter and elbow embedded within counter sludge, Antillios makes his inquiries to the barkeep.

Not wavering in his wiping, the man says, "Front door, trapdoor, side door--we have those.  A back door?  That you have to provide on your own."

He raises his eyes to yours.  When risen, they still hang.

"You're at the bar.  You must be wanting our specialty and something to wash it down?"

~~~

Antillios can see that the pin on his red vest reads: "I'm not Chester!"

"Full service establishment." Matwau repeats slowly, having to think about what those words might mean. "Full service establishment? Full full? You have everything? You have roasted macaque?"

Ravex grumbles and squints. Instead of pressing his threat, he decides to hang back and watch.

Quinn squints at the bartender and makes a mental note to check any glass carefully before the bartender pours him a drink.  "I think we might want to go elsewhere, assuming we can get past the crows.  They must have a way of bringing supplies in, be it only a cellar entrance for the casks of beer.  If not there's always a window."

That said Quinn starts looking around for the nearest window.

"I can't say I've ever ordered that dish myself.  I always have the specialty myself," Chester replies to Matwau, rubbing his belly unselfconsciously.  "You'd have to ask Aloitious about our complete menu."

Quinn glances around.  Through the lobby windows, he can see the press of the crowd.  It doesn't abate before or after the main entrance--a good thing, for all concerned, that Matwau's tomahawk didn't smash one of them.  And, given the rein of the quixotic in the Emperor of Curd, nothing might have been gained by the violence.

Several flies complete a Flamenco about a candelabra.

~~~

Aloitious, the barkeep, stares at Antillios expectantly.

Gethin takes the ledger and, other than a brief glance, ignores the card.  He looks for the names of others who have signed in.  "I want to see these people.  Where are they?"

One glance at the ledger reveals a blank first page, save for the headings of "Name," "Trans" or "Res," and "Comments," and if Gethin cares to look, blank subsequent pages, each and every one.  This revelation steals the impetus from Gethin's question.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:21, Wed 01 Apr 2009.

Leaving Gethin to deal with the mystery of the ledger, Faedran tries the bartender.

"Water, if you have some from a well outside of town, otherwise ..."

He struggles trying to guess what else might there to be had; water was really his thing.

"A beer of some kind?  What kegs do you have tapped?"

After glancing out the window, Quinn is about to order a drink when Faedrun speaks.  After thinking about it he makes do with a long draught from his waterskin, this whole place was creeping him out.

"Let's check out the perimeter of the building.  If there's a window overlooking the back or sides we can get out there, or we might find the trade entrance."  Given their weird behaviour, Quinn ignores the bartender and Chester as he speaks.

Frowning deeply, Gethin sets the ledger on the desk with forced patience.  He is surprised at the sudden urge in him to bash Chester's teeth with its thin wooden edge and see if the man continues his silly games through a mouthful of blood.

Take a deep breath.

He does.

"Sir, you are not being forthright with us, and I do not appreciate it.  I wish to know whether there are people other than ourselves currently staying in your establishment.  If so, where are they?  This place looks like it hasn't seen use in months."

Gethin Ballider rolled 21 using 1d20+11. diplomacy.

Lounge
Aloitious narrows his eyes at Faedran, "Just where do you think you are, exactly?"

Then, he shrugs, and, speaking to the counter, tells him that he serves but one dish and but one drink at the Emperor of Curd.  Would he have the specialty or not?

Here and There
Quinn pokes about the premises.  Besides the lobby and the lounge, there is an exit that leads to stairs to the second floor.  It's pretty non-descript, not at all befitting an emperor for that matter, not even a red carpet along the hallway.  It just has six interior-facing doors, numbered one through six, and all locked.

Reception
Frowning for the first time, Chester acknowledges the truth of Gethin's charge.  "Well, no, I suppose we don't have any guests at the moment..not..not at the moment."

This appears to be a truth that Chester can't quite slip his hands around.

"I don't even think I know when we last had guests.  Can't say why.  We are, after all, a ..."

He brightens: "Maybe some people will check in after the street celebrations!"

If Gethin's insightful nature were to choose a word for Chester, that word might well be delusional.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:08, Thu 02 Apr 2009.

"Hmmmmm." Matwau leans around the corner to look at the bartender, but then goes straight back to Aloitious. "But if you don't have roast macaque you're not a full... service... establishment." Matwau didn't know why he had to say it that way, he just did. This was a strange place and he was certainly not feeling himself.

"So you must have roast macaque! This is true, because I have used logic."

"Not on the menu," -- Chester absorbs the full blast of Matwau's logic -- "We've always served ... exotic dishes..."

He seems to be struggling to explain further but his tongue can't cooperate.

~~~
*DC 15 Arcana checks for those overhearing this conversation.
*Chester=Concierge; Aloitious=Bartender.

Matwau thinks back to some conversations with the shaman... maybe his dim understandings of magic might shed some light on the situation.
-
Arcana: 20!

PM to Matwau

Matwau mouths a word in a moment of realisation. He looks among his friends... who is most shaman like? Who would most understand the words of the wild ones? Faedran of the forest? Quinn of the diabolical books? Little Antillios the warluck?

He would disseminate it amongst them and hope someone understood...

"Geas." he whispers urgently, first to Gethin, tugging on the man's sleeve to pull him away from Chester so they can speak in private. "Geas. I think he has a geas. It is a geas because if you have a geas you can't say the thing that will set you free from the geas. Something must be done but he can't... he can't say what!"

Excited now, Matwau rushes into the bar to proudly tell the others the thing his logic had made, but he tried to keep his excited whisper under his breath so his hosts would not hear... not just yet anyway.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:05, Thu 02 Apr 2009.

"A spell?"

It is a question but Faedran's whisper is not one of surprise.  He keeps the tone low so neither employee of this decidedly abnormal place can hear.

"A curse, or a shared spirit walk?"

There were many possibilities, but only one solution.  "We must break this spell."

"Somehow ..."

The Half-Elf is clearly at a loss.  Rent rooms? Enjoy the food and drink?  Indulge in full service?  Talk it out?  Decide who was trans and who was res?

None of it made sense, and clouds seemed to drift across his mind.  At least Faedran was guided by one sign.  Nature could not be denied: he was hungry and thirsty.

Accosting the bartender, his tone decidedly snappy, he says:

"Alright then.  I'll take that one dish and one drink."

Please.  He knows he should have added that, but he didn't feel like being polite; he can feel his mood shifting, the storm, it was coming.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:37, Thu 02 Apr 2009.

Quinn catches the end of Matwau's excited whisper as he stumps down the stairs.  Perking up the mage looks at Chester with interest.  "Hmmm...."

_{"Without knowing how the geas was cast I don't know how we'd break it.  I wouldn't eat or drink anything here until we find out the purpose of this place."}

Narrowing is eyes in through, Quinn suddenly turns on one foot and strides up to the area Chester appeared from, looking for the trap door.

With a practiced hand, the barkeep snatches a pitcher and fills a mug with frothy yet possibly lumpy white liquid.  Smells like milk.  But milk that lives in that treacherous land between potable and turned.  With his other hand, he retrieves a colossal bowl and places it under the half-elf's nose.  Little whitish curds and nubs heaped high with a slick white grease coating it all.  This can only be a super-sized bowl of cottage cheese--more than any man could eat.  At least, it looks and smells reasonably fresh.

Although they are almost completely lidded, Faedran detects a new inhabitant within the barkeep's eyes.

~~~

Quinn leans over the counter; he sees that Chester's feet stand squarely on the trapdoor.

The pregnant looks and terse whispers and meaningful nods aren't lost on Gethin.  A new understanding dawns: these pitiable men may themselves be the captives in need of rescue.

He catches Quinn's glance and decides to help how he can.  So he does something that just a week ago he never thought he'd see himself do.

Gethin lies.

"Alright.  Maybe I'll take a room.  But I want to see it, first.  Show me."

22:09, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 16 using 1d20+4. Bluff (if needed).

Effulgent with pride, Chester enthuses, "Yes, yes, I would love for you to see one of our suites.  We are, after all, a full-service inn, and those services, naturally, extend to our rooms.  Room, chamber pot, magic finger, ice bucket, and alarm ..."

"Oh, and other specialty services," he demurely adds, with a wink at Gethin. "But I'm sure a strapping lad such as yourself won't need those.  Just wander into the lounge and you'll make some new friends."

"The rooms are 5 gold a night or 20 gold for a week!  Stay for a day or a lifetime!  The Emperor of Curd will cater to all of your needs."

Bouncing ever so perceptibly on the balls of his feet, he waits for Gethin.

A few swirls of dust billow and then dissipate in the mid-evening heat of Loudwater, disturbed by a slowly oscillating evening fan.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:54, Fri 03 Apr 2009.

You are in the lounge of the Emperor of Curd, at the bar, with the tables and the bar ridge squeezing your mid-section.

Antillios is here, next to you, in an identical state of displacement.

Aloitious, the barkeep, watches you expectantly with about one-quarter of his eyeball.

A steaming (not literally) super-sized bowl of cottage cheese oozes on the counter.

A frothy and potentially lumpy mug of milk is here.

"Lead the way, then."

