Those aspiring adventurers who have heeded the Shrill Call gather before the outer gates at dusk. They have had a few hours to hurriedly purchase supplies for the journey. Two burly guards in chain hauberks weaing the Baron’s emblem on their tabards stand with halberds crossed before the gate. Several guardsmen stand in watchtowers along the perimeter. Most of them are crossbowmen, but the towers nearest the gate have recently been fitted with cannon.

A man in blue robes, carrying a staff and a book under his arm emerges from the gate to approach your party.

“Good evening. You’re hear for the mission? Please state your name and how your skills will help you on your journey. Oh, please note that declaring yourself a Thief is considered a confession of a crime.”
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 22:10, Sat 08 Sept 2018.

In reply to DM (msg # 1):

Sasar appears at the gates leading a pack mule which is carrying his travelling gear.

“Magic-User Sasar Hazdum at your service, sir. Previously I have served various lordships as a scribe and as such have gotten a good grasp of written languages, history, literature, heraldry and lineages. I can read texts and tomes of arcane nature – and I speak Draconic, of course. Currently I study, erm... all things magical and unnatural, so to speak. I will help the expedition should they require expertise in this area. Further, I can record events of the expedition, so that there will be facts archived, not hearsay or boasted tales.”

For once the thin wizard’s hunched form straightens up a bit, as he appears become filled with pride.

In reply to Sasar (msg # 2):

The man opens his book and starts writing in his quill.

“Sasar....Hmm...and may I ask who you apprenticed under?”

In reply to DM (msg # 3):

Sasar’s blue eyes snap at the man in front of him, as if he for the first time is truly looking at him. When the magic user speaks, his voice is much lower both in volume and tone. Cautious.

“You certainly may ask, but answering that is another matter.... Why do you require this information?”

A man in blue robes, carrying a staff and a book under his arm emerges from the gate to approach your party.

Least Brother Brodd is right at the rear of the troupe, awed by the prospects of the future.  It was sunset, he should be attending the Ebbing Ceremony and then preparing the evening meal along with his fellow novitiates.  Instead he was standing beside giants in armour and wizards and an elf ... oh my.

When the time comes, he speaks crisply: "Brodd, of the Solar Order.  My skills are as a healer, slinger, and a channeler of righteous fervour to repel the undead."

Oh, and they voted me as leader, he wants to say.  Instead, Brodd just shakes his head in amazement and checks his sling stone pouch for the hundredth time.

A large man with bulging muscles, clad in leather armor with a large sword across his back walks up to the gate following behind Brother Brodd.  "My name is Amalrik from the wilds far from here.  I work with Brodd and my sword seeks a worthy opponent-a Minotaur is what I seek."

The Elf nods just enough to be respectful, but no more, and says, "My bow is yours, for the present. I hear there are monsters to be hunted and I will hunt them. My reasons are my own."

"No."

Chomper whined and looked at the door which several adventurers had just departed from.

"I said NO," the old cleric told the dog. "Those young oafs are walking right off to their own graves..."

The dog gave a short bark, whined, and looked again at the door.

"I told you, I changed my mind about the whole 'Regdoc the Seeker will enlist' nonsense. I was just trying to clear this tavern somewhat so an old man could eat with a little bit of elbow room! And it worked I might add, half a dozen or more cleared out. I've always said..."

"WOOF!" Chomper cut the litany short. There was a very stern look on the menagerie mutt's face. The tip of one fang showed briefly.

"NO!"

The dog seemed to run out of patience at that point. It stepped forward, grabbed in its teeth the cleric's flail which was resting against the back of his chair, and headed for the door.

"Get back here you worm-carousel! I'll have you impounded, I'll sell you to that scuzzy elvish delicatessen in Sogport! Bring that back!" Regdoc grunted with the strain of getting out of his chair. He shuffled double-quick toward the door and made a surprisingly deft snatch at Chomper's spiked collar, but just at that moment someone had opened the door to come in and the dog had slipped out into the street. Regdoc, cursing in languages long-forgotten, shuffled after the culprit, unknowingly heading in the direction of the Gates of Castle Masondain.

Chomper kept playfully just out of reach, clearly enjoying the game of leading the old man to where he needed to be.

