"Off I am, to accompany Corian," says Bilfro bravely.  "Need to prepare the feast properly, and assure I can get a bath, oh indeed, in dire need of that, after eating, of course!"

He skip-limps after Corian, who no doubt appreciates having the company of a fellow spell-weaver, even if Bilfro indubitably surpasses him by the square root, of which neither of them most likely have any knowledge, and thus is rendered utterly moot.

"I like cats too," he confides in Corian, who have yet to express any fondness of the creatures to anyone's knowledge, save perhaps Bilfro.

"I like owlbears," Aarnr feels obliged to come to the defence of his favourite.  "Froggin' vicious things ..."

"Do ye think we should start shoutin' yet ?"

"Oh, well done, Ozzy!" Erista whispers excitedly as the wolf runs off.  "But I suppose that will have to wrap things up for tonight, won't it?  If he comes back with friends, we'd be done for.  Come on, then, let's go ahead back, and.. well, hope Tommy's OK, I guess."

While Bilfro accompanies Corian back to the inn, a pleasant enough walk through the  streets of Fairhill, in spite of the chill dampness of the evening air, Aarnr and Eilieen lead the rest of the group back to the meadow, in search of their friends.

At the last moment, Aramil decides to hurry after the two mages, having had quite enough of mud, brambles and savage kobolds for one day,  Besides, from what he's observed, Bilfro and Corian might need somebody skilled in the fine art of diplomacy to break strangleholds and crack skulls together.

So it is that Aarnr, Colwyn, Eilieen and Fergus make their way to the waterlogged and gloom shrouded meadow.  Where they quickly realise that finding two halflings, even in the open, will not be that easy.  And that assumes, of course, that the searchers haven't wandered into the surrounding forest.  With little else to do, the quartet head for their best recollection of where they had last seen the diminutive duo...

There are a lot of people at the inn, all of whom are pleased to see Aramil, Bilfro and Corian.  Perhaps surprisingly, the inn's owner, a woman called Glarian who looks to have a significant amount of elvish blood in her veins, remembers that the village magistrate had offered to pay the costs of victuals and lodgings for the bold heroes of Fairhill.  She is happy to discuss the party's requirements for both with Corian.

Meanwhile a rather morose looking man sidles up to Bilfro and Aramil (if his somewhat erratic and uncontrolled course can truly be called a "sidle").  "'Allo friendsh," he slurs, throwing his arms around their shoulders, and spilling a fair amount of ale on Bilfro's already filthy boots, "'Ow'sh yersh doin'?  Yersh 'eroesh, that'sh what yoush ish.  I'sh Fen'ir... Tendrish... Fen'rin!  That'sh it.  Lishen!  'Ow'd yersh like ter 'elp *hic* 'elp me ter get my revensh on the monster what killeded my wife an' shon?"

"Fendrin." warns Glarian, "Leave these good people alone.  Why don't you go home and sleep it off?"

Out in the meadow, there is a lucky turn of events after only a short while trudging through the mud, as Aarnr and Colwyn (in the same instant) spot a small white object moving towards them in the moonlight, and realise that it's Erista dress.  And Erista is still wearing it.

"There's the frothy flirt-gill !"  Aarnr is quick to realise that the ghostly form coming his way is Erista and not a foul spirit, and shoulders his bow, shaft unspent.

"We've found ... Tommy," he bellows out, pausing only a short while to grit his teeth.  "Now, where is my blood-brother ?  Looting the corpses ?" the priests suggests, reasonably.

Ozzy follows Erista, continually glancing back over his shoulder as they walk back to the village. He keeps a javelin in hand, sweeping at the grass ahead of him as he goes, his attention more focused on what might be following them then on the way ahead. "We've found ... Tommy." comes Aarnr's voice booming through the dark, which brings a smile to the halflings face to replace the concerned look of worry. Looking in the direction of the big man, he waves his javelin over his head to show he is well.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:55, Thu 10 Apr 2014.