Gethin warily follows Chester out of the foyer.  As he goes, he casts a meaningful glance from Quinn to the trap door on which Chester stood just a moment ago.

Once they're gone, he hems for a moment, then asks, "What's a magic finger?  And why would I need an alarm?"

Chester doesn't budge from the trapdoor.  "I can give you a key after you've signed the ledger and paid for your stay."

You think you can detect beads of sweat creasing the rim of his bellboy's cap.

Quinn studies the unmoving Chester for a few seconds, then turns away and gestures for Gethin to follow him to the others.  "I could try and put Chester to sleep, then we could examine him and get into that cellar."

Gethin studies Chester's face a long moment, trying to discern the source of his worry.  Clearly something great is at stake here.  Self-interest?  Does Chester want him to sign the ledger because it would set him free?  A shadow of guilt?  Would signing the ledger imprison Gethin in his place?

After that long moment, he turns back to Quinn.  "A good fall back plan, but I worry that using force against the geas might... damage him somehow.  That sometimes happens in the stories, doesn't it?  I would prefer to avoid that if we can.

Can you tell if his ledger is magical?  He seems keen to have me sign it.  I am keen not to.  Does it contain secret writing that would bind me in some way?"

15:05, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 17 using 1d20+10. insight: why is chester sweating?.

As far as Gethin knows, Chester sweats because he would love to tell you everything he knows but the nature of the geas--just as the prince would love to scream to the heavens that he is, in his true form, a frog--prevents them.  Such stress manifests itself in various ways.

If he examines the ledger, Quinn will reveal that it is not, in and of itself, magical, although now that he's been in the inn for an hour or so, he can't dismiss the palpable aura of enchantment.  In a bygone time, he might have performed various tests on the magical auras, eventually isolating two schools of magic: transmutation and enchantment.

I've had far worse than this, Faedran reflects as he takes the battered wooden mug full of future-curd and drinks it all down in one long pull.  He never takes his eyes from the barkeep; his face a questioning semi-frown.

That gory task done, he wipes his mouth.  He waits a moment, trying to purge the taste.  A belch.  Another.  The thirst was dealt with.  Now for the hunger.

"I don't suppose you offer spoons?" he growls, the storm almost among him.  The cottage cheese would have to do, however the thought of roasting meat and broiled vegetables, and about a dozen other things he had been half-expecting, threatens to engrage him.

Faedran needs no spoon, but he was sure other townies would demand it.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:39, Fri 03 Apr 2009.

Down the hatch!  I'm in a bar; I'd better do some drinkin'.

The not-quite-spoiled milk steams down the drinker's throat like the bursts of gratitude sometimes received by the purveyors of special services in the appointed suites.   With the excess dribbling a bit about his lips, Faedran assesses the state of his stomach.


"This'll be going on your tab, naturally," the server of curd announces.  Whether he's referring to the meal and drink or the promptly proffered wooden spoon, Faedran can't say.

Spoon in hand, Faedran's about to set to ... to shovel it in ... to get down to some eatin' when he realizes one thing.

He's a guy.  He can't eat cottage cheese.

~~~

Score 7/30  You've obtained the rank of Unconsecrated Cottage Cheese. 

This message was last edited by the player at 21:49, Fri 03 Apr 2009.

Having returned to the lobby after telling his friends in the bar about the geas, Matwau now poked Gethin in the side.

"Sign it." he urges him, with no real idea what signing something means. "I want to discover what a chamber pot is."

The Half-Elf was a creature of the wilderness.  He'd eaten raw worms, wriggling from the soil.  Bloody raw meat he has consumed in quantity.  Even the still beating heart of his first solo kill, his parents looking on.

But this ... he can't eat this!

Faedran sits there, staring down at the lumpy whiteness, and tries not to cover Aloitious with a stream of spew.

Endurance check: 10 vs DC 12, fail
22:16, Today: Faedran rolled 10 using 1d20+2. Endurance check.  Eat the Cheese!.

It was Antillios's fault.  If he hadn't half-suppressed a snicker when Faedran had been about to go down on a bowl of cottage cheese, the half-elf might have successfully steeled himself for the repast.

~~~
*You can assist each other with this minor challenge (Endurance DC 12).
*You can also be creative about how to make the cottage cheese more palatable for a circumstance bonus.
~~~

Score 10/30  You've obtained the rank of Unconsecrated Cottage Cheese.* 

*This should have been your score after Faedran drained the "milk."

"Faedran, my lad," Antillios begins, "There's always times in our lives when we must eat that which was not meant to be eaten.  Such as now."

"First, ye can't let your beard get in the way--in a manner of speaking," he continues, carefully removing his suit of armor and setting it on a table behind him.

After removing his armor, the warlock searches in his pack for a packet of peppers of a dusky rose hue.

"Second, ye have to go on the offensive.  Bring the brimstone to the beast!"  He then tosses some of the peppers in whole and squeezes a few of them over the mess, dripping seeds and oils on the cheese.

"Finally, don't look back or to the side.  Your food's your own business--not his or his or hers."

Then, simple as that, he sets to and shovels it in.

~~~

Score 15/30  You've obtained the rank of Consecrated Cottage Cheese.

Dwarves are strange creatures, Faedran remembers a saying.

Miraculous ones, too, he decides.

Not wanting to risk speaking, lest something other than words come out, the Half-Elf retreats to a corner, where he might regain some dignity.

edit:

But then ... more miracles.  The revolting pile of diary-maggots is gone, replaced by something far less mundane, but determinedly more delicious.

Fight fire with fire was another common saying.

And magic with magic. Lesson learned!
This message was last edited by the player at 19:50, Sat 04 Apr 2009.

Quinn pulls thoughtfully on his ear for a moment, then sighs in frustration as he puts aside the idea of direct magical intervention.  "I'll hold off for now Gethin, but this is getting irritating.

The book isn't magic in and of itself, but there's no telling what effect signing it would have on the geas.  This whole place reeks of magic, so it could trigger something.  For example signing your name can signify consent."

Shrugging helplessly as he provides Gethin with completely useless advice, the young mage heads into the bar as he hears Faedrun making retching noises.  Peering over the half-elf's shoulder he wrinkles his nose.  "Let me help friend Faedrun."

Recalling something he'd been treated to on a trip to the capital, Quinn murmurs a liquid string of arcane words as he waves a softly glowing hand over the half eaten food.  The cottage cheese darkens to a deep brown colour, and the smell shifts to something enticing.

OoC: Faedrun now has a bowl of cottage cheese that tastes like chocolate ice cream.  I'm assuming Antillos is eating his own bowl, so if not cancel the last action.

Ravex, having been unusually silent as he watches Quinn and Gethin deal with the ledger, can't decide what he hates the most: the fact that he was deceived into entering this place, or the fact that magic was up to no good again. He does decide though, quite suddenly, that he's had enough.

"Enough of this non-sense!"

He rushes forward, leaps over the counter, and attempts to grab Chester.

Sorry guys, I just can't take it anymore.

21:53, Today: Ravex rolled 19 vs Ref using 1d20+5. Grab
21:52, Today: Ravex rolled 22 using 1d20+10. Athletics

Chester proves pretty easy to grab.  What do you want to do with him?

Ravex snarls at Chester as he lifts the man and moves him off the door to the cellar, making sure to keep his arms pinned. To Gethin: "Find out what he's hiding down below. Somethin' ain't right."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:06, Sun 05 Apr 2009.

