The gatekeeper turns his head, and mutters something to somebody below and behind him, then he faces the travellers once more.

"Welcome to Crossroad, wayfarers!"

Behind the wicker panel there are the sounds of movement, and two pitchforks appear, lifting the rope loops from the palisade.  The gate (for want of a better word) is carried aside, and the group get their first clear glimpse of Crossroad.

Beyond the palisade stands what, at first glance, appears to be a large pigsty.  Mounds of hay, some of them apparently smouldering, are scattered across a field of mud.  A large number of people trudging between the stacks, mostly spattered with mud.  The pigs that are also present are, in many cases, cleaner than some of the people around them.

Second glance reveals that the haystacks are, in fact, houses constructed almost entirely of thatch.  The thin streamers of smoke rising from some of them are actually coming from smoke holes in the roofs.

The "pigsty" is actually the village.  And, judging by the smell, there is worse than mud on the ground.

Towards the centre of the village are two larger structures, built mostly of wood, with panels of wattle and daub, and thatched roofs,  The gatekeeper indicates the smaller of the two, "That's the inn.  Doubt they'll turn down your coin there."

A half dozen armed men stand just inside the gate.  As with the gatekeeper, they wear the same dragon-emblazoned surcoats as the attackers on the road.  Unlike the gatekeeper, these men also wear mail, and carry shields.

They don't appear to be hostile, for the moment.

Aarnr doesn't appear to be any more hostile than usual ... which means his eyes narrow at the sight of the guards, though on him it might just seem as if he's squinting to anyone not minded to pick a fight.  To his credit he doesn't immediately draw his blade ...

The sight that greets his eyes ... is not a million miles removed from the fens of his homeland, though there's arguably more pigs and considerably less fighting.  The building materials are no less primative, though in the Vastness mud huts not straw huts sit in the mud.  This place is certainly a lot more flamable.

Some sort of response seems to be expected, and the gatekeepers are the only ones he trusts himself to speak to without spitting insults, so it is to the foremost of those (the larger of the two with pitchforks) that the priest addresses his remarks.

"Aren't ye froggin' worried that'll burn down ?" he inquires conversationally, nodding at the palisade in general and the wicker gate in particular.  "What ye need is a pit of sharpened stakes on this side ..." one of the few things Aarnr appreciates about the civilised world are the advanced methods of killing and maiming the enemy that they've developed.

Raising an eyebrow in dismay at the dismal, rundown scene before them that passes for a village around these parts, Arkan sighs inwardly at the indignities an adventurer  is forced to endure as part of the profession.

In fact, this place may even benefit from a good burning down as Aarnr seems to point out. At the least it would improve the smell.

"Let's get on with this then shall we," he gestures at towards the inn the gatekeeper had pointed out. Raising the hem of his cloak to free it from the muck Arkan also holds up a corner to his nose in an effort to keep out the worst of the stink.

Muttering something about "...have stayed with the wagon...", Eilieen waits while Aarnr discusses the finer points of defences with the gatekeeper, and nods to Arkan as he indicates their first stop.  "Indeed.  Let us get this over with," the priestess murmurs with some disgust.

She surveys the village around them.  "Hardly a kingdom," the young woman muses.  Someone, she decides, has more of an overdeveloped ego than she first assumed.  With that (and numerous squelching sounds), the priestess begins the walk toward the Inn.

At least it's a short distance away....

The inn is dark and stuffy, filled with eye-stinging smoke and the stink of decay and mold.  The clientele are noisy and boisterous, and it's probably a good guess that as much ale is spilled on the muddy floor, with its filthy rushes, as is consumed.

As the first of the party push aside the hanging blanket that serves as a door and step into the gloomy interior, the room falls silent.  Shrewd eyes, set in sullen faces, take in their appearance, looking as if they are calculating the worth of every thread of cloth or bit of metal.

And more disconcerting than the silence are the whispers.

Meanwhile, outside of Crossroad, Bilfro stirs from his deep... er... meditation, stretches, and puts the second part of the plan into operation.  Clambering down from the cart, he starts to lead the oxen around to the edge of the forest on the eastern side of the village...

Still holding part of his cloak held over his nose Arkan followed Eileen into the inn, pushing aside the hanging blanket that served as the door with his spare hand.

Stepping to one side to allow the others to follow, he waits as his eyes adjust to the dark interior, and blinks repeatedly as his eyes start stinging from the smoke.

Catching the sound of whispers directed their way and the sullen stares, Arkan drops his cloak from his nose and stares boldly at one set of the shrewd eyes directed his way. "Looking for trouble?" he says loudly, smacking a gloved fist into the palm of his other hand.