The drunk looks at Glarian, bleary eyed, for a moment, then wanders off without another word, just a slow shake of his head.  "Sorry about that." the half-elf says, "Fendrin used to be a decent sort, until about six months ago, when a winged monster carried of his wife and kid.  Fendrin tried to shoot it with his bow, and somehow managed to kill his wife instead.  Then the monster dropped the child, seemingly out of spite.  Just laughed at Fendrin, then flew straight up until it was out of bow range, and dropped the lad."

"Fendrin's been coming in here every day lately to drown his sorrows.  His farm has been neglected, and he's only survived by selling almost everything he owned.  Only thing keeping him going, I reckon, is a desire for revenge on the monster."

Meanwhile, over in the moonlit meadow, the conversation is a little more cheerful.  Colwyn is pleased to see the two halflings, particularly since he prefers Ozzy's songs to Aramil's more... elevated... poetry.  Not that he thinks the poetic tales of mighty elven heroes are particularly bad, it's just that they aren't really his taste.

The rogue's idea of good poetry is more along the lines of:

There was a young priest of Thyr
  who got drunk on dwarvish dark beer.
    He sang songs most obscene
      in front of the queen,
        And his head sits now on a spear.

Rousing stuff...

Colwyn beams at the Ozzy and Erista and gives them a cheery greeting, "'ello you two.  Yes, we was findin' Tommy, an' 'e's bein' safe at 'ome.  Would yers like ter 'ear the bad news as well?"

"Thou are missing the froggin' party !"  Aarnr just blurts it out with no sense of timing or suspense.

Erista looks a bit worried from Colwyn's question, but Aarnr's outburst brings a grin.  "Well, that is bad news!  Come on, let's get to it!  Ozzy totally deserves a party; he saved us from a wolf," she adds.  "Nearly single-handedly!"

Ozzy perks up at the mention of a party, telling Erista, " I needed the other hand to pinch my nose!" before embellishing on his boast as he tries to impress his blood brother with the savage tale, " I smelled it before I ever saw the hellish glow of it's yellow eyes in the moonlight. Before I could step between the mange-matted, flea-infested, tooth-festering mongrel and Erista - it LEAPT for my throat!" The story now being visually enhanced with his own pantomime, " Javelin in hand, I threw it with a deadly accuracy that would have killed it! Unfortunately, the mud-sodden cur drew itself up short trying to avoid a serious pop on the nose from the lady for it's ill mannered introduction! Rather than stand and fight for it's dinner, the muck-crusted, brain-addled mutt excuse for a dog ran off into the bushes! Seems Erista is none to fond of surprises." Ozzy pauses for a breath, smacking his parched lips. " Party? Which way to the party?" he asks. " I could use a froggin' drink."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:28, Sun 13 Apr 2014.

"Oh, yeah.  Party.  At the inn." Colwyn says, smoothly picking up on Aarnr's subtle hint that he shouldn't mention cats.  "Corian's bein' there now, fixin' things up with the innkeep.  Best food  An' bester booze, I's 'opin'."

The rogue looks up at the dark sky, "We's needin' ter be gettin' back.  A nice warm inn's bein' miles better 'an a muddy field.  Won't be long, an' even a bleedin' cat'd be 'avin' trouble seein' out 'ere."  He pauses, then quickly amends, "I's meanin' a owl.  Not a cat, a owl."

"That was out here was it?  We heard the howl from the village.  I'll have to have a word with the sheriff, he needs to be rousing the militia a bit if there's kobolds and wolves this close to town."

"Anyway, well done Ozzy, you're in fine form today, though I'm glad there was only one wolf." Fergus, being Fergus, is probably talking about Ozzy's martial heroics and not his embellished storytelling.

"Now, let's be getting on to the inn, I'm starving."