One of you will discover that the trapdoor is locked.  The door is wooden and has a steel ring for lifting it.  With strength, you could probably force it open.  You could also probably just destroy it.

~~~
*DC 17 str check to force the trapdoor open (+2 for using a crowbar or similar implement; +2 for one person helping--only person may attempt to assist due to limited space).
*Let me know if you want to shakedown Chester or search the cubbyholes behind the counter while he's grabbed.

Gethin lays a hand on Ravex's shoulder.  "Take it easy, Ravex.  He's no threat to us."

He glances to Chester, trying soothe the poor man's nerves and generally trying to be an island of calm just beyond the sea of teeth that is right now inches from his nose.  "Alright, I'll sign the ledger.  And then I'm looking below.  Quinn, you search the cubbies behind the desk."

This is the second time today that Gethin has lacked for a basic tool -- the sort of tool that he used daily in his "old life" -- to complete some necessary task.  The palading mutters ruefully: "Should have packed more sensibly.  Brother Dennis always said there were few problems in life that a grubbing hoe couldn't fix."

He wouldn't even consider profaning the Flame of Pelor in this way.  The little dagger, once pulled from his belt and examine skeptically, looks woefully inadequate.

He glances at Ravex, still menacing the hapless bellhop.  At the two curved swords at his belt -- once magical and one mundane.  This was his idea, anyway.

Gethin draws the non-magical khopesh from the dragonborn's scabbard.  "...borrow this a minute."

With the dagger and khopesh for leverage, he pries and pulls the trapdoor up.

13:52, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 25 using 1d20+6. STR check (assuming +2).
This message was last edited by the player at 17:57, Sun 05 Apr 2009.

That done, Gethin stands up with a satisfied grin.  Accomplishing well some task of simple manual labor has always cheered him up.

He steps toward the desk and signs (in block letters): GETHIN BALLIDER.  He marks "Trans," which he guesses (hopes) means "transient" or "I'm only staying for one night".  Under comments he writes, Staff friendly, but cleanliness poor.

He drops 5 gold coins on the table, listening quietly to the warble one makes as it rolls a few times before dropping flat.

He looks up at Chester.

The choco-cottage-cream-cheese was magically delicious, and as Faedran watches the drama in the lobby unfold, he nods approvingly as he finishes the last few swallows.

Ravex might not be a very sociably fellow, but he was equal-opportunity anti-social, which was only fair in the end.

He keeps a peripheral eye on the barkeep, in case the laying on hands (in the non-healing sense) on Chester would trigger some Polymorphic response or other magical effect in Aloitious.

In the domain of the strange* that they had found themselves in, anything seems possible.


* I considered using Twilight Zone here, but remain fearful of the Anachronism Police
This message was last edited by the player at 19:13, Sun 05 Apr 2009.

Having considered dropping Chester with magic, Quinn wasn't surprised when Ravex lost his rag.  Slipping past the dangling Chester, he starts to quickly check through the shelves behind the desk.  Assuming he finds nothing of particular interest he follows Gethin down below.

Stillness and flies having reigned for such a long time, the blur of action stuns both Chester and Aloitious.

Quinn sweeps through the cubbyholes and ferrets out six keys, numbered one through six, only one of which, presumably, has been paid for in accordance with modern notions of commerce and civilization.

The trapdoor no longer a barrier, Gethin enjoys a full view of the chamber below.  Spacious and illuminated (courtesy of an ever-burning torch), the break room for the Emperor of Curd looks to be serving as a storeroom.  Blankets, linens, chamber pots, and, yes, even magic fingers form their own middens.  There's writing on the wall as well, but it's too far away for Gethin's eyes to read.

Quinn now has six keys, numbered one through six.

The ledge now has one entry, Gethin's.

Ravex still has one Chester.

~~~
Score 16/30  You're still Consecrated Cottage Cheese.

Passing the handful of keys to Matwau, Quinn jerks his head towards the stairs upstairs.  "Help yourself."  He heads down after Gethin and immediately zeroes in on the writing, edging past warrior to get a closer look.

In the employee break room, Quinn studies the scrawls on the walls.

Over and over in a manic unyielding script, he reads the following verse:

"All curds and no Wensleydale
Make Chester go lulu;
Pay the bill, complete the sale."
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:28, Tue 07 Apr 2009.

Matwau looks through the keys. "Sorry." He tells Chester. "But I will make a promise that we'll only look at the one we paid for."

The tribal creeps off upstairs to discover what a chamber pot is.

Ravex continues to hold Chester still as the others investigate. "So, you're gonna tell me, right now, why the view from the window is different from what's happening inside." He looks over at the ledger. "You want me to sign that thing, then you're gonna have to explain. Simple as that."

Guest Room #1
Visions of chamber pots and magic fingers dancing in his head, Matwau excitedly ascends the stairs to the guest rooms.  He holds a key with a single line etched down its front--a line he matches to an identical (in shape but not size) marking on the first door he sees.  While a primitive, he has learned about locked and unlocked doors and he slips his key into the slot and twists it the right way, opening the door.  He wistfully wishes that access to the chieftain's daughter were so easily granted.

But, the room, predictably, disappoints.  No artfully arranged fingers or chamberpots.  Not even linen for the beds.  The nearly bare rooms have but a bed, a desk with a single drawer, a picture on the wall, and the adjoining door mentioned by Chester.

Lobby
As fearsome as Ravex is, he can't persuade the ensorcelled Chester to divulge that which he has been ensorcelled ... not to divulge.  The stress of his predicament continues to manifest itself in beads of sweat that now openly course down his face.  If Ravex were bear-hugging you, you'd react just the same way.

"He's under a spell," Faedran says softly from the threshold of the bar area.

"This whole place is.  He wants to help us, but he can not."

Tempest mood passed as quickly as a summer squall, the Half-Elf is now melancholic, feeling empathy for these poor unfortunates.

Perhaps a Wizard stayed here a while back, decided he didn't like something, and placed this mighty Curse on their heads.  It reeked of injustice (or was that just the cottage cheese?)

"I think, as Gethin has guessed, we have to sign our names here to break the spell."

Faedran crosses the space, and does just that, taking the next available room.

He is really hoping they did not have to spend the night as well.

"Let him go, Ravex.  He won't tell you anything.

"I don't think we'll come to any harm in this place.  At least it's a place to get some rest."

"But I think I'll stick to dry rations again," Gethin sighs in disappointment.  Hopeful visions of cold ale, warm loaves, and golden roast duck with pudding melt before his mind's eye.

He gathers his things and heads to the room he paid for.

First Guest Room
Matwau and Gethin are here, but there is only one bed.

There is a desk with one drawer.  On the desk is a bell identical to the one on the lobby counter.

A framed picture of gorgonzola decorates the wall.

Second Guest Room
Faedran is here.

This room is identical to the first, except that the wall has a picture of blue cheese instead of gorgonzola.

Third Guest Room
After signing the ledger on the line after Faedran's entry, Antillios tromps up the stairs and snags key #3 from his bud, Matwau.  His room is identical to the others, save the wall has a picture of pepper jack cheese.  Mmmm, pepper jack.

Antillios feels sleepy after his meal of cottage cheese and dwarven peppers but not too sleepy to poke about the room.  He opens the drawer and finds naught but dust, not even the Avandra Bible.  Oh, well.

Irritated, he realizes that he didn't grab any linens or magic fingers from the employee workroom, so he remedies that oversight.

Then, with nothing left to do, he studies his kinsman's research notes for all of five minutes before he's snoring on the one bed.

Fourth Guest Room
This room is currently unoccupied.

Fifth Guest Room
This room is currently unoccupied.

Sixth Guest Room
This room is currently unoccupied.

~~~
Score 18/30  You're almost better than Consecrated Cottage Cheese.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:27, Wed 08 Apr 2009.

The feral Half-Elf needs no linens, or even a bed to sleep.  In fact, he prefers the floor, as long as it's relatively clean.  Considering his last meal, a bed pan was probably prudent.

Faedran heads back downstairs to settle his account, and, assuming Ravex has not torn the conceirge in half, hands over the gold with a deep sigh and shake of his head (as well as a long glare at Chester, as if to say, 'This had better work!'), and asks for a chamber pot.

Magic fingers will have to await a future guest of room #2.

Then, back upstairs, he shuts the door, locks it, makes a neat pile of his chainmail on the bed, and lays down on the utilitarian floor, Pealmaker close at hand.

Just in case something frightening came out of an interconnecting door, you see.

5 gp deducted
This message was last edited by the player at 19:54, Wed 08 Apr 2009.

By the time Gethin makes his way upstairs, Matwau is already hacking up the bed for firewood.

When he gets a strange look from the cityman he pauses a moment... "What? Oh, this is your room. Sorry... I will go and give the gold coins and have my own room."

He leaves Gethin to the splinters of his bed and heads down to the lobby, approaching the desk warily and keeping one eye on the sinister writing in the ledger. Cautiously he reaches across the words to hand over five gold coins.

"...If I have to, then..."

Swiftly he takes up the pen, and scrawls an image of a hopping bird in the ledger. When his doodle is complete he fearfully shoves it away before the evil writing can... do whatever it is the elder said writing does.

Guest Room #4
After determining that rooms one through three are occupied, Matwau lands in guest room #4 which is identical to the others.  It even has a framed picture of cheddar (sharp) cheese.

However, the desk drawer is not fully closed.

Matwau is here, reassured that the adjoining door leads to his bud, Antillios, in case he needs to talk it out again in the middle of the night.

~~~
Score 19/30  You're almost better than Consecrated Cottage Cheese.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:56, Thu 09 Apr 2009.

Matwau looks at the open desk drawer and frowns. Then he looks at the picture of cheese and frowns even harder. His room is different from Gethin's... in more ways than just the bed being in tact.

He opens the door adjoining to Antillios to talk it out. "The cheese paintings are different." he declares, then points to the next adjoining door. "Pass it on, like ants kissing to tell others the way to the honey."

His message passed on, Matwau now felt more dispensable. He draws the axe and cautiously approaches the open drawer, ready for anything that might lie within (even books).

Indeed, a book lurks within the drawer -- like the trapdoor spider within its pit.  Matwau shudders appropriately.  But it's just the traveler's edition of the Avandra Bible, commonly found in inns across the land.  This one, though, conspicuously, contains a bookmark, a slip of paper that extends well beyond the boundaries of words.

Care to examine it?

"If they're bound to this place by a geas, it wouldn't really make sense for the geas to end if they did their job, otherwise the the spell would be fairly pointless.  If the geas is used to bind someone to a task the caster wants repeated, then the key to breaking it lies in finding the loophole or destroying the focus."

Considering incinerating the sign-in book, Quinn decides to keep investigating.  "Hold him still for me please Ravex."  His face dispassionate, the mage starts to search Chester down to the skin, searching for a sigil inscribed on him, a focus or magical residue of the binding spell.