In response to Arkan's question, two burly men push themselves up from their seats at a table in the corner.  A smaller man comes bustling around from behind the counter.  He waves one hand at the pair to get their attention (the other clutches what looks like a large mallet).  "No crossbows!  No crossbows!" he screams in a high pitched voice.  Then he shoves one of the men with a surprising amount of force for one so scrawny, causing the larger man to sit down, hard.

So hard, in fact, that the stool collapses under him and dumps him on the filthy floor.

"If there's going to be trouble in here, I'll be the one making it!" the innkeeper declares, and the room starts to return to its previous noise level (much of it derisive laughter directed at the big man, who is climbing to his feet).

"As long as you've the wherewithal to pay for your drinks and victuals, you're welcome in my inn strangers."

Aarnr enters the Inn in time to see the big man land on the floor.  Probably drunk, which bodes well for the potency of the local brew.  The usual fare that the priest has found in his travels wouldn't even etch metal.

The small fellow, the Innkeep by his attire, issues his challenge and Aarnr nods his acceptance, waiting for him to start.  Perhaps his comment about payment is his first sally, for admittedly the priest hasn't got a copper to his name now, having given all his coin to Gonder for the blade.

The smell is indeed terrible, eye-wateringly bad.  But the Inn is pretty bad also, so he supposes at least in this establishment nobody will complain.

Aarnr looks around, trying to spot anyone who might be of the stone mason persuasion.

The innkeeper turns away, after giving his large victim a glare that could burn a hole in stone.  Then, slinging the hammer over one shoulder, he walks back to the counter, pausing only to aim a kick at a passing rat.

Leaning on the counter (really just a couple of planks laid across some barrels) he looks at the newcomers and yells above the increasing noise, "So... what'll it be?"  He gestures towards four kegs behind him. one of them smaller than the others and supported on a pair of trestles.  "We've got small beer, mild, and bitter.  And some of Old Man Dagor's moonshine.  They all cost the same, two copper bits."

He pulls a rag from a pocket in his leather apron and starts to wipe the counter while he waits for a response.  Though given the state of the rag, he's probably just adding more dirt to the wooden surface.

Eilieen takes it all in with a vague, otherworldly sense of horror.

The filth...the rats...the people...she has been in goblin dens less appalling than this, though part of that might be expectations.  And the stench!  Only travelling with Aarnr has made her capable of keeping from gagging.  So she pulls her hood down to cover her features - better to let it suffer any noxious drippings from the rafters than herself - and briefly toys with the idea of pulling up the front of her tunic to cover her nose.

Unacceptable; she'll just have to put up with the smell.  At least Arkan seems to have taken care of introductions, so she'll not need to open her mouth as much.

Moving up to the bar - but not touching it, never touching - she stops before the innkeeper.  "The moonshine."  The priestess indicates the fourth...keg?  The smallest, in any case.  "Two, please."  The last said with two fingers raised slightly, gloves still on.

It's a trick fumbling out four coppers WITH those gloves on, but she's not about to remove them.

OOC:  -4 cc. :^

Looking round the room, Colwyn isn't too dismayed.  He's been in worse places.  There's ale, and something called moonshine.  And the rat hadn't looked sick, so the "victuals" can't be too bad.

In fact the only real problem he can think of is that nobody in the party knows what the "masons" actually look like...

A little disappointed when the innkeeper takes care of business, Arkan shrugs and looks for a place to sit. Establishing dominance in a place such as this is paramount to ensuring they wont be bothered or threatened by the locals until they have completed their work.

"Perhaps we should buy everyone in the room a free drink or two; you know, to loosen their lips," he says to the others softly.

Aarnr nods with what passes for enthusiasm for Arkan's suggestion.  The priest can't see how slack jawed locals will improve matters, but the prospect of a drink is certainly inviting - he missed his usual breakfast ale today, especially now that Eilieen's already ordered herself a couple of drinks.

If he can't see anyone obviously of the mason ilk, Aarnr will settle for eyeballing anyone who might possibly be a mason.  The barkeep at least seems to belong here, so he can probably be ruled out of contention, even if he does have a mallet.

"Tha's bein' a bloody good idea, mate." Colwyn slaps Arkan on the back.  "Drinks'll be makin' ev'ry bugger friends.  'specially if'n one of us is gettin' up on the counter an' 'nouncin' it good an' loud."

He looks around at the crowded room, biting at a thumb nail, then adds, "I's thinkin' as we's 'avin' enough coin ter be buyin' drinks fer ev'ry cove what's bein' in 'ere."