Eilieen claps happily at the wonderful ending to Ozzie's tale.  "Oh, well done Oswald!  You've certainly proved the hero tonight!"  In reality, she's simply highly elated that they HAVE found their missing friends, and nobody is the worse for wear.

Except, perhaps, a sadly bruised wolf.

"I must agree with Fergus.  I could use some solid food and rest.  Tomorrow we must lay our Nameless friend to rest - it IS tomorrow, is it not? - and I want to be at my best," she chatters as they walk.

Erista grins, following along, glad to be amidst friends.  "Did he say there was only one wolf?" she asks Fergus.  "There were definitely two.  Maybe three, by the time we get to the Inn."

She gives Colwyn an odd look, as Astral wings in to perch neatly on her shoulder.  "Astral's fine, actually, but thanks?" she guesses, assuming he's politely inquiring as to her familiar's well-being so late at night.

Blinking at the words, if that is what they are, from the slightly tipsy fellow, Bilfro is uncertain how to respond.  Then comes a white horse in a shining armour on a knight to his rescue, or something, and it becomes clear, and Bilfro realises there would have been nothing he could have said, nothing.

It takes him a long while before he feels he can speak without the voice cracking.

"I say, can a bath be arranged?  I do need one, very much so.  And food for my returning friends, seeing as we got interrupted mid-meal."

Bilfro does his best to sound cheerful and not thing about such cruel monsters.  Fighting, brr, it only leads to death, even defending yourself.  Dreadful business, that.

"We did recover Tommy, of sorts, or he recovered himself.  Quite a champion, that one, wish I had one myself."

That merely put another kind of monster in his head, but it is less likely to lead to tears.  Indeed, it reminds him of the sight of little Tommy in the arms of the halfling lady, quite amusing a sight, it was.

"Froggin' cats n' dogs," Aarnr snorts, though the big priest's eyes shine at Ozzie's tale of the halfling's derring-do, the moreso as a wolf must seem like a small horse to such little folk.

Though with a feast awaiting, and, as Eilieen remind one and all, a funeral to look forward to on the morrow, Aarnr can sense that nobody is going to want to go hunting owlbears just at the moment.

"We must drink to thy triumph !" the immediate path is clear. "To the Inn !"

Glarian confirms that a bath will be made available for anybody who wants one, though it will take some time to prepare it - water to heat, and all that.  Food and drink, on the other hand, can be had immediately, or close enough.

And so it is that, by the time their friends return to the inn, Aramil, Bilfro and Corian are already tucking in to a sumptuous repast - chicken and split pea soup to start, followed by slices of roast boar, carrot and turnip, cauliflower, fried onion, with gravy and a rich, dark rye bread...

Corian looks up as their companions enter the common room, and proclaims, "Ah, you found them.  Excellent.  Glarian!  Our friends will also partake of this most splendid meal."

The half-elf woman immediately calls for more food and drink to be fetched for the heroes of Fairhill.

And somewhere a minstrel begins to sing.  A song of dashing heroes, skilled with blade and magic, who ventured into a haunted keep to slay the dread vampire-lich king Eralion, and his army of magically ensnared minions (and at least one dragon) to save a nearby village.  The heroes of the ballad do, it must be said, bear some resemblance to their real life counterparts, now settling in for a well-deserved and long-awaited dinner...

Aarnr has been spattered with a nice healthy layer of mud, and will bathe next time it rains, so he doesn't need to waste any time in settling down to a well-earned meal.  Stomping around in the dark, bit of blood-letting ... all in all, it's been a good afternoon.

Roast boar, fried onions, gravy and bread make for hearty fare, worthy of a hero, especially washed down with lots of ale.

And with the minstrel's song to enjoy (particularly the bit about the dragon which he'd forgotten) and all the fun of a funeral to look forward to on the morrow, Aarnr is happy.  Tired, but happy.

"Thou know," the priest informs Fergus, "thy Fairhill is not such a bad place after all.  Froggin' decadent flesh-pot of a city, but not bad."