Ravex, being equally as unconvinced as Quinn, continues to hold Chester.

Matwau slides out the whole drawer, taking the book through Antillios' room to share with the others. "What is it? What does it say?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:48, Fri 10 Apr 2009.

Gethin's slack-jawed dismay perhaps doesn't register as Matwau leaves for his own room.  He debates whether he should just pull the mattress to the floor, or report the property damage immediately.  Noticing the little bell on the desk makes the decision easier.

Bad news never gets better with age, Brother Andrew always said.

Gethin gives the bell two sharp smacks, then begins pulling the mattress to the floor anyway.  Undoubtedly they'd have to pay to replace the hacked-up bed frame, but he doubted the inn had another one waiting in a closet somewhere.

The keening of Bell #1 doesn't summon Chester.  Whether that's due to his current state of constraint or some other cause, Gethin can't ken. 

~~~

A dwarf does not normally take kindly to the disruption of his slmuber, but the happily bounding feet of his friend rouse him gently from his nascent sleep.  Sitting up in bed, he receives the proffered Avandra Bible with amusement at Matwau's ignorance.  Normally, the bible's divine discourse on commerce wouldn't concern him (standard businessman fare), but in this establishment, everything warrants a close inspection (even the concierge, evidently).  He thumbs through the bible, his eyes tracing the standard hymns to trade routes and profit margins.  It's the slip of paper that commands his attention, though; a bill of sale, it would appear, how curious.

The invoice is from a company called the

The Emperor of Curd
Purveyors of Fine Curd, Whey, and sometimes Cheese  

Looks like it's for the sum of 30 gold pieces and it's dated some six or so months in the past.  Good bet that it went unpaid.

Antillios assures Matwau that the book has fed recently and won't be devouring any more souls for at least a fortnight.  They should all go back to sleep.

~~~

With Ravex maintaining his vice-like grip on the head concierge, Quinn pats him down.  Turns out to have been a smart move.  He discovers a pack of playing cards, excessively loved but still serviceable.  They're the lesser deities and demigods edition, with emphasis on the sexy elven numbers such as Sehanine.  Sweet.

Quinn sorts through the cards, checking for any traces of magic, then shrugs at Ravex.  "He doesn't seem to have anything else on him."

Arcana check: 24

In due time, Antillios (who previously signed the ledger, consuming three lines of it with the names of his last few ancestors, and deposited ten gold pieces on the counter for himself and Matwau), Matwau, and Faedran nod off to dreams of amorous asphidistra, skittering stoats, frozen cadavers, and a lost kinsman.

As Quinn sorts through the cards, lingering on the Hanali Celanil series which begins with her bathing in a crystal fountain (and progresses from there), his fingers slip and the prurient playing cards flutter to the floor.  Blushing, the young wizard stoops to collect them.  Above him, Ravex snorts, "52 Pick Up."  Ha ha, very funny.

In due time, Ravex releases Chester so as to restrain the bartender, but Quinn discovers nothing but a filthy rag, a bottle opener, and a few corks.  For a moment, bizarre schemes flash, presenting impossible inventions that lead to Quinn and Ravex escaping the Emperor of Curd, but they vanish before he can grasp them.  Disheartened, he leaves the lounge to check out guest rooms five and six, but, besides having different paintings of cheese (Muenster and Beaufort), they're identical to the first.

Thus, Quinn and Ravex resigns themselves to the carpentry of nihilism.  Having chosen the back wall of guest room #6, they blast and batter the wall.  It doesn't do much good, but they don't give up and the rising sun sees them steady in their effort.

That's not all the rising sun sees.  Some time later, Matwau blinks awake, and knowing he needs a chamber pot but not quite sure why, he bounds downstairs to inquire after one.  At the bottom of the stairs, he stops dead in his tracks.  The lobby is full, full of revelers spilling in from street, the shield dances at last complete.  And the lobby?  It's not any lobby that he recognizes.  A walkway with palms in full health leads from the massive mahogany front doors--above which beviled glass reads: The Emperor's Crown Inn.  Behind the counter, not one, not two, but three concierges bustle about, checking guests in and assigning them rooms--all of them under the watchful eye of Chester whose bellboy's hat bears the gold filigree accorded to the Head Concierge.  If Matwau had peeked into the lounge, he would have seen similar marvels but these transformations were more than he could take.  He bounds back up the stairs and straight to Antillios's room.  He's going to have to talk this out.

The way is clear, but four of you are a bit more rested than the other two.

~~~
*10 gold deducted from Antillios's sheet.
~~~
Final Score 25/30  You're a Wheel of Cheddar.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:57, Mon 13 Apr 2009.

Dreams, nay, nightmares of being trapped in the Emperor of Curd for all eternity, morphed into the shape of a pudgy bellhop named Son of Chester, haunted Faedran that night.

Thankfully, with the coming of the light of morning was also a dawning that the spell, or curse, or whatever it was, had been lifted.  Typical townies, a little bit of gold and their problems are solved.

The Half-Elf waves Chester over.  "I suppose this is where you thank us?"

Racex wakes up, dons his armor, and immediately leaves the building. "I'll wait outside." Is his morning greeting.

When Faedran approaches the counter, Chester himself greets him.  The head concierge of the Emperor's Crown Inn allows himself a brief smile before thanking Faedran.

"Your name and that of three others were in the ledger.  Your actions, while not the stuff of typical heroism, were nonetheless heroic, and you shall be accorded the hero's reception whenever you chance to visit this inn."

His smile brightens, and he says, "You and a guest may always stay here as honored guests with all services, too numerous too mention, at your beck and call. Always."  He gives you a miniature golden crown with the name of the inn inscribed on it.

In the lounge, a petty lord sips his morning ale.  At another table, an emissary from a nearby town looks anxiously about as he sips his.

~~~
*All who signed the ledger (+1 guest) may stay at the Emperor's Crown Inn for free.

"I really have no need of this, but I will take it anyway, to show my respect for your thanks," he replies, pocketing the token after looking it over.

"Please tell my companions that I will be at the the Silvanus temple grounds.  Oh, and Chester," here Faedran looks the man full in the eyes.

"Do be more careful with your debts in the future."

With that Faedran hefts his maul and gets the heck out, vowing never to set foot into that place again, no matter what.

A fine morning for a leisurely stroll back to Brother Griffin's demesne - which seems positively normal in comparison.  He looks forward to getting off the filthy, people-infested streets and beginning quiet meditations among the hyacinths, with nary a magic finger in sight.

Along the way, passing a one-legged beggar, he idly flips the miniature golden crown in his battered tin alm cup.

With no money to spend and anti-urban in nature, Faedran will await the others in preparation for their delve into the Greenhouse
This message was last edited by the player at 15:55, Mon 13 Apr 2009.

Antillios grumble something as he crosses from the stairs to the front door.  He pulls a small flask from his pocket, takes a swig, and clears his through.  Goodmorning and goodbye he says to Chester on his way out.

He meets Ravex outside, gives his companion a sidelong glance, but doesn't say anything.

Having found the walls oddly resistant to repeated magical blasts, and Ravex's shoulder, Quinn spent the remainder of the night in one of the upstairs rooms, standing watch with Ravex.

Feeling irritable and tired, the mage barely glances at the restored inn as he makes a beeline for the exit.  Once outside he takes a deep breath of fresh air, without the taste of lingering arcane magic that had coated the back of his throat throughout the night.  From his fulminating silence you can tell that the young scholar hasn't regained his sense of humour, possibly due to the heavy bags under his eyes.  Ignoring the detritus from the celebration that litters the street, Quinn heads for a good inn, that isn't the Emperor, and orders a lavish breakfast.

Sick and tired of travel rations, Quinn digs in with obvious hunger.  With the first edge taken off his hunger, the mage starts to scan through the research notes for anything that makes sense to him.

Ravex nods at Antillios as the dwarf exits the inn of insanity. He sniffs around a bit, looking down on all those walking the streets as though he were a constable on patrol. Without a word, he wanders away from the inn toward the towns merchants.

Rolled a 94 on the shopping check.

Gethin wakes after a surprisingly restful night, given the strange environs and the fact that his mattress is on the floor next to his hacked-up bed.

After reciting his morning prayers and washing fastidiously, he dons his armor, buckles on his weapons, and heads downstairs.

As he enters the busy common room, he stops.  Blinks twice.  With a slow shake of his head, he treats this strange new reality with the same bland acceptance he accords every situation.  This is things as they are.  Little sense in questioning it or fighting it.

So he orders and thoroughly enjoys a hearty breakfast.

Once breakfast is done, Gethin takes his leave of Chester, accepting the crown token with a simple nod of thanks.  He heads out into the street, figuring he'll swing by the shops on the way from the mad inn to the mad greenhouse.

ooc:

Gethin is looking for magic armor (Dwarven Plate +1 would be nice).
22:45, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 80 using 1d100+5. looking for magic armor.

I have 50 GP party money right now.  It doesn't split even 6 ways, so I could just hang on to it until we amass some more group wealth.

Matwau looks at the token in his hand. It will make a good trade, because he probably won't be coming back here unless they install a skylight or let him hack the roof off one of the rooms.

"Chester. The Purveyors who did this geas..." Purveyors, a new word, meaning powerful and undoubtedly evil sorcerer "they are in this city? What happens now? Will the town Elder make a punishment for them?"

Chester allows himself a maniacal laugh before answering Matwau. "Honored guest, those who have the title of elder are not always those who are, indeed, the elders," he replies. "The Emperor of Curd has its ladle in every pot in Loudwater."

Seeing Matau's bafflement, Chester explains in his language that they are the sun, the moon, and the skies.  They are all.  In a brief ecstasy of cards, he, Chester neglected that truth.

"Eat their curd, their whey, and sometimes their cheese," he advises.  "And love it."