In reply to Sasar (msg # 4):

“I don’t -require- it, but being a wizard myself I may already know your teacher.”

In reply to Brother Brodd (msg # 5):

The old man smiles.

“But if course! What’s an adventuring band without a Brother to might the way! ‘“

In reply to Amalrik (msg # 6):


The old man stares the Barbarian up and down.

“I see. I hope you return with the beast’s head slung over your shoulder! The Baron will invite you in for a feast so you can boast over many flagons of mead!”

In reply to Creston Fairwood (msg # 7):

the old man answers Creston in his own Elven tongue.

<Your reasons may be your own, but I require your name for the record.>

It is somewhat surprising that pixie who had practically bathed itself in tankards of ale and reveled with such unmentionable drunken abandon the night before at the Sword & Board tavern appears at this early hour.  He does seem a little worse for wear though, serving as evidence that he is indeed that very same pixie.  He ambles up to the man with the blue robes, slipping around and between the legs of the bigger folk gathered about.  "The name's Eron Windblade.  I bring with me a solid four pounds of pixieness."  From the looks of it, Eron weighted at most three-and-a-half pounds.

In reply to Eron Windblade (msg # 13):

The old man looks down at the Pixie.

“Well that’s a first...but I suppose you’d make an excellent scout.”

In reply to DM (msg # 14):

"My apologies for the purely accidental omission. My name is Creston Fairwood."

Creston quickly takes his hat off and puts it back on, as he says his name.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:07, Tue 11 Sept 2018.

"Ha! I see you!" The oldster continued to shuffle after the dog, spotting his furry companion ducking and dodging between the legs of foot traffic, ever closer to the Gates.

The dog, expressing extreme patience, stopped and rested frequently, dropping the heavy flail, biting at a flea perhaps, but stopping as soon as it heard Regdoc coming, picking up the weapon once more and continuing on its way.

As Regdoc neared the place where a motley group were discussing something with a man wielding a quill, some very large insect flew past his head! The Seeker would have bashed at it, but alas he had no weapon! "Bah! Mosquitos in this place are intolerable! Bring back my flail you mangy bone licker!"

Finally, the dog stopped near the Gates, dropping the flail on the ground, and giving Brother Brodd what was the equivalent of a canine shrug and a wink.

"There you are! I, Regdoc the Seeker, will strangle that shaggy beast!"

It took a few more moments for the oldster to shuffle up and snatch his flail. In the meantime, the man with the quill was already scratching something down. Having no idea he'd inadvertently signed himself up for a quest, he stooped, trying to catch his breath.

"Aha! Look Chomper! There's that mosquito I almost squashed if not for you!" The old cleric pointed at the pixie.

The pixie takes to flight and hovers in front of the old cleric's face.  "I am not a mosquito, you old fart.  And if you don't watch where you sit, you'll feel a lot more than a sting from me."  He points to his tiny sword with all the rage that the three and a half pounds of him can muster.

Edit: inserted missing "if".
This message was last edited by the player at 15:21, Tue 11 Sept 2018.

"Eh? Huh. Well you don't see that every day Chomper. I have no idea what that is, but I suggest we leave it alone. It looks upset..."

The old man scratched the dog on the head, his anger at having been stolen from apparently already forgotten.

In reply to Regdoc (msg # 18):

The recordkeeper looks up slowly.

"Regdoc...the Seeker.."

He lays his quill on the page for a moment.

"May I ask what it is you're seeking, Sir?"

In reply to DM (msg # 9):

“You may very well know him, but as a wizard you also know that relationship of the master and the apprentice is a delicate one. Great deal of trust is placed on it from both sides. Therefore -  with all respect - I’d prefer keeping my master’s name hidden, Sir.”

"I seek the Path lad. I seek to pick out the footsteps of the One Who Wanders. I seek to find those who have strayed from that Path and guide them back onto it. A Seeker is one who prepares himself for the challenges that the world throws as obstacles across that Path. A Seeker spots the pitfalls and the resting places. A Seeker strives to advance, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, though the Trail be slick with mud or ice... or blood."

"I am a Seeker, a disciple of the Wandering God!"

