"We shall return," Eilieen assures the priestess before rejoining her friends.  Their customs are a tad odd, but it was Fergus' way.  She respects that.  And there's a vague understanding for the priests' odd funeral within her, especially when explained as it was.  She shakes her head, glancing over her shoulder for a final look at the body of her friend.  All that work she put in saving him from the Wyvarrst...and now, gone.

Shaking out her tension with a heavy sigh, she places a hand on Ozzy's shoulder.  "That was well done, Oswald."  Her lip trembles, but her voice remains steady.  "Well done, indeed."  Resolutely, she ignores Aarnr's demands.  Someone else can eat his heart.  "But breakfast does sound like a fine idea."

Aarnr looks about him, hoping to spot this woman who his blood brother would like to meet, but is on safer ground with Ozzie's desire to eat his liver, nodding happily, and patting the Halfling on the shoulder as he comes to the crux of the matter.

Religion, funerary rites, cannibalism ... all these matters generally cause contention ... but breakfast !  Ah, now that everyone can agree on.

"Ye should keep an eye out for a likely Inn," Aarnr suggests to his surviving companions as he struggles to control the oxen.

Erista walks slowly along.  "I don't think I could eat anyway," she mumbles, mostly to herself, just as Aarnr is assuring himself that everyone can agree on breakfast.  "I'd just like to lie down for a while."

Bidding the clergy farewell Arkan fell back in line with the others as they began their trek back to town.

"I admit food sounds good. Nothing like a battle to the death against a mighty foe to make one appreciate the finer things in life. I'm famished!" He said to the others. "Once we eat perhaps we can take a closer look at the pack from the giant's lair; I am interested in that scroll case." Arkan added, looking at Ozzy.

"Are thou ill ?" Aarnr asks Erista, a note of concern in his voice as he looks back over his shoulder to regard the halfling.

Their business with the priestesses of Freya concluded, at least for today, the group head back into the city in search of a suitable inn.  There seems to be no shortage of drinking establishments.  Bard's Gate has a veritable plethora of taverns, inns, pubs, hostelries, saloons and taphouses.  The difficulty comes in finding the right one.

The Silver Pheasant looks too expensive.  The Jovial Merchant too.  The Bantam Cock looks decidedly unpleasant, and The Three Pigs smells of vomit and rancid food.  The Knife in the Dark doesn't seem very welcoming...

And so they make their way through the twisting streets, looking for the perfect establishment in which to celebrate the life, and death, of their friend.

And then Colwyn says, "That place is lookin' like it might be right enough ter 'old a wake fer Fergus."

He points to a sign hanging outside an inn.  A sign depicting a strapping youth clad in simple peasant clothes, and with a scythe slung over one shoulder.  And below the picture, the words, The Farmer's Son...

Pursing her lips, Eilieen falls back to walk next to Erista.  With a wave of the hand, she indicates Aarnr should go onward.  Looking down at her Halfling friend, she offers a sad smile.

"This is about Fergus, is it not?" the priestess inquires quietly.

"The lad was far more shy than thee or me," Aarnr reminds Colwyn, "he'd not have liked anything that shone a light on his deeds, matter not that he'd earned it."

"But it will serve us well indeed," he claps the rogue on the back. "And it is we who must remember him, so we shall remember well in this place, under that banner !"

There are far too many people in the narrow street for Aarnr to simple leave the cart and oxen.  While he is unworried at the thought of thieves - indeed he would welcome the opportunity for blood-letting, this day is, after all, about Fergus, and so the priest must set aside such simple pleasures as hacking apart cart-snafflers to concentrate on the task at hand.  "Do they have," he struggles to recall the unfamiliar word, "staples ?"

Erista shrugs a little, looking down.  "I guess," she replies, and then sighs.  "I just.. I always felt safe with Fergus.  You know?  He was like... like...  Home," she decides.  "Being with him felt like being home."

Eilieen stares straight ahead for a long moment, her hand still resting on her friend's shoulder.  "Yes," she replies.  "Home."  She had never had one before, not in the Church, but here?  With her friends?  "You are all home for me," the priestess finally states.  "And now part of that home is gone."

Closing her eyes for a long moment, she continues to walk beside the diminutive sorceress.  "I'm sorry, Erista."  Eilieen squeezes with her hand, lightly.  "I know...you and he were close.  You spoke much.  I wish I had.  Is there anything we might do?  I...don't need breakfast, not really," she confesses.

" Whether we eat or not is inconsequential. I would like to raise a glass to the life of Fergus however, so lets head over to the Farmer's Son and grab a few pints." Ozzy says, agreeing whole heartedly with Colwyns discovery. It seemed fated to be the place to hold a wake for their lost friend.

The Farmer's Son is a reasonably clean and tidy place, as it turns out, if a little quiet at this time in the late afternoon.  There is even a stable in the yard at the back, next to the privy, where Aarnr is able to house the oxen for the sum of three coppers each, while the cart sits in the yard, under the watchful gaze of the tavern's stable keeper.