~~~

When the crown lands in the beggar's cup with a its own quiet clang, the mendicant's eyes grow as big as the plates of pancakes he imagines himself downing in mere moments courtesy of the golden ticket, amber syrup dripping from his lips, mouth, and fingers.  Who needs two legs when you have the Emperor's Crown?

~~~

*Those of you who didn't dine at the Emperor's Crown should deduct 5 sp for your breakfast from your sheets.
*I'll resolve the shopping stuff when I have my books tonight.

The warlocks slant on the magical notes make it a little hard to wrap his mind around them, but he continues scanning through and putting aside those journals which look like they might contain something interesting.

After he's got the general gist of the notes, Quinn repacks the journals then heads into town to give his mind some time to digest what he's learnt.  He wanders through the market square, looking for a seller of arcane components.

OoC: Arcana check to get the gist of the notes (17).
Shopping: 58.  Looking 20gp of arcane components

Ravex spends his time in the market scanning the wares with a shrewd eye, as well as keeping an eye out for thugs or purse-snatchers that he can take out the last nights frustrations on.

Looking for an Amulet of Protection and healing potions.

Antillios finishes reading through the notes with Quinn.  Nothing particularly dangerous in here, if you can believe it, and they'll probably be as useful to the gardener.  The foreign word rolls of Antillios' tongue in a strange way.

I'll meet you there in two hours.  I've some family business to take care of.  He hops down from the bench, looking for some kind of guide or adventurer.

<orange>OOC:hunting for someone to send a message to Antillios' family, and then potentially a magic amulet (for bonus to for/ref/will) for 160 gp or less

20:35, Today: Antillios rolled 74 using 1d100. Shopping Roll. (which is kind of good, or kind of bad...)

"I understand." Matwau lies, backing away from Chester and giving him an awkward wave goodbye.

Redolent of gnoll sweat, Quinn's arcane ablutions notwithstanding, you, the erstwhile warlock included, troop the long walk back to the ladder leading to the garden, passing the four-sided monolith with its promises of skeletons and sun-side palisades.  With one long reach after another, you grab rung after rung till you pause, hearing the clang of hammers and the curses of dwarves.  Cautiously, you edge your way along the last 100 feet to the top of the ladder.  There you learn the origin of the sounds: workmen resetting panes of glass, hammering nails into loose boards, and dredging the bog-pond.  They take no notice of you as you pass by, bemused at the restoration of the greenhouse.

Just outside the greenhouse, you pass a tidy plot of graves, one adorned with bronzed sunflowers, another with lime-green hydrangeas, and the last with crimson orchids.  It's here that Faedran cordially greets you, waving off your fevered questions with a hand.  He explains that he slipped out of the garden, the gardener head over stem in a menage a fleur.  From there, he reported his former mentor's transgressions to the Loudwater ecumenical authorities.

"And, that was that; what they did with him, I don't know," he finishes.  "We'll have to talk again," he adds, leaving you to supervise the construction.

Shrugging, you lug yourselves to the Emperor's Crown.  No resisting its indoor hot springs, the hallmark of any "full-service" hotel, after the last few days.  Chester checks you in crisply and efficiently and Aloitious serves you honeyed whiskey with cream, perhaps a bit heavy with the dairy.  And with that you collapse.

You lounge about a few days till trouble finds you one morning after your breakfast of 100-cheese omelets and twice-creamed porridge, trouble in the form of a chosen of Erathis.  His blood-shot eyes bespeak days of ill rest or hard drinking or both.  Wiping his greasy hair off of his greasier forehead, he nearly crashes into your table in his haste to speak to you.

"You're the ones that killed the grell, yes?  the singular orb of the abyss?  You must help me.  You must help Erathis!" he says, the words spilling forth.

~~~
*Post in the Loudwater thread for your errands and such.

Feet up on a convenient chair Quinn is lounging back and sipping on a glass of wine as he flips through his spellbook.  At the man's approach he doesn't look up, however tiny silver head of his familiar emerges from amongst his hair and studies the man, the miniature dragon tasting the air and the hissing in disgust.  "Why?  We're already clearing out a den of monsters under the town, so we're somewhat busy."

Last night there had been slightly disturbing chanting from Quinn's room, however the glowing "do not disturb" sign hovering in front of it had persuaded everyone that it might be unhealthy to interrupt him in the middle of the ritual.  When he came downstairs in the morning a miniature silver dragon had been perched on his shoulder, head weaving form side to side as it studied everything with a curious glint in its eye.  Apart from mentioning that it was his new familiar, and that they were still arguing about a name, Quinn remained remarkably closed mouthed about where it had come from.

Gethin thanks Faedran sincerely for his aid and trudges along silently to the Emperor of Curd.  The brethren at the Temple where he was raised were good, honest men.  They had their flaws, of course, but on the whole were entirely trustworthy.  But if even a divine as exalted as Brother Griffon could fall so terribly, who among them was safe?

His mind keeps wandering back to the bloodthirsty relish with which he dispatched Griffon's hag.

His victim or his seductress?  Did it matter?

So he spends a few weary days in a funk of late mornings and more alcohol than what's good for him.

Sitting with Quinn in the common room on one of the few mornings he bothered to get up for breakfast, Gethin starts in surprise as a silver lizard head snakes around Quinn's neck and flicks its tongue at Gethin's eggs.  "Hold still, Quinn, you've got a--"

Gethin swallows the last words (along with the bite of omelet through which they were spittled) at the mage's steady gaze.

The approach of the chosen of Erathis saves him from further embarrassment.  "Yes, we're busy, but from the look of this man, his task may be urgent."

And it doesn't involve dispatching the ghosts of a holy man's victims.

"Sit, friend.  Once you've regained your breath, tell us the matter."
This message was last edited by the player at 13:17, Tue 01 Sept 2009.

Axum spends his days out looking for his arm and his evenings with his new drinking buddy.  Humans though always seem to have the same problem as children.  Six or seven beers and they start walking funny.  The reality that Gethin could probably use a friends conversation more than another beer is mostly lost on the dwarf.  It may be genetic or cultural, but Axum is used to dealing with bad news differently than his friends.

In the morning, he finds himself sitting at the table trying to determine what he's supposed to do with this abomination called a queche.  It's a a pie, but the top is open, so you can't put it in your pocket and take it with you to work.  It's made from chicken eggs, white goats milk, and two two types of swine flesh, but it's got green bits of plants and is full of air bubbles.  You could eat it, and be hungry again in just a few hours.  The Grell was bad, but at least you knew where you stood with him.

When the man rushes in and Gethin offers him a seat, Axum sees his opening.  You look hungry. he commands and pushes the plate over.  We are the ones you are looking for.

OOC:Does this guy look like a holy man?

Ravex, for his part, appears quite fulfilled; he's had his victorious bloodbath, and came away all the richer for it. He even feels a sense of moral satisfaction at having vanquished a small zoo of evil creatures. Though usually he spends his time pounding the skulls of two-bit criminals and toughs, the fact that he'd helped slay something actually dangerous gave him an unusual high.

When the man comes crashing in with his emergency, it was all Ravex could do not to immediately jump from his chair and declare that he'd kill anything the man desired. Instead, the fighter sat still in his chair, taking a sip of water. "Yeah. Tell us the matter." He rumbles.

Matwau spent his nights on the roof of the hotel, still fearful of the citythings called "blankets" that were known to give his people a horrible sickness. For many hours he watched the stars wondering if his tribesmen supposed him dead by now. Some had been against his quest to go to cityman lands to learn their ways of war and tactics. They said the citymen made sicknesses of the brains as well as the body. He would become like them and forget his home. Hmm. He was already wearing boots. Angrily he pulled them off and tossed them over the roof.

-next day-

Matwau climbs down the building with renewed determination to his quest. When he finds the man asking their help and telling their tales, he watches him curiously. How did he know they slew the grell? Was it the scene at the market where Matwau tried to trade its hide for more arrows?

The man's gauntness, let alone his state of agitation, precludes his acceptance of Axum's offer of topless cheese pie.  Ravex's invitation, though, to tell you all about it, he accepts.

Unable to sit, he paces around your table, the darting of his eyes matching the fidgeting of his dactyls.  They alternately caress and then spurn his brass gears, either rubbing them betwixt his fingers or pushing them away.

"I am Cog Turner Josephus, a chosen of Erathis, chosen, I thought, for a humble life of blessing mutually agreeable trade accords.  I'll have you know that I wielded my stamp with effortless efficiency.  No, not a deal could be sealed in Relkingham without my sanction.  And Relkingham's no hamlet, no; it's the most prosperous municipality within the principality of Deloren on account of it not only being a port town but also being propitiously situated on a land bridge between two continents.  While it's true that the laws are enacted in Wyllea under the auspices of Founder Neelani, that's just a small government town..."