Regdoc's passion in the form of an answer was as powerful as the tide crashing endlessly against a cliff, wearing it away over time. The wild, half-senile expression he often wore was gone now, engulfed by the waves' intensity.

Brodd was impressed by the Seeker's fervour, but also worried about the man's stability.  Touched by the divine, touched by madness, as his father had often said.  No doubt he better not let his family know he was joining some adventure .. he'd never hear the end of it at the next Givings-of-Thanks!

Regdoc gave Brother Brodd a grumble of gratitude as he tried to calm himself from his zealous outburst.

Glaring at the gatekeeper the old man snapped, "Well? You gonna let us in or is our first task to break down the door?"

"Coffers must be running low, hard to find good help, not like the old days..." the cleric grumbled.

"The archers on the parapets would have serious issues with you damaging city property, Sir."

He closes his book and takes a deep breath.

"A warrior, a wizard, two clerics, an elf...a pixie...and a dog. That sounds like a suitable party to me. Very well."

He removes a metal whistle from his pocket and give a series of short breaths. With the grown of ropes and pulleys the gate opens.

"The guards will lead you to the Baron's court chamber. Good luck to you all."

"Pixie? That must be elvish for mosquito, we'll have to look that up somewhere... don't let me forget," Regdoc muttered to Chomper.

"C'mon then, The Path leads ever onward!"

Regdoc the Seeker shuffled through the gates, leading the way with a pace not unlike that of a funeral procession.

Eron moves through the gates in a position that's clearly away from the old cleric and his dog.  The pixie shoots a few glances at them, and his hands instinctively reach for the hilts of his swords when he does.

"Yes. Excellent. Thank you, Sir." Sasar mutters to the other wizard and hurries after Seeker Regdoc.

"To the Baron's court chamber? Interesting. Interesting indeed!"

"The guards will lead you to the Baron's court chamber. Good luck to you all."

The baron?  Surely they weren't properly dressed for such an occasion as an audience.  Brodd decides not to worry about it, nor does he daydream about the fancy food that might be on offer.  Instead, he asks the axeman:

"From where do you hail, Amalrik?"

A guard takes over the escort as the scribe departs to his primary duties.

"When you see the Baron, you bow and say 'Your Grace'. You do not sit until he bids you to sit. Make no threatening moves or speak out of turn. Do not turn your back to him. Failure to comply may land you in the stocks at best or joining HIM at worst."

He points to a collapsed skeleton inside a human-shaped metal cage dangling from a chain and lumber platform.

Your band of six is lead through the courtyard, busy with workers and guardsman. You are lead into a stone building. Inside, light streams in through window openings in the stone. A banner hangs on a rafter overhead with the Baron's coat of arms. In the arms the blue saltire of the Exemplars makes up the background, but it's escutcheoned, meaning inside a shield shape within the arms. Heraldically it means he protects the legacy of the Knights, but isn't (any longer) a member himself.

Taking up most of the room is a table, upon which is engraved a map of the coastline. A small metal disc embedded in the lumber marks the city of Masondain, presumably right where you're standing. The Baron himself sits at the head of the table opposite the entrance. His frame is solid from years of carrying arms and armor but beginning to decline from the inevitability of age. He wears the circlet indicative of his station. His salt-and pepper-beard adorns his grim visage. With a sharp gaze he looks up at you form the table, his blue eyes reddened with grief.

In reply to DM (msg # 29):

"Your Grace."

The thin hunched wizard says and bows slightly, following strictly the orders of the guard. If the Baron looks at him, Sasar will calmly meet his gaze.

The pixie looks at the wizard, scratches his face a bit, and decides to mimic his movements and demeanor.  "Your grace."  He then smiles brightly at anyone looking at him.

"When you see the Baron, you bow and say 'Your Grace'. You do not sit until he bids you to sit. Make no threatening moves or speak out of turn. Do not turn your back to him. Failure to comply may land you in the stocks at best or joining HIM at worst."

Brodds nods along, grateful for the advice.  This was certainly going to different from peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots.

The young priest's bow is low and words crisp and dutiful.  "Your grace."

Noting the lord's grief, Brodd feels a strong empathy but is wary of letting his compassion show, lest it be mistaken for pity and thus cause his fate to be the same as HIM.

