It is a fine evening in the town of Valarn. The setting sun casts brilliant rays of orange light across the sloping, thatched roofs of the town, which in turn cast their long shadows across the plowed fields beyond. A gentle evening breeze is in the air; chilly but not unpleasant, and the occasional cricket chirps in the grass beside the road. The town is small but not shabby, consisting simply of a main street flanked by sturdy stone or wooden buildings with thatched roofs. The largest of these is a two story wooden building outside which a sign reads 'The Thricehung Bard'. The town hall, general store and the smithy stand beside it. Behind it, down by the river, stands the lumber mill.

A little way out of town stands an old, stone manor. Its walls are completely covered in ivy, and number of tiles are missing from the roof. The garden outside is overgrown and parts of the stone wall beyond have collapsed. The Dranerious Manor. No one lives there anymore, and the townsfolk avoid it if they can. Old Dranerious' son spends all his time in a cabin somewhere in the wood these days. And well he might, the folk all say, given what his father was...

On the other side of town stands a much more well kept manor. The smoke rising from the chimney, combined with the flowering spring garden and neatly trimmed lawn, serve to give it a friendly and welcoming look. Dorin Durendil's Estate. The only dwarf in town (save when one of his many nephews or cousins come to visit), he is well known and well liked for both his generosity and good humor, and equally as a staunch advocate for the poorer members of society.

It is as the last rays of sunlight are retreating over the woods beyond the town that a rider makes his way down the cobbled main street. He is fully armored, with a thick travelling cloak draped loosely about him. He is tall and muscular, with curly, blonde hair. His mount is a destrier stallion of fine breeding; white, tall and strong. The farmers on their way to the local tavern glance at him with looks of awe and wonder. He rides up to the low wooden gate that stands outside the Durendil estate, reigning in his mount and dismounting, before making his way to the polished chestnut door and giving it three sharp knocks.

The door is not opened by Dorin, but rather by a man of medium height and bright red hair.

"Lastergon," he says in a voice that borders on sanity, "We have to stop meeting like this! MWAHAHAHAHA!"

"Curn of a hag," Lastergon groans with a facepalm.

The passage of a few minutes finds Lastergon and P.E.M.W.L.I.T.C.O.T.O.B seated, side by side on the steps leading up to the Durendil manor.

"So," asks Lastergon gloomily, "Could I pay you to give me a good quest?"

"Not enough carens in Verun! No, not enough Caladorms in Verun! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!" is the psychotic reply.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:46, Fri 25 Aug 2017.

"But why me?" Lastergon groans.

"Why not? MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

At that moment an elderly man with a white beard and long white hair comes up the pathway to the estate.

"Plaenaro...?" Lastergon says, half rising hopefully.

"Guess again," the man mutters with a most cantankerous glare at the paladin.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:57, Wed 30 Aug 2017.

"Where is a crazy lich with a 'Power Word Kill' spell when you need one?" Lastergon groans, slumping down once more.

"Quite so," the elderly man grunts with a continued glare at Lastergon.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:00, Wed 30 Aug 2017.

"MWAHAHAHAHAHA"

The passage of a quarter of an hour finds the unlikely trio in much the same position.

"...I mean, what does it take to make an epic quest?" Lastergon is directing at his audience.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:19, Sun 10 Sept 2017.

"Epic quests are not our business," the elderly man says sternly.

"I can tell you one thing they don't have," the red haired man says with a grin, then, after a blank stare from Lastergon, "YOU! MWAHAHAAHAHHAAHHAHAHA!"

"Can I get ye fine gents a drink?" Bernard says, having no right to be making posts at all, but clearly willing to intrude into other people's quests (and indeed other Thanian eras) for the sake of a gold coin or two.

"You!" Lastergon fumes, rising and pointing an accusing finger in Bernard's direction, "You are one thing Epic Quests certainly don't have! I had everything under control! Everything! A perfect entry. Perfect speech and bearing. And what do you do? You fluff around with gelds and commons and servant children who can't even bring me the right meal! I ask you, how am I supposed to keep any form of Quest together?"