Aramil eats his dinner with gusto, listening to the tale of Ozzy and Erista's adventure in the meadow, and the routing of the wolf.  A rousing story indeed, and one which brings a smile to the bard's face.

The same can not be said for the minstrel's song, so full of obvious inaccuracies that it would sow seeds of doubt in the mind of any stranger who heard it.  Why, in the seventh stanza alone there are at least three lines where poetic license lapses into outright untruth.  Add to which that the melody is lacklustre and the rhythm is too slow by a half beat.

This, then, is how the people of Fairhill will remember their saviours, and how word of their deeds will be passed onto travellers along the Tradeway.  Given that the song may be responsible for spreading their fame as far as the Lost Library, from whence hailed the Nameless Monk, and Darnegal, the least the minstrel could do would be to make a half decent job of the composition.

Song is not Aramil's forté, but he does decide there and then to start work on an epic poem which will set right the most egregious failings in the minstrel's piece of shoddy dross.  A work which will live forever in the mind of the good folk of Fairhill, and tell them the true story of their heroes.  Or at least an acceptably accurate version of it.

Ozzy sets to the task of feeding himself, emulating the table manners of his brother as he washes it down with a large pint. Mouth stuffed with bread, he asks, " Where'sh Tom?" his little frame struggling to catch sight of a kid in the crowd. Seems he was having as much luck as he did in the field.

Ozzy asks a simple question and, by purest coincidence, Colwyn finds himself choking on a piece of bread.  The rogue starts coughing, but somehow the morsel will not dislodge itself, and the man's face grows redder and redder, as his eyes water and his breathing grows more and more laboured.

Aramil, sitting nearby, slaps the rogue on the back until the treacherous fragment is dislodged from his windpipe, and he is able to take a great, gulping, shuddering breath.

Corian takes it upon himself to answer the halfling, and does so with tact, "I believe Tommy is at home with Rosie.  At least that is the last word we have on the topic.  Perhaps he is too tired after his... escapade... to consider venturing out this evening.  Or Rosie has kept him home."

"Froggin' spleeny rats-bane," Aarnr adds, spitting crumbs.

Eilieen offers a thin-eyed glare at Colwyn over her food, but that's all - she's far too concerned with eating right now to worry about thwacking anyone over the head with a serving spoon.  Fortunately, Corian snags that explanation, leaving her free to cringe away from the crumbs flying from Aarnr's mouth.  "I will take that bath," she informs the server.  "And am willing to pay for it."

That's fair - heroes or not.

Aramil looks less-than impressed with the minstrel's attempt, and Eilieen imagines she can understand why.  It's embarrassing, the exaggeration.  "I do hope we don't meet any dragons," she mutters to the half-elf bard.  "That would be a disaster."

Bad enough considering Owlbears.

Ozzy perks up at the mention of a hot bath. He had tried what he could at the well, but the lingering stench of the chamber pot had never really left him and he could only admire the tact of his travelling companions for not having made mention of it since. Waving his arm, the Halfling manages to swallow the mouthful of mutton before saying, " OH! OH! A BATH!! I'd rather like one of those myself! ...and a new pair of socks to put on after!" he pauses, not really considering cost as he adds, " Mebbe' a new set of clothes all together! Something befitting my role as a hero! Fluffy collar, puffy sleeves, a nice tight fitting vest to define my masculine torso..." he goes on, finding his way to his feet, standing on his chair and posing with chin forward and hand on his jacket as he imagines himself much larger and well renowned than he actually is.

Aarnr had been forwarned that civilised folk thought of little else but socks, be they followers of Zhadastria or no, but forgives Ozzie either that and the bath, as the halfling strikes a suitably heroic pose, raising his cup to toast the victor of the evening's hunt.

"Make sure the hedge-pigs use the best froggin' leather, mind !" he cautions his friend to be wary of those who might fashion clothes from less hardwearing and manly materials.