Inside the tavern itself, the drinks seem reasonably priced.  The sawdust on the floor is clean and shows signs of being fresh today, and fills the establishment with the scent of sandalwood.  Vermin appear to be absent, and a large black and white cat curled on the end of the bar seems to have the utmost confidence in its ability to keep them that way.  It opens one eye lazily, as the group of strangers enter, then decides that they don't constitute just cause for it to interrupt its afternoon nap, and so closes it again with an almost audible "snap".

There seem to be only two other customers at the moment, a couple of old men sitting in a corner, who look up briefly from their game of "Push Jack Push!" to quickly appraise the newcomers.

A quick inquiry of the tired looking woman behind the bar reveals that this level of activity is about normal for the time of day, but then she goes on to assure the group, "But it'll pick up in a couple of hours, once the market and the shops start to close.  Always does.  So... what would you like?"

"Food and drink," Aarnr clarifies for the woman.  He's already handed over a handful of the coins they call coppers to hire the man outside to fend off robbers and will be relying on his friends when the numbers get more complicated.

The quiet of the tavern quite suits the priest's mood at the moment, though undoubtedly he'll become more gregarious after a few drinks, unless any muggers or braggarts intervene.

And at least this cat shows no immediate signs of getting itself lost ... indeed, it looks a most surly beast, and from the lack of vermin a skillful killer.  The sort of pet that Aarnr might almost like ...

"Not much," says Bilfro to the woman.

Bilfro inhales.

"I'll have a shepherd's pie, three pork sausages, two stakes, preferably made out of meat and, if possible, cow meat, then I'll have a medium mild cow milk cheese, half a pound or so, a couple of eggs with the sunny side up, half a dozen potatoes, a pint of mild ale, a jug of water, some fresh or fresh-ish bread, half a loaf or a few buns depending on the form and shape of said bread and finally some garlic and six, no, make that five peas.  Need my greenery too, but I'm not all that hungry.  Thank you!"

He smiles at her briefly and then ambles over towards the feline and reaches out to pet it.

The cat, briefly, considers killing Bilfro for his temerity, then decides on a much worse punishment, and simply ignores the man instead.

The barkeep regards the mage as if unsure whether or not he is joking, then decides that it might be wise not to question the instructions of any member of the group, since thgey all look well-able to take care of themselves, and some of them appear to be teetering on the brink of not really caring about potential property damage and wholesale mayhem.

Instead she just makes a note of the order, and then of whatever everybody else wants.  About when she gets to Aarnr, she starts to smile.  By Arkan she has a definite cheerful grin, and by Erista, she appears to be struggling to smother a laugh...

This looks to be the most lucrative day that she can remember.  She calls the food orders through to the kitchen, and starts to serve the drinks.

Aarnr too listens in slack-jawed astonishment at Bilfro's litany, recovering only when the barkeep's smile turns his way to mumble "I'll have what he's havin' !"

Erista shrugs, and shakes her head.  "I don't think so," she answers.  "We can't bring him back.  I just... need some time, is all."  She looks up, and makes herself smile.  "Thank you, though.  You help.  You always do," she assures Eilieen.

Even after staring at the kitchen in silent consideration for the better part of a quarter hour, Ozzy cannot find his appetite. Every food seems to remind him of Fergus, the big dirt clod with the happy smile. The world would be a dimmer place without him. Even the odd phrasing of words by Bilfro don't bring a grin to his face. Ozzy - usually so accepting of the inevitable fate we all share - actually feels a pang of grief for their lost friend. Apparently a pang was as fulfilling as a nine course meal. " Just a beer please." he asks of the barkeep as she brings out the orders of his comrades. Maybe he could drown the sorrow. " So, ...what's the happiest memory any of you shared with Fergus?" he asks.

Ozzy's question is a good one, and Colwyn ponders his answer while he waits for his ale and his meal - a slice of ham and cheese pie, with turnip and cabbage - until finally he says, "I isn't knowin' Ozzy, there's bein' too many ter be thinkin' on.  'e were always bein' a good mate, I's knowin' that.  One as wasn't lettin' yer down when yer was bein' in trouble, even when 'elpin' yer were gettin' 'im in trouble as well."

"Ter Fergus!" the rogue raises his mug high, "'ere's 'opin' yer's bein' in a good place, mate."

And he drains the mug in a single draught, though it must be said that a fair proportion of the ale ends up on the front of his jerkin.  The empty mug bangs down on the table, and Colwyn belches loudly, then starts eating his food.

"Fightin' that pheas ... that owlbear," Aarnr avows as he takes his turn.  "Fergus wasn't the keenest to begin with, an' for a while it was touch an' go which of the three of us would fall first ... but he saved me, an' we slew the beast together, an' then Bowbe saved him," the priest remembers the exhilaration of the battle and the heady thrill of victory, and chooses to forget that he himself was on death's door, while the farmer's son had one foot over the threshold.