Around them, the room is starting to return to the noise level it had originally had when the outsiders had first entered.

The mood is rapidly returning to its original level too, with many good-natured insults directed at the other locals.  The newcomers are, however, not included in the banter.  And a few suspicious looks are still directed at them.

The innkeeper seems happy to serve them though, and even makes a conscious effort to give them the cleaner flagons and cups.  At least they don't seem to have any stains that are not a natural part of the wood they are made of.

Dip.

Eilieen's finger goes in the first cup of 'spirits'.  She wipes it around the lip of the second.

Dip.

Again, this time a little lower down.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Finally, when the glass is cleaned to her satisfaction - which requires more than the innkeeper's efforts - she takes a sip.

Eeek.

Somehow managing not to cough, she leans over the counter.  "Excuse me, bartender."  A small smile touches her lips (they're numb, so it might be lopsided).  "If you would, a free drink for everyone here?  How much coin would that take?"

The innkeeper looks at Eilieen suspiciously for a moment, as if he suspects that it's a trick question, and is regretting stepping in to prevent a fight.  Then he reconsiders, and scans the crowded room, adds a reasonable (by Crossroad standards) mark-up, and says, "I'd say two gold, three tops."

And, just for good measure, he adds, "My Lady."

"Shall we begin with three, then, for the possibility of some better quality beverages for those imbibing on the copper?"  Out come three gold; Eilieen pushes them across the bar, careful to keep her hand atop them until they are almost in the innkeeper's lap.  She also offers a smile.  "Very kind, but I am but a priestess; hardly nobility."  A pat on his arm follows.

She lifts the (cleaned) glass.  "This is interesting.  From what is it concocted?"  It's strong; she has always avoided alcohol (especially in the temple...), and is ill-used to such drinks.

It can be fascinating, watching a master at work ... and Aarnr certainly learns a lot as Eilieen cajoles and wheedles (at least he thinks that's what she must be doing) many, many drinking cups out of the innkeep for a few paltry coins.  Erista did similar sterling duty in the acquisition of his new sword from Gonder.

The priest is certain that he could do no worse than the pair, with practice ... and resolves to acquire some coin with which to make the attempt as soon as circumstances allow.

Arkan had been fishing around in his coin pouch to see if he could afford paying for the entire commons, but Eileen (thankfully!) beats him to the punch. And seems to be in the process of getting a cheap deal at that.

The battlemage meanwhile busy's himself by scrutinizing the clientele more thoroughly, trying to see if anyone might match the description of one of the masons, or display any overtly suspicious behavior.

---

Spot: 07, Sense Motive: 07

"No idea what's in it," the innkeeper answers Eilieen's question, "I only sell it, and Old Man Dagor's a mite tight-lipped about the ingredients.  Says that if the secret got out, then everybody'd be making the stuff, and he'd lose customers."

He takes the coins from the counter, examines them briefly, and then they disappear, seemingly into thin air, but more likely into the large pocket on the front of his apron.  "So that's a drink for everybody here then.  That'd include your friends, I expect)"

The room continues to grow louder, as the patrons ignore the newcomers, for the most part, and return to their previously scheduled carousing.  Somebody starts singing... another joins in, thumping out a rhythm on a tabletop, and in moments it seems like half the customers know the song and are singing along...

Erista slides quietly away along the wall.

Loud, raucous and tuneless singing.  The priest tries to hide his disappointment, baring his teeth and scowling.  Unlikely any of these hedge-pigs are the bat-fowling demons' get that they're looking for, then.  Now if there was chanting ...

On the point of striding across to the nearest reveler and asking nicely¹ where he might find the cultists, the bartender's words ('that'd include your friends') distracts him.  A drink is in the offing !

Aarnr grins fiercely.

¹ ie, using fists or at most a small blade, not Gonder's two-hander

When he sees the militiamen waltz in, Arkan's brow furrows in alarm and he nudges his Colwyn and Eileen, the companions standing closest to him, and subtly inclines his head at the newcomers.

"They don't seem to notice us yet, not sure if they are even looking," he whispers.

Colwyn risks a quick glance in the indicated direction.  "They was wearin' coats an' armour like that at the gate. They's maybe bein' local guards what's bein' off duty after the night watch.  Still bein' good ter keep a eye or two on them, jus' in case."

"Is that there bein' my beer?"  Without waiting for an answer, he grabs the mug, before Aarnr gets too close.

The song changes to a lament about a city attacked by a dragon, and the resulting fall of a kingdom...