THE SWORD AND BOARD: Where retired Adventurers and wannabes congregate. The food is overpriced and the old fogeys hog the best seats.

The main hall is smokey and loud. Servers that have been around a while are rude to newcomers, especially wise-crackers; the young ones still have that naive optimism and love of adventurer's tales (maybe).

There are private meeting rooms for hire as well as rooms upstairs for rent; these include single and group bunk rooms. But today, the inn is full for some reason.

There’s Ambathar the old ranger. He’s had too much to drink again..

“...SO NO SHIT THERE I WAS! So I grabbed THIS beholder by his eyestalk and the OTHER beholder by his eyestalk and I started BASHING them together like cymbals! Rays! Rays everywhere!”

An Elf walks into the bar. He looks for a table. Not finding any, he picks a group of old warriors, sits down among them asd says, "Hey, guys. Remember me?"

You see a smallish female human wandering between the tables solicitating: "Wisdom of the Forest for a copper? Fortune read for a copper? Oh hello sir, The Chill Breeze and The Broad Leaf tell me you will have great luck today, have your fortune read for a copper?"

The Elf holds out a copper for the soothsayer. "I seem to have more copper than fortune, these days," he says.

"Oh thank you, Sir. May you rest in the shade of the Mother Tree. Now, let's see here ..."

You see the slight female dig in her bag and pull out a handful of twigs, leaves, and pebbles which she casts on the floor. She looks over them and then furrows her brow.

"It says you will take a job from a prostitute and your way will be beset by thorns. Perhaps not so lucky after all." She smiles weakly and hands back the copper.

"Well, I can't be too surprised by that result. That was my past you read. You see, there was this Doxy, whose cat was stuck in a tree, and I am very good at climbing trees. It was an orange tree. Have you ever seen the size ot the thorns on an orange tree? You could make darts out of them..."

Creston caught him self begining to ramble and suddenly stopped talking, accepted the return of the coin, looked at the old men he was sitting among, then asked, "Seriously, guys. Do any of you remember me?"

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 7):

A grizzled veteran stares at the elf through bleary eyes, then his face turns into a scowl of hate.

“MARKESSA!”

He reaches for his sword, but because it’s been peacebound for a decade he only tugs at it. A bald old wizard with a stringy white beard pulls his arm away from his sword belt.

“NO NO NO we killed her, remember? TWICE!”

"What? I was a girl? I don't remember ever having been a girl..."

“You’ll have to excuse him, his eyes ain’t what they used ta be.”

"I suppose that goes for all of us. My memory isn't what it used to be."
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 18:28, Sat 18 Aug 2018.

"Tell me travelers, have you seen or heard of the Mother Tree in your journeys? I go by Rain-drumming-on-ground-and-leaves, or just Rain" She does a quick bow.

In reply to Rain Drumming (msg # 12):

In answer to the Cleric's question, Creston simply points at his ears and looks at her like she's being silly.

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 13):

“Mother Tree Eh? Thatt’s way up north where the hernes roam!”

In reply to DM (msg # 14):

The actual tree, perhaps, but every tree, nay every plant, has something of the Mother Tree in it. She is everywhere.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:09, Mon 20 Aug 2018.

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 15):

"Eh the one I was thinking of had more of a deep oaky voice. Said something about a queat for a crossbow turned into a dragon. Or was it the other way around? Anyway we never did find that thing. Lost a totally good sword on the way, too..."

In walks a man with large bulging muscles.  Clad in leather armor with a large sword across his back.  At his side is a small dagger.  He walks up to the bar and orders a drink and then turns to the room and taking a long drink takes in his surroundings.

"Oh, Treekin! The Divine Breeze has led me to you. I am Rain. I feel like I have already said that. Ahh.. do you also seek the Mother Tree? No matter, the Divine Breeze will open a path through the Briarland."

The streams of light through the windows fade as the sun sinks below the level of the surrounding buildings. As the tavern wench lights the sconces, a gangly thin bard in the corner perks up from his slumber and adjusts the lute in his arms and barks,

"IT IS DARK!"

He starts to strum and sings in a monotone,

~You
are likely to
be eaten by a grue!
if this fate seems
particularly cruel
just try to remember
whose fault it would be
with no lantern or torch
in your inventory?~

Creston pulls a recorder out of his pocket and tries to get it to behave, so he can accompany the bard.

Even if you've never heard this song before, your instrument and fingers are more in tune than the bard's. He pauses for a beat as he hears accompaniment. then keeps going.

A thin man dressed in a cloak with a dagger tucked into his belt enters the room. He walks up to the bar and orders a herbal tea.