The red haired man looks as if all he is missing is the popcorn.

"MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"

"Popcorn?" says a voice at his elbow, accompanied by a proffered bowl.
This message was last updated by the player at 17:24, Wed 06 Sept 2017.

At that moment a grizzled ranger steps out of the foliage to their left.

"Greetings Lastergon, I am Artivon Dranerious."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:02, Thu 07 Sept 2017.

A second ranger steps out behind him, with an identical outfit, but a slightly paler and less grizzled face. He gives the first ranger a look of extreme dislike.

"No, Lastergon. I am Artivon Dranerious."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:05, Thu 07 Sept 2017.

"I've got the scar on my left eye," argues the first Artivon, gesturing to it triumphantly.

"So have I," replies the second, "Big whoop."

"I think you mean, 'So have eye'," cuts in the red haired man through a mouthful of popcorn, "MWAHAHAHAHAHA!"
This message was last edited by the player at 23:08, Thu 07 Sept 2017.

The gnomish illusionist at his elbow snickers appreciatively, and raises a hand for a possible high-five.

The red haired man seems more than happy to give the gnome illusionist a high five, however, this has the unfortunate side effect of letting off a loud 'pop' and suddenly all gathered find themselves no longer outside the Durendil estate, but outside a dilapidated two-story tavern outside which a sign reads 'The Oaken Bough'.

"Good evenin' gentlemen," says a weathered man with a toothless grin as they arrive, "Come on in, won't you?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:26, Sat 09 Sept 2017.

"MWAHAHAAHAAHAHAHAH!"

The gnomish illusionist titters appreciatively.

Inside the tavern they find everyone. Every failed quest character you can imagine, from Calcevorn, sitting cantankerously in a shady corner, to Berty Bickums, who wipes a grimy glass with his characteristically grimier cloth. Lady Mariel sits beside the Queen of Morn, the former looking about her with disdain, the latter with apprehension. Men and women, elves and elleth of nearly every shape and bearing fill out the establishment. Lastergon does note that there seem to be surprisingly few dwarves and varim represented among the patrons.
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:35, Sat 09 Sept 2017.

"Hey," says a voice from behind him, "Hey, hey, hey! Another knight, I'm guessing. Oh, don't worry, we get a lot of your kind here. The name's Candir. Galren Candir. See what I did there?" he rolls his eyes at Lastergon's blank look, "You see, I used to be Galrin Candir, but 'i' and then 'i', you know, just, ish. So these days it's Galren Candir. Boom baby and hello ladies!"
This message was last updated by the player at 22:34, Sat 09 Sept 2017.

"Clout for the poor?" calls a man in a tattered noble's outfit, slumped against the wall by the doorway, stretching up a hand hopefully.

Lastergon moves closer to the gnome illusionist.

"You know, I wouldn't mind actually getting onto a quest at some stage," he murmurs, glancing surreptitiously at the red haired man.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:04, Thu 06 Sept 2018.

"MWAHAHAHA," says the red-haired man.

At that moment Cormris, who seemed to have disappeared for a bit, reappears, carrying what looks disturbingly like the head of Prince Aristan Carendil. A sinister, wiry man in dark armor sulks behind him.

"How was I supposed to know he was the main character?" the man grunts in annoyance.
This message was last updated by the player at 06:48, Mon 03 Sept 2018.

"What is it with you and killing people?" Cormris grunts back in irritation, "I always seem to get busy when you start entering quests..."

A rather rural looking man shuffles up to Lastergon at that moment, giving him an inebriated grin.

"Want to hear a *hic* limerick?" he asks, attempting a wink.

"Oh please don't..." Lastergon groans.

The man coughs and straightens himself as much as he can.

"There once was a Prince with no clout
You know who I'm talkin' about
He went on a quest
With a title of 'Crest'
But he didn't know when to get out!"

A series of drunken applause follows this performance.

"A cloutless prince? Very specific," mutters a grizzled man in a ranger's attire seated nearby.

A snobby looking man nearby snorts and sends the ranger a superior look.

"I believe he was referring to Marab-"

"I know who he was referring to," the ranger snaps, sending him a venomous glare.