With no one saying "Yes, tell me more about the local government," he adjusts his holy robes and says, "I've been having these dreams, you see.  Well, really, the same dream again and again:

I'm at the club, we've been enjoying our gin and tonics, when we finally get down to business.  The matter, you see, of Farmer Dell's stall had to be resolved with the erstwhile farmer having expired and his seed, as we all know, never having sprouted.  So I was entertaining two worthy practitioners of land husbandry vying for his stall.  They both had their samples.  This is the way you know.  They bring their best to me, and I look for signs of my deity's favor.  Like reading tea leaves...but more profitable.

Now, by this time I've tied more than one if you know that I mean.  I'm not seeing too clearly.  I reach for one basket from the berry-man.  I gather in the other basket--it's from the plantain-man.  I'm just sticking in my mitts now, one in each basket, gonna get some good handfuls, first tastes you know, the virgin scoops.  But it doesn't feel right.  The berries, they're round all right, but they're too wet, and the plantains, they've got the right slope, but they've got these sharp edges.

I looked at the farmers and they just grinned at me, raising their gin and tonics.  So I stuffed my face with an offering from each basket.  Seemed to taste pretty good at first, the juice of the berries and the warmth of the fried plantains.  I felt some things stick between my teeth, so, my mouth still half-full, I stuck a finger in and plucked them out. It was an eyelash and a bone sliver.  I awoke vomiting.  I've been vomiting for the last fortnight.

He looks at all of you, his orbs blinking.  "You think it has something to do with the edict?" he asks.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:01, Thu 03 Sept 2009.

The disappointment on Ravex's face obvious and distressing, if only because it shouldn't be possible for his reptilian features to contort that much. "Another crazy fool." The dragonborn shakes his head and leans back in his chair. "Let me know he gets to the point."

Flipping a page Quinn continues to study his spellbook, ignoring the corrupt priest.  "That's nice.  Now go away."  He waves a a hand towards the door as his familiar grins and shows a mouthful of razor sharp teeth.  "There are monsters below this quiet town that need to be dealt with.  For prophetic dreams go and talk to one of your seniors within your order."

Gethin frowns in a way that could be interpreted as sympathy with the priest's plight, but is really apprehension at working with another licentious priest who seems on the verge of madness.

Still, he is a bit embarrassed by the rudeness of his comrades, which leads him to ask, in a reluctantly encouraging tone, "What edict?"

OOC: Maybe the guy just had a bad trip.

Religion check: Is it customary for Erathites of Relkingham to consume mind-altering fruits and berries ("Now, by this time I've tied more than one if you know that I mean.  I'm not seeing too clearly.") in the course of their duties?  Roll = 27.

Matwau can only take this as proof that the cityman's gods are the road to madness. Surely Gethin will one day arrive at this fate and become insane... the tribal resolves to begin a subtle campaign to convert his priest friend to elder worship and away from the maddening influence of imaginary deities.

But for now: "Yes. Which edict?" he coughs. "And what is an edict?"

"The edict," Josephus exclaims, astonished.  He raises his hand to his mouth for a swig, realizes his cup is empty, and before he can even motion for Aloitious to refill it, the barkeep is at his side, decanting a bottle of whiskey.

"The edict, you see, was a tariff that Founder Neelani was considering at the urging of her vizier, Avonathemon.  It was a simple sacrifice tariff: small parties wishing to access the Relkingham Waterway would donate no more than a hand or an eye.  Larger parties should be prepared to donate, as they say, the entire kit and caboodle, the whole kettle of fish.  She thought this would curry the favor of Erathis and he'd end our drought.  Likely story, right?"

"But the mayor of my town, Relkingham, and its citizens objected to this rather standard transportation levy.  As for me, I thought, if it's good for business, it's good for Erathis.  I've never been too excited about the particulars.  Then I started having those dreams...the mayor entreated me to find people like you to meet with him.  He thinks you might be able to convince Neelani to destroy the edict."

He drains his whiskey, the lurching of his eyes momentarily subdued.

~~~
It is not customary for Erathites to consume magic mushrooms.  The natural assumption that he was receiving dream visions is fair enough.
~~~
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:48, Sat 05 Sept 2009.

"Wait!" Matwau interrupts with an incredulous look on his face. "You citymen think sacrificing a hand or an eye will end a drought?! I am very sorry but that is just superstition. The only way to end a drought is a raindance... watch"

Matwau squatted down on his haunches, stuck his arms in the air and started kicking his legs wildly while shouting:

"HOO! HAA! HOO! HAA! HOO! ... well..." he says, standing up again. "I will not do the whole thing or the town will be flooded. But my friends, I think we should take up this quest. We will show Founder Neelani the rain dance and she will see there is no need for this sacrifice, and the people will keep their hands."

Yes, lets.  People are always strange when it comes to tariffs.  He stands up out of his chair and walks around, ending up behind the priest.  And we can all stay.. together.  To keep out of trouble.

Quinn finally finishes reading the page, closing the book with automatic care as he looks up at the babbling priest with a censorious expression.  "What kind of payment are we talking about here?  Keeping in mind there will be a significant surcharge depending on how annoying and or cryptic you are.  Call it an annoyance tariff."  He looks around at his companions.  "I do not believe any of us are worshipers of Erathis, and to be honest I'm developing the urge to just roll a ball of fire trough both this Founder and her vizier."

Cog Turner Josephus answers Quinn crisply, "1000 gold to convince the Founder to renounce her support for the edict.  Additional consideration should you find and destroy the edict having achieved the first goal."

The language of commerce, it would seem, he speaks with assurance.

"That is 1000 each I trust?  And why do you refer to this edict as a thing?  Surely it is a law issued by the Founder, written into the books of law in multiple places?"

Gethin leaves the negotiations to Quinn.  The truth is, Gethin's bleeding heart and inherent sense of justice has been so provoked that he'd do the job for free.  Fortunately, he has sense enough to realize that this isn't the way Erathites operate, and the man would probably be more comfortable with Quinn's hard bargaining than with Gethin's pity.

"1000 gold pieces, lump sum.  Before the edict can be, as you say, written into the books of law in multiple places, it must be signed and then sworn on the altar of Erathis," he responds to Quinn, his eyes cool.

He explains that the Erathis site is, of course, in Relkingham, and if you all do what heros are supposed to do, the law upon parchment "won't ever blaspheme that altar."

"What is to stop the Founder merely rewriting this edict when she finds it stolen?"

Something creeps into the visitor's eyes besides the red veins that look like spasmodic salamanders.

Ah, you know what it is.

Doubt.

"The powers of your persuasion?" he answers, not at all sure about the matter himself.

Quinn looks at the priest with a mixture of disdain and disbelief.  "What made you choose us priest?  You want us to sneak in"  he gestures to take in the heavily armoured fighter, cleric and paladin.  "and then steal this edict, before persuading the Founder not to do it again?"

He taps the table to emphasize his point.  "You sir need soeone with the skills of a thief for the first part, which we do not have.  And assuming persuade is not a euphemism for assassination then why would she listen to a band of foreign adventurers?"

Something clicks.

"You're keeping something from us, sir priest.  Convince your Founder to destroy the edict?  The task you describe wants lawyers and rhetoricians.  The Church of Erathis has plenty of those.

But you sought us out specifically because of our reputation as demon-slayers."

He pauses meaningfully, with a level stare at the cleric.

"I think you'd better explain the situation more fully.  Who -- or what -- are the hands and eyes and people being sacrificed to?"

OOC:  Insight: Is he holding out on us?  Roll = 32

(20!  Maybe I can guess his favorite number, too.)

08:28, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 32 using 1d20+12. insight.

He looks at Gethin blankly, wringing his hands helplessly.

"I'm not exactly religious," he moans.  "I'm a business man.  Even if she renounces her support, she may not have the edict and the vizier still has the authority to swear it in at the altar."