Creston keeps making his recorder shriek like a Bain Sidhe. He also has to stop frequently and check his fingering.

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 23):

The regulars groan.

"Ye gods! I never thought his pluckin' could get any WORSE! Now it sounds like he's makin' a chicken hop on a field of pitchforks!

Listen ye pointy eared scruff! Put that pipe away before we find a place a new place ta put it!"

"Believe it or not, I used to be quite good." Creston puts the recorder away and starts trying to get the attention of a server.

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 25):

The one-eyed redhead bartender with a pegleg hobbles over. She pushes some chairs out of her way unceremoniously.

"Yeah? Whaddya want!"

I'll have a cider, please.

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 27):

"Pfft. HEY DRAKE! ONE APPLE PISS FOR THE PRETTY ELF!"

She hobbles back to the bar as the bearded bartender starts rummaging through the stocks for cider.

A lanky and slightly hunched man in blue hooded robe enters the tavern. His massive ginger beard hangs long making him look far older than he really is. Equally ginger hair is long as well, but is currently tied to neat ponytail. Seeing the tavern is full he pouts.

"Hrmh. I guess no lodging is available then..."

He stands at the entry, pondering what to do next, eyes taking in the general scene.

Nobody hears him over the din of the shouting and strumming.

"Come on in, Old Man!" The barmaid shouts as he hobbles across the creaking floorboards with a wooden mug of cider, sloshing over here and there as she ambles. "Whoops! Sorry Backamel!"

Another elf walks into the bar, looks for a table, and seeing none, joins the other elf.

"Creston," the new elf nods at the other elf.

Creston perks up when he hears his name. "You remember me!"

In reply to DM (msg # 30):

"Old man? Phewt! I'm not old..." Sasar snorts.

He hesitantly wanders in through the crowd and tries to spot a free place to sit down. Not finding free seat he ends up standing near the bar.

The barmaid finally carries the mug of cider to Creston. "15 coppers for th' fancy stuff."

"Fancy stuff? That weird stuff you make out of grass is the fancy stuff."

Creston forks over the 15 cp.

"You sure know how to make a customer feel robbed."

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 35):

"Y'wanna be robbed? Take yer hood off in the pub at the pier. You'll be lucky if y'take yer ears home in a jar!"

It was a large-ish sort of creature that then next poked its head through the door of the Sword and Board. A myriad of smells assaulted the sensitive nose of the otherwise nondescript animal. It edged further in, struggling against something from the outside not yet seen by any patron who might lift their eyes from their cups and plates long enough to notice. Upon its back, which had now became visible, was a harness of sorts and various pouches were slung tightly. As if it weren't bad enough that the hairy brute had been turned pack-animal, there was a small wooden keg attached to the collar about its neck. Finally, the beast pulled its way fully inside, revealing a wagging tail and a bit of a leather rein or leash tautly pulled beyond the door. The dog then sat with a look of infinite patience upon its face.

"Bah! Fine, have it your way for once you scruffy worm barracks!" The voice was strained with the passage of countless seasons and belonged to a shockingly thin pilgrim who, having given up resistance, entered through the door holding the end of the dog's leather leash.

"Trust that foulness-favoring nose of yours to lead us into a place like this! Some of these sots don't look like they've left their stools for a fortnight! Alright then, c'mon Chomper."

Pulling back a tattered burgundy hood, the skinny old man shook a head covered with a shock of white hair that was aggressively waving to everyone in the vicinity. His walk was more of a shuffle really, and he began making his way toward a spot in the corner, recently vacated by a tubby chap who'd gotten up to visit the alley. The dog followed obediently and protectively behind, and sat down next to the old man on the floor of the tavern.

Grabbing an empty mug on the table, the wizened and rail-thin traveler banged it loudly to draw the attention of whatever wench he could attract. While he waited, he wiped his nose on a handkerchief that might have last been washed in the great floods of '27.

In reply to DM (msg # 36):

"I've been there. It's a bit rough, but I could have gotten a hand-keg for 15 coppers. I used to sell it for 8. I'm absolutely not offended that you called it 'apple piss,' because this is made from all the apples that are too rotten to eat."

Creston takes a swig of his exhorbitantly-priced 'apple piss," then turns around and yells, "Hey, Bard! Can you sing the twelve-thousandth and five hundred ninety second commandment?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:02, Wed 29 Aug 2018.

Quietly entering the tavern, Einhard looks around for a place to sit. He plans to travel north to meet with his husband.

Creston leans waaaaaay over in his chair, discovers that he can't quite reach the bard, so he pulls the recorder out of his pocket and pokes the bard with it. "Are you awake?