"An afterwards, as we bound up our wounds to try to staunch the blood, Fergus told me about Freya.  He said that she's the goddess of love an' health an' growin' things, but also the goddess of war an' death cos if ye love somethin' then," the priest pauses to be sure he has the words just right, "sometimes ye need to fight to protect it an' ye can't have new life without death."

"He said it was like how ye need to harvest a field an' burn the stubble before ye can plough an' sow."  The priest assumes his friends know far more of such matters than he.  "An he says that Freya has a servant that some call the Gardiner because he prunes her garden to make it fruitful an' pulls out anythin' that is barren or bears bad fruit."

"An' he said some call this servant the Reaper instead."

"TER FERGUS !" Aarnr loudly echoes Colwyn's toast as he raises his own mug and knuckles one leaking eye with his fist.  "Ye tell that Gardiner or Reaper or whoever he is where to cut, ye hear !  He'd be wise to listen to thee !"
This message was last edited by the player at 12:48, Sun 06 Sept 2015.

As time wears on, the drinks flow, and more customers start to arrive at The Farmer's Son.

Most appear to be common folk - labourers, market workers, field hands, dung collectors (these keeping mostly to themselves in a corner far from the door, but close to an open window).  All seem glad to celebrate Fergus' life, and his heroic death at the hands of the giant, whose head brings many an "Ooooh!" and an "Aaaah!" and requests to touch it.

Perhaps it is the fact that Fergus was one of their own, the son of a farmer, and not some rich and powerful knight.

Beyond the windows, the sky starts to darken...

"An applaud!" asks absent acquaintances associate abjectly.

Bilfro boldly blessed brave bygone boy.

Clearly, companion constituted celebrated chap.

Dear departed dead dude.

Evermore entirely ended.

Forever fighting.

Gone.

"H....ic."

There are few more common that Aarnr, and the priest chuckles with delight at the reaction of the locals who frequent the Farmer's Son.  "Their praise and admiration would mean more to our Fergus than that of any rich fool or bejewelled dandy," he yells loudly in Ozzie's ear !  "Give the woman more of those base coins, my brother !  Drinks for all !"

Bilfro's words of gods-gifted wisdom set Aarnr to nodding, for all he's quite far gone in his cups, and demand response in kind.

"I just know lesser men need oft pose questions - rare souls trust unto valour without exception, ye ... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,"

But alas, the priest slumps forward on the wooden table before him, head resting comfortably in a puddle of ale, and snoring loudly before he can finish his rejoinder.

The evening stretches on, as more people start to arrive at the inn.  Most of them seem content to join the wake for Fergus, and those who aren't simply leave after a quick drink, seeking a quieter establishment.

It's fair to say that the ones who remain are making enough noise to drown out even Aarnr's snoring and the alcohol fuelled yells which he occasionally gives in his sleep.  Fergus seems to have become quite a popular local hero, even though he had never been to Bard's Gate before.  In fact, considering that this would constitute his first (and last) visit to the city, as the hours pass there appear to be more people claiming to have known him.

"I was with Fergus when he killed the owlbear!" proclaims a drunken vegetable merchant.

"Well, I was with 'im when he fighted a army of orcses!" responds a butcher, deep in his cups.

"Bah!" declares a dung collector, from under the table used by members of the world's third oldest profession, "Where the bloody 'ells was yers when Fergus cutted off the wyverererat's 'ead!  I was there.  I seen it with me own eyes!"

And everybody who goes to the counter for more drinks makes a point of buying one for the giant's head, and pouring it into the monster's open mouth, so that the sawdust on the floor soon becomes a sticky mess of ale, wine, spirits and waste wood.

The barkeep is happy though, since at some point in the evening she has realised that people are prepared to pay extra for "one for the giant".

It is, of course, only a matter of time before it happens...

An aging, cross-eyed farmer, egged on by his mates, staggers up to the table, and slurs, "Oi, Zadatshan, how's 'bout a kissh then?"

Eilieen shakes her head as well.  "Take the time you want.  I suspect I'll do the same."  She studies the tavern and sighs.  "I don't really feel up to a long night of drunken revelry.  Perhaps I'll simply get a room and sit quietly, awaiting morning.  If you'd like to join me, by all means."

A shrug follows.  "I realize I've left myself completely open to the usual Zadasthan comment, but I'll take that chance."

Sadly, Eilieen later finds herself in that very situation when, while downstairs attempting to collect Aarnr, she is accosted by a sadly inebriated farmer.  It really, really had to happen at some point.  For a long moment she eyes the farmer, considering the path to righteousness.  Pity him?  Perhaps.  His friends will certainly make mockery of his failure.  But no; his drinking was his own business - much like Aarnr's, she considers with some distaste - and his choice to bother her his own as well (if alcohol-fueled).

One thin brow rises.  "Perhaps not.  If you will excuse me, I need to help my friend."

The loss of Fergus has cut deep, and she has little pity to share for men who have drowned themselves in liquor.  Aarnr, at least, has an excuse.