"Sure you did," the snobby man mutters, staring sullenly at the roof, arms crossed.

"And even here you're sucking the clout out of things," remarks a weasily gnome to the wall, hypocritically. "You might as well go, Sir Snotty. Nobody wants you here."

A series of squeaks from the wall beside them indicate that the common rats agree.

At that moment a man suddenly materialises in the air above one of the tables, crashing onto the platters and mugs scattered across its surface. No one has enough clout to make any sort of indignant response as the man slides off the table and to his feet, attempting to wipe ale and cheap wine from his shirt. They note that his attire seems to be unlike any they have before seen. His shirt does not appear to be formed of wool or cotton or even silk, and his boots are of a rubbery substance they have not seen.

The man glances up as he gives up on attempting to clean his shirt, glancing around at the many eyes upon him.

"What?" he shrugs defensively, "At least I lasted longer than Fenn Shysa ever has."

The patrons gathered don't seem to be able to argue with this, and with nods and shrugs of acknowledgement they return to doing nothing.

"Hey, anyone seen Marabir round here lately?" asks Galren, approaching Lastergon, "I mean, dude, he and Aerendir practically live here, but I can't seem to find them..."

"Nope," says one of the Artivons, who seems to have arrived at some point.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:45, Fri 18 Jan 2019.

"So, has anyone ever tried leaving this place?" Lastagon asks, peering out of one of the grimy windows after several minutes of cloutless silence, "I assume there has to be something out there..."

"Tried it already, I'm afraid," the man in the tattered noble's outfit by the door replies grimly, "Turns out you need clout..."

"Need clout to make clout," says an elderly man seated beside the Queen of Morn matter-of-factly.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:48, Wed 20 Mar 2019.

"Ah, clout..." laments a decidedly snotty looking elf by the empty hearth, "Our meeting was far too fleeting..."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:38, Thu 21 Mar 2019.

"You wouldn't know clout if it walked up and slapped you in the face..." mutters an annoyed looking elven king beside him.

"I wouldn't mind if it did," replies the elf glumly.

"Are you particular about it being clout who slaps you?" offers Artivon darkly.

A cloutless week or three passes.

"So, I'm just trying to understand," Lastergon says to Morzanir in one of the less clouty corners of the tavern, "How does Marabir get away with getting nearly killed twice, and the 'Main Menu' screen still doesn't come up? I mean, my quest glitches every time I try to enter the first tavern..."

"You don't even get through the character generation screen," corrects a young woman who has just entered the tavern, "I've been waiting three weeks for you at 'The Thricehung Bard'. The joys of being an NPC I guess..."

"Clout for the poor?" asks Sir Tralvin hastily as he hobbles over to her.

The woman rolls her eyes.

"If I had clout do you think I'd be here?"
This message was last updated by the player at 05:44, Wed 03 Apr 2019.

"You've got enough clout to roll your eyes," the wizened gnome points out. "That's more clout than the rest of us have. I haven't even got enough clout to look back and check what colour I'm supposed to post in."
This message was last edited by the player at 12:13, Sat 06 Apr 2019.

"At least you have enough clout to post in a colour," mutters a sandy-haired lord resentfully.

No one has enough clout to argue with that.

P.E.M.W.L.I.T.C.O.T.O.B enters the tavern once more at that moment, doing a little jig as he sings to himself.

"Dun dun dun, another quest bites the dust! And other one's gone, and another one's gone, dun dun dun, another quest bites the dust! MWAHAHAHAHA!"

"There's someone with enough clout to post in colour," the gnome says enviously.

"MWAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"So..." says Lastergon at length.

Cloutless silence comes the reply.

"Getting a bit crowded in here..."

"mm." Says the snotty elf, grammar (or colour) requiring too much clout.

"All right," says Lastergon after a day or two or perhaps a year or two have passed, time seems to have little meaning in The Oaken Bough. "I don't care what anyone says. I'm going exploring. There must be some way out of here. Shnozby, you with me?"

"..." says Schnozby, who seems to be out of clout for colouring his dialog.