Gethin, though, has studied comparative theology.  He knows which god's all about severed hands and expunged eyes, right?

~~~
*You know which god, right?
*You might be able to convince the Founder to renounce her support...but she may not have the edict in her possession.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:36, Wed 09 Sept 2009.

Ravex is no fan of business and legalese. So he shuts his eyes and slouches down in his chair. Moments later, the dragonborn is napping quietly.

Axum crosses his arms.  The vizier follows Vecna. he guesses.  Sacrifices of eyes and hands belong to him, not Erathis.

"Assuming we persuade the Founder that such a sacrifice would not benefit Erathis, which should just involve getting a priest of Erathis to walk her through the dummies guide to the gods, is it likely she'll give us permission to relieve the vizier of the edict by force?  I doubt he'll surrender it willingly."

With the solace of another whiskey from the ever attentive barkeep, Josephus considers Quinn's query.  He replies that your business may well extend beyond meeting with the Founder but he's not about to speak for her.

"That's her territory, her decision," he emphasizes.  "I just bless legal contracts in accordance with the precepts of Erathis."

It's a good thing for him that Deloren doesn't appear to administer the most rigorous of licensing exams, if any, for its agents of commerce.  That's to say, you'd better not ask him to identify, let alone explain, any of those precepts.

Quinn sits back and looks thoughtful.  "Well, if it's a simple explanation of who the sacrifices are for then we should be able to do that.  Axum here has recently started walking the cleric's path.  Then we can hunt down this vizier."  He starts suddenly, wincing as his familiar nips his ear then hisses something to him meaningfully.  "Ah yes.  As for payment, 1000 gold is of course ridiculous.  2000 should be sufficient, plus travel expenses of course.

Cog Turner Josephus smacks his head, thankfully with his empty hand.  He exclaims, "If you destroy the edict and its architect, I might sleep like a babe again!"

He continues, "I can't make promises to you on behalf of the mayor, but I'll pledge 50 gold personally.  I'm not a rich man, I'm afraid."

Gethin just about chokes on his tankard of heavy cream at this claim.

After setting the tankard down slowly and wiping his chin (very important -- hard to look sufficiently stern with a beard of white froth), Gethin narrows his eyes at the man.

"You came to us, Cog Turner Josephus.  I don't care about the gold.  But I do take great exception at being lied to.

And does not the fourth chapter of the Third Book of Actuaries say, "The worker is worth his hire?"  And again, in the Sixth Tablet of the Prima Legis, does it not say, "Do not muzzle the ox while it is treading out the grain?"

This has now become a matter of justice, my friend.  I suggest you do better."

He blinks at Gethin stupidly and not on account of his inebriation.

"Uh," he stutters, "I think I meant to say that 'I'd like to remain a rich man.'  I pledge a lump sum of 250 gold out of my personal coffers.  Is that good?  I have horses readied for our trip."
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:39, Sat 12 Sept 2009.

"Done!  Now kindly let us finish our breakfast and discuss how we should go about fixing the problem.  We'll meet you by the horses."  Quinn starts to polish off the plate in front of him, and work his way through his coffee, while he waits for the man to leave.  As soon as he has he looks up at the others, absently passing his remaining sausage up to be devoured by his familiar.  "I'm packed and ready to move, but I suggest we get a picture book primer to the gods to aid in our discussions with the Founder."

OoC: I'm happy to skip ahead now :)

"Horses, good." Matwau nodded. "I will not have to waste my arrows hunting our meat."

Despite his snores, Ravex had been half awake and listening: it was a skill that often meant the difference between life and death for a soldier. His eyes fluttered open and he got to his feet with a stretch. "I'll grab my pack, then." As he left the table, the dragonborn clapped Quinn on the shoulder, signifying a job well done.

He came back down, moments later, ready to go.

Having wandered around town for a few hours Quinn got tired of window shopping and returned to the Emperor, taking a table in a corner and sipping a flagon of cider which remained icy cold despite the heat of the day.  Pulling the amulet from around his neck the mage studied it thoughtfully, before summoning his silver dragonling forth with a snap of his fingers.

Over the next hour the mage traced runes on the surface of the table in cider and in the air with his finger, soon leaving him surrounded by slowly rotating runes.  Occasionally he had to retrace a rune as his familiar snapped one out of the air before regarding the mage with a toothy grin.

One of the braver members of staff did approach to ask what he was doing, but backed off quickly when Quinn looked up with glowing eyes and held up a warning finger glowing with arcane energies.

At the end of the hour Quinn uttered a single word of power, causing the familiar to freeze in place with a startled expression.  Running his fingers over the homunculus the mage moulded it with smooth confident gestures, making it sleeker and less muscular.  As he traced a final gesture the floating rules were drawn into the amulet and a flash of light lit the room.

Quinn's satisfaction was cut short however, as his homunculus looked down at herself with an outraged expression.  With a hiss of rage she sank needle sharp teeth into the smug mage's hand before leaping into the air and flying up into the rafters.

AKA Quinn has changed his dragonling into a scout type so we don't have to rush in with out warning any more :)

You all gather round another oaken table, eager to hear about Gethin's day.

"Stormcrow Tor," you repeat as one. "No can't say I've heard about that or it or them. You did ask where the bloody place was, didn't ya?"

Gethin fidgets a bit.

He looks around the taproom, which is pretty busy at the moment with tough types swilling their cream-and-maple cider, shady types conversing with the shadows, mercantile types ordering the richest milk broth on tap. Aloitious sees to them all, his apron miraculously free of white stains. Or perhaps it was dyed a color whiter than white. Is there such a color?

Brother Zellias had enjoyed the trip to this new (to him) community, and he began exploring it with what might best be termed calm enthusiasm. He would depart from his newfound companions for hours at at time, methodically walking the streets one by one, taking in the layout of the place, memorizing shop locations as best he could and occasionally talking to people he met in the street. None seemed to take a particular shine to the white-haired man with peculiar manners.

Back at the oddly-named eating and drinking establishment, Brother Zellias listens as the others discuss goings-on. He thinks for a moment on the name of the place called Stormcrow Tor. "That's a very interesting and evocative place name," he says. "I know nothing of it, though."

Sitting back and taking a long draught of his cider Quinn regards the paladin with a raised eyebrow.  "So what payment are we being offered to recover these relics?  Given the somewhat paltry rewards of our last adventure I'm assuming you negotiated something substantial."

Gethin still hadn't come up with a suitable response, so (as Brother Andrew always said), the simple honest truth is the best answer.  "One doesn't haggle with a hierarch.  I negotiated no payment."

He rushes forward, hoping to forestall Quinn's dismissal.

"But we go forth against three infidels known for stealing relics.  Those that are sacred to Pelor are our object, but there are likely others that will be ours to use as we see fit.  Any who would aid me, I will give the first pick of such relics."

Ravex takes a long drink of his ale and leans back in his chair. Nothing about Stormcrow Tor rung any bells in his reptilian brain, but what did resonate was the mention of holy relics. As it turns out, he'd only just a few minutes ago been eavesdropping on a group of elderly adventurers talking about ancient relics. They didn't mention anything about Pelor, but they did sure sound like they knew a thing or two about relics.

With deliberate suddenness the dragonborn rose and walked over to the old men's table. "Hey." The fighter chimes, interrupting their conversation. "You folks sound like ya' know some things. Well I got a challenge for ya'." He leans in and looks around, somewhat shifty-eyed, before speaking in a somewhat quieter tone. "What you know about Stormcrow Tor?"

Rolled a natural 20 on a streetwise check (total of roll = 23)

PM for Ravex

After listening to the men talk, Ravex returns to the table with a grim look on his face. "More undead, bah!" The dragonborn smack his scaly lips and snarls. "Something 'bout three spirits or whatever. They don't know how ta' get there and they didn't say nothing about artifacts."

From his pocket, Ravex produces a peice of chalk and writes a poem on the table.

The fell three have not been seen
on road, in tavern, or in dream
For ten gay years not one gleam
Would you dare awaken the trine?

Once finished, he sulks back into his chair and crosses his arms. "They rattled that off to me too."

"I'll see if I can discover more about this place," Gethin announces as he finishes his cream cider in a long swig.  He strides out of the Emperor and into the city streets.

An hour later, he returns, having been berated by the cooper's wife for leading astray the good youths of Loudwater, and having been splashed with a bedpan from a third-story window.

Glowering, he orders another cider and says nothing about his venture.

OOC: Gethin Ballider rolled 7 using 1d20+6. Streetwise. Rolled a 1.

Without your having noticed his approach, Chet appears at your table.  Ever chipper, he announces himself as Chet (as if his shiny brass nameplate hadn't made this abundantly clear). In case you were still unclear on the concept, he slips his card into each of your palms.

It says: Hi! I'm Chet!

Right-o.

He reminds you that the Emperor's Crown is a full-service establishment and as such, he's happy to inform you that the Stormcrow Company once established its headquarters in this very building (presumably before becoming Stormcrow Tor).

"They checked out about ten years ago, but nobody's stepped foot in their suite since."

"They were pretty spooky," he adds, giving you the key to a top-floor suite.

"That is fascinating, Chet," the monk states flatly, not souding totally sincere. "Tell us more about the Stormcrows."

Diplomacy 8

Quinn is not particularly thrilled at the lack of payment, but he perks up when Chet hands him a key.  Turning it over in his hands his eyes flick up to meet those of his familiar for a moment and he jerks his head towards the window.

Send the Scout out to take a look through the window(s) of the suite.

Gethin takes it as evidence of Pelor's divine guidance that despite his abysmal failure in the streets of Loudwater today, their (unsettlingly) clean and chipper maître d' has a lead for them.

He clears his throat in the awkward pause after Brother Zellias' flatly delivered question, then leans in and adds helpfully, "For example, what was spooky about them?  How long did they stay here?  How many and what sort of men were they?"

Diplomacy: 24

Gethin's superb elocution nearly flusters Chet who is accustomed to providing full service without encouragement, nay even during times of excessive discouragement.

He answers all of your questions, his voice having the crispness of a sliced apple. You hear again that there were three of them which seems a scant number for a company. You surmise that one or more of the members might have had the power to swell their numbers.  You also learn that they headquartered themselves in Loudwater for more than a decade before establishing themselves as Stormcrow Tor.

"They were residents," Chet repeats several times helpfully. "But they checked out, didn't they? That would mean they stopped being residents. They liked Gorgonzola on Mondays and smoked Gouda on Fridays."

The head concierge deftly interweaves his voice between the clinks of spoons of the late-evening milk-and-custard crowd.

"One of them was a warlock, the lady. Spooky!" he finishes.

Quinn's scout returns frustrated, unable to see past the heavy, black curtains favored by warlocks.

Ravex spits. "Warlocks. Pah! More magic tossers." He adds, without actually adding anything to the conversation. He stands up and rests his hand on his trusty khopesh. "Let's go take a look."

"Agreed, let us have a look.  Come with us, Zellias."

Gethin also stands.  He waits for Quinn (who has the key) to gather his sundry magical paraphernalia, including his new pet.  What happened to the old creature?  Best not to ask, perhaps.

"Which suite, Chet?  Or maybe, since you're a Full Service Establishment, you could lead us there."

Quinn gazes absently off into the distance for a few minutes, then sighs in frustration.  Shortly his transformed familiar flips back in and takes up position on his shoulder, watching the others with interest.  "There are massive black curtains covering every window, suggesting they left something behind they didn't want anyone to see.  I suggest we be extremely paranoid about this."

Gathering his staff the mage rises to his feet and gestures for Chet to lead the way.

"Yes," Zellias responds to the invitation. "I would like to learn more about this situation. It piques my curiousity."

With that, he springs up from his chair silently and pads off with the others.

While the Emperor's Crown may be a full-service hotel, as you're well aware, Chet does not administer all of its services. A bellhop, neatly attired in blue and gold livery, leads you to the sixth floor, the top one.  Several doors down on the right, he nods solemnly before leaving you alone in the hallway.

You let yourselves in to a suite of rooms full of stale air, cheese rinds, and pentagrams. A quick search reveals the rooms to have been long abandoned, the residents having packed and left over a decade ago, as again you're well aware.

Amidst the lonely chambers, one bespeaks a fervor of activity, the counsel room. On a mahogany table a vast map surveys the lands east of Loudwater, with Relkingham at the far end.  The area that interests you, though, is an area labeled the "Badlands." On this part of the map, one of the members of Stormcrow sketched some notes.

--a bluff on a river (SW portion of the map)

--a fort in the middle of the badlands (middle)

--a pinnacle of rock beyond the fort (north)

--an watchtower in the hills (east)

You can see that old mining roads connect all of the landmarks. Which one, you wonder, marks Stormcrow Tor?

Quinn leans in to see if the rock outcrop is resting atop a hill.

Leaning in, Quinn can see that the jutting rock sits in the midst of the badlands, with the hills to the east. He can also see that the artist added some local color with renderings of tarantulas, coyotes, and vultures. Badlands do rise and fall but not in a pronounced fashion like hills. This rising scrape of rock sits on a low rise.
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:41, Thu 13 May 2010.

"Is this supposed to be helpful?" Ravex grumbles as he gestures at the map. He stares at it a moment, rummaging around in his brain for something useful.

Rolled an 18 on a history check to see if Ravex knows anything about the badlands or the fort/tower indicated on the map

"Well a tor is a rock outcropping at the top of a hill, but it's also often used to refer to a tower in some of the old tongues.  As that rock pinnacle doesn't really seem to be on a hilltop I'd suggest we try the tower."

The bellhop chimes in from his position at the door, "Sometimes a tor is nothing more than an amalgam of fractured and fused rock, but big enough to note as a topographical detail."

Full service, indeed.

Ravex recalls that the badlands are so named for having been the former home of salt, basalt, and saltpeter mines--till the overlord of the time had mined them dry, his rapacious appetite not allowing for environmentally sensitive measures.  Naturally, he had to have a central position of authority to project his power both within and without.

"I believe we should investigate the pinnacle of rock to the north," Zellias offers. "It seems to be the most tor-ish of the various locations." He looks for some water or tea to drink.

With his dagger, Gethin cuts away the useful part of the map, rolls it up, and tucks it in his belt, heedless of the artistry that went into making such a map.

"A good suggestion, Zellias.  But now that we have some specific sites where they Stormcrows may be, let us try our luck again in the libraries and streets.  If we can rule out even a few of these locations, we will make our task much easier."

OOC:
DM, can we make skill checks for each location to potentially rule some of them out?  Maybe Streetwise, someone head to a library and roll History, etc.

"Bah!" Ravex snorts at Gethin's suggestion. "There ain't likely to be anything useful in this town." Clearly, if the information wasn't already rattling around in his own head, then no one could possibly know it!

He pokes his finger in Zellias's direction. "Skinny is right, we should head toward the rock first."

Gethin shrugs, and lightly drums his fingers against the steel helmet tucked under his arm.  "Fine with me.  One place is just as good as another, at this point."

He glances around at the other two men.  "Ready then?  Let's make sure we're well provisioned, then head off.  Glory awaits us."

OOC: Gethin will buy 10 days of dry rations, then I'm ready to go to the pinnacle of rock at the north of the map.  DM, what's the estimate on distances?  If we end up having to travel to all 4 locations, horses would help.

"It is decided, then," the bellhop announces incongruously as another departs leaving a full tea service in his wake, complete with a burbling samovar, a tray of sugar cubes, and a frothy creamer.  Several cups of elderberry tea later, Brother Zelias feels refreshed and ready for an expedition to the badlands.

The still-present bellhop continues: "The badlands aren't as far away as you might think. Follow the road to Relkingham and head north after you reach the old Gentleman Rider's redoubt."

He scratches his head. "Now, if you reach Hamona, you've gone to ... well, you don't want to reach Hamona; let's just say that."

By the by, you receive the full set of directions detailing a trip of about seven days on horseback.

~~~

And so you eventually reach and travel through the badlands, taking care to avoid the still-standing fortress in its center. You're convinced that this trek will demand your every resource and skill.  Scorpion anti-venom? Check! Terrycloth towels? Check! Four week's supply of fairy biscuits (baked with real fairies!)? Check!

But the traveling's really quite easy.  The weather's cool this time of year and all the predators pursue pursuits other than warriors.

So you amuse yourselves with thoughts of ghost miners and demonic taskmasters (or better yet, demonic taskmistresses) but you hear no ghostly tapping of pick or cracking of whip. Matwau swears that he can see foxes behind every bluff, but he's not even with you so that makes no sense whatsoever.

After several more days of dust, dunes, and vultures, you behold:

A weathered pile of stones and packed earth protrudes from the ground like a giant’s rampart. The battered shell of a ruined tower leans from the tor’s apex. The tower is roofless and hollow.

Oh, now you get it. Tor refers to both the tower and the pile of stones, clever, clever.  Of course, the tower was built after the company had marked the map.  And now it lies here destroyed.

Keeping almost a mile away Quinn sends in his scout homunculus to take a look around.

Gethin waits patiently on the back of his horse while Quinn gazes into the distance.  He's grown accustomed to the wizard's strange trances and other... personality quirks.

To pass the time, he makes quiet small talk.  "So, Brother Zellias, which god does your order follow?"  (Growing up in a monastery, Gethin never heard the old adage about avoiding religion and politics in polite society.)

Brother Zellias also waits patiently, then slowly turns his head to regard Gethin after hearing the Pelorite's question. There is almost a hint of a smile on his stoic face.

"That depends upon whom you ask," he says in response. "The Ancient Order once worshipped a deity but no longer does so. Some of my brothers say the deity no longer exists - that it 'died' in a manner of speaking when the Order attained a certain degree of enlightenment and knowledge. Others of the Order maintain the deity never existed at all, and that the Order only realized its nonexistence when a certain degree of englightenment and knowledge was attained."

The monk shrugs almost imperceptibly. "In any case, at this point the Order is more concerned with the disciplined pursuit of knowledge than with worship of a deity, whether or not it ever existed in the first place."

Quinn's homunculus returns and reports to Quinn that atop the tor it sighted a wooden hatch door strewn with leaves, dirt, feather, and whitish offal.

"And your order is content to leave unanswered a question of such import?"  Gethin's voice is incredulous.

"If it were the temple of Pelor, twelve of our best theologians would form a committee that would sequester itself in a hall of the Grand Temple with only bread to eat and water to drink, until the question had been answered.  Then it would worry us no more, for the matter would be decided."

He shrugs.  To each his own, I suppose.


When Quinn's creature reports back, Gethin urges his horse forward.  "Let us see what waits below."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:12, Fri 21 May 2010.

Zellias nods at Gethin's take on the issue. "It seems that long ago the Order decided it was not a question of great import for us, though it is sometimes interesting to debate over an ale or two."

After hearing of Quinn's report, Zellias peers out into the distance, trying to pick up any signs of movement or threats that might lie between the group and the tor.

11:12, Today: Brother Zellias rolled 21 using 1d20+10. Perception.

Ravex dismounts from his horse and readies his shield. "Come on, let's find a place to tie up the horses." He cautiously begins to search around for just such a place.

Swinging down from his horse with a sigh of relief the mage pokes the door with his staff, trying to see how loose it is.  "Ravex, if you open this a little I can send down the scout."