"You see that! That's what I'm going to do to YOU if you steal my flail again, you scruffy pot-licker!" Regdoc pointed out the caged corpse to his pack-hound.

He followed the others inside, hearing only half of what the guardsman had to say, and caring less than that amount about the little he'd understood. His head turned one way and then the other, looking around to take in the Baron's place.

It was the table and its huge map that caught the old man's attention. As a follower of the Wanderer, maps were a passion, especially those showing lesser trodden paths or place as of yet unexplored! It was Chomper's gentle bite on the faded maroon-colored surcoat that, perhaps, kept Regoc out of the stocks that day.

"Hrrmmph?" he tore his gaze from the map and noticed the distraught Baron. "Oh... my... Blessings of He Who Wanders be upon Your Grace." He hoped he'd gotten that right.

What that guard said? Regdoc glanced at Chomper as if the dog might give him a timely reminder.

Following Brother Brodd into the castle and taking a seat at the table after the Baron sits.  "Yer Grace" Amalrik says as he sits.  Shifting uncomfortably in his chair he lets others do the talking for him.

(Assuming Creston compliesto speed the story...)

The Baron nods.”You nay be seated.” He casts a sidelong glance at Amalric who helped himself to a seat.

“I had friends among the Northern Tribes. Sit first at the campfire is their way, I recall. Well met, Warrior.”

He chuckles, then snaps his fingers. “You did find a Thief didn’t you?”

Two guardsmen enter, escorting a man in sackcloth and shackles. They sit him down roughly in a seat and keep him down by holding his shoulders firmly.

“Yes, this one will do...”

In reply to DM (msg # 35):

Sasar promptly sits down. He opens his mouth to ask something, but a heartbeat later snaps it shut again. Weren't you just said NOT to speak out of turn, you fool!

So he leans back in the chair and puts his both hands gently at the table, waiting for the Baron to speak.

Regdoc heard the sound of shackles and quickly turned to the source. That sound evoked many a memory for the old chap, some good, some so very NOT-good. He tried to see if it was one of the riff-raff from the tavern.

He chuckles, then snaps his fingers. “You did find a Thief didn’t you?”

Two guardsmen enter, escorting a man in sackcloth and shackles. They sit him down roughly in a seat and keep him down by holding his shoulders firmly.

“Yes, this one will do...”

Brodd scowls, not hiding his distaste for the law-breaker as he is introduced, so to speak.  He understood that such people had a specific set of skills, but surely they didn't need a scoundrel in their midst.  Look into the shadows and you will find the dangers .. a common saying in the Solar Temple.

In the meantime, Eron decides to flutter his wings to get a top a chair.  At first he tries to sit, then decides to stand when it is clear that no one could see him from a sitting position.  He is fascinated by the table and figures on the table before him.  This was something new....

This thief is a courageous-looking human woman, no older than...well, somewhere in her twenties to the other humans, and no doubt "young and reckless years old" to the non-humans.  Her skin is marked with scars from knife-fights and dog bites, and her head is shaved completely bald.

Saying nothing, she takes in the motley crew before her, looking almost disbelieving at the pixie.  After a moment, she looks at the guards as if to say, "Well?".

The guard looks down at her. “Say ‘Your Grace’ then state your name and occupation, lass.”

Creston is the last to enter. He barely nods as he says, "Well met, your grace," also taking off his hat as he speaks. He folds the hat, lays it neatly on the table, takes off his quiver and hooks it over the back of a chair, then sits down.

"Your Grace..." The woman says, regarding the nobleman with a surprising amount of respect.  "I am called Iphigeneia.  Or 'Iffy'." She hesitates, and then adds, "I once worked as a rat catcher."

The Baron taps his fingers on the table a moment, then clears his throat and stands, leaning one hand on the table bend closer to the assembled.



"Due to the war with the Eastern Imperium, I cannot afford to send troops to the north into Braunstein, which is technically still allied territory. The fact that my daughter Starshell slipped out of the castle without my permission to rescue her fiancee makes this a purely personal matter. Add to the fact that refugees are flowing in, telling us that the earldom has fallen to humanoids...well that makes matters even no complicated. That is where you all come in. I have assembled all of you here for this mission.

First: Slay the Minotaur and bring me one of his horns.

Second: Rescue my daughter if she's still alive...or if she hasn't survived...bury her with last rites and return my shield and sword she took with her. And a word of warning, only an adherent to the ways of Law may safely touch the sword."

Third: Go to Castle Braunstein and find out if anyone's still in charge. The Earl of Braunstein, his son Hrothgar, the court wizard Anselm, anyone.

When you've returned with the Minotaur's horns accompanied by my daughter, or the sword and shield, you shall be handsomely rewarded. If in addition to what I've mentioned you bring me back a signet-marked letter from whomever is the current ruler of the Earldom, you'll each get an offer for a position as an Enforcer in my kingdom, along with a horse from one of my stables.

And of course any prison sentences will be pardoned...*sidelong glance at Iffy*...or if you can't ride a horse, *looks towards the pixie* we can probably find you a scroll of spells to add to your grimoire. Or something."
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:11, Mon 17 Sept 2018.

Quite used to taking in details from lessons and lectures, Brodd listens closely to the details of their mission.  It was thrilling to be undertaking such a task for king and country, but he has serious doubts if certain individuals in this troupe were to be trusted ...

Looking away from Iphigenia for a moment, the priest stares hard at the warrior who had first mentioned minotaurs.  So it was true.  Brodd doubts they were going to be able to slay such a beast unless they were dedicated and tactical.

May the Light bless us!

After waiting long enough to be sure the lord was done, Brodd speaks: "We will do our utmost to find the missing baroness and recover the arms of office, your Grace."

Mustering his courage, he continues: "If I may be so bold as to ask a favour from the quartermaster, in order to bolster our equipment?  I must admit myself to feeling wholly inadequately outfitted for such an important mission as this with only my sanctuary leathers and no travel rations."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:21, Mon 17 Sept 2018.

The Baron nods, and unfurls a scroll.

"I've already asked the quartermaster what we can spare for this mission. Castle Braunstein is a week away from our border on foot, so we'll provide each of you two weeks rations for the journey to and from.

As for armor, we have two chainmail hauberks with helmets. We also have three wooden shields in adquate condition.

For weaponry we can provide:

Four oaken cudgels from the constabulary.

Four hand axes, used for target practice and festivals.

Two stout spears.

One large spiked club, taken from an ogre I defeated in my youth.

One halberds.

Two bows with full quivers.

One crossbow with full quiver, confiscated from a poacher."

"I like the sound of this.  Kill the Minotaur and save the girl."  Standing up and grabbing his goblet he lifts it toward the Baron; "I'm in.  I just want the other horn from the Minotaur, will make a nice beer stein...and perhaps one of those suits of chain mail."  Gulping down his drink; "Yes..that would be great." He says, filling his goblet and then sitting back down drinking.

Eron looks around and enviously watches the barbarian quaff his drink.  Where did he get that?  More importantly, how come I didn't get one!  After a little bit, he seems dissatisfied, crossing his arms and tapping him foot.  Suddenly, he stops and smiles.  "Could you quartermaster spare some drink to keep us warm at night, when a fire may be ill advised?  Pixies are sensitive to the cold...especially, the northern chill."

The Baron clears his throat.

“Ah, spoken like a true Northerner! Yes, the other horn can be your drinking horn, laced with gold and gems!”

He turns to the others.

“This Amalrik is of particular importance to this mission. He’s the only warrior in this band. And he’s brought his own goblet and wineskin I see. I’d expect no less. But yes, everyone who agrees to this mission may join me in a bottle!  Even the prisoner here.”

“From having your head shorn for the headman’s axe to a drink with the Baron! What strange fortunes you must have!”

Although offended by the barbarian's outburst, Creston desides to silently respect his claim on the Minotaur horn. "Whoever wears the other suit of chainmail, they will have to give up their old armor to the thief," he says. "Amalrik, are you willing to do that?"

"Whoever wears the other suit of chainmail, they will have to give up their old armor to the thief," he says. "Amalrik, are you willing to do that?"

"I can do that," Brodd says crisply, revealing well-oiled boiled leather padding under his robes.  He only wore it during quarterstaff drills and those were not something he did very often.  With a frown, Brodd wonders if he'll regret being more bookish than most of his fellows.

"Assuming they will fit, but with enough straps it can be done I am sure."

Moving closer to the criminal, he attempts to make an even introduction.  "Least Brother Brodd, of the Solar Temple and leader of this expedition.  You were slated for execution?  May I ask what crime you were accused of, and if you have skills as an archer."

My character would like a suit of chainmail, a shield, a cudgel and the rations.  If there are no objections, adding those to sheet in a bit
This message was last edited by the player at 04:37, Tue 18 Sept 2018.

Iphigeneia can only nod her gratitude at the noble when he mentions sentences being lifted.  She studies the elf and priest for a moment, and is surprised when the priest actually asks her her crime!

"Smuggling," the thief states very matter-of-factly.  "Piercing rats and pocketing coins only pays so much, yeah?  Dog caught a whiff of whatever I was holding onto, guard investigated..." She sucks her teeth and looks at the priest, as if to say, "and that, as they say, is that".

"Good at archery, yeh.  Never be as good as an elf at it, but I can hit a deer or a bird more often than not..." Did Iphigeneia just confess to committing other crimes outside of petty theft and smuggling?  Golly!  She adds, "Other weapons, too."

Sasar looks at his newfound companions around the table and blinks rapidly. An acolyte, Pixie, Criminal, Sasar himself... He clears his throat.

"Ahem. Yes. Perhaps we are not much of a fighting force to reckon, so to speak. We must use cunning and, er, stealth? ...instead to avoid trouble."

"And another pack animal could be very useful too; for carrying the rations and other gear on our way there - and when traveling back carrying your daughter, Your Grace... or the sword and the shield, if not other things... Myself, I have a mule - I call her Angie. We can load some of party's gear on her as long as we don't break poor animal's back, of course."

"Your equippment does't weight a lot, does it?" The wizard asks from Eron.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:42, Tue 18 Sept 2018.

The Baron glances at the aspiring wizard.

"Hopefully my daughter will still have her horse with her. Failing that you can probably buy a mule or a wagon from the spoils of war on your way back."

"Of course. Let's hope she does, and that she... they both are in all good health and unscratched, Sir." The wizard says, nodding slightly.

She sucks her teeth and looks at the priest, as if to say, "and that, as they say, is that".

Brodd is quite relieved to hear of an offense less serious, than say, child-slaving or mother-killing.  The death penalty for smuggling .. it was a bit shocking.  The young acolyte makes a note to review the laws of the land, perhaps there was something to be debated in his next lesson with Father Lugodossan.

When the audience has reached its polite and politically correct conclusion, Brodd leads the way to the quartermaster.  He assumes they would spend the rest of the evening here, outfitting and learning more about each other and their mission: what the Baroness looked like precisely and any information about the situation in Braunstein.

Thinking practically, he asks each mage what kind of magics they specialised in and what could be expected of them during conflict.  Like most layfolk, he has a general understanding of spells and such, but not the details.  Tales abounded of wizards conjuring demons, blasting things with fireballs and flying around invisible.

The pixie is busy making sure that his wineskin is topped off.  In between pours, he drinks as much as a fish.  Oh my, how much that little body can hold!  He seems to be getting a little tipsy.  **hic**

"Ah! A path less trodden, behind enemy lines, fateful romance, mis-distributed weaponry and a horny foe... Sounds like the sort of thing I've been doing all my life! I accept and will gladly offer my esteemed and sought-after tutelage of this young lot, Your Grace. May our Path of return be shortened by He Who Travels Before Us."

The old-timer scratched his faithful dog and lingered around the map table, taking it in as much as he could.

"Your Grace... may I?" Regoc asked permission to walk around it and inspect it in more detail. The Wandering God might reward his diligence in the future if he took the time to commit unknown details to memory.

"What kind of magic I specialize?" Sasar scratches his forehead.

"Well, if you mean what I can cast, it's an enchantment, kind of. I can make friends. Very, very good friends. It's quite useful for getting information or help, if it holds -  which it often does not and then they don't like me at all. And regarding the Minotaur - I'm pretty sure it won't work on that. So in case of imminent conflict - unless their leader is a humanoid I can try to put under my spell - I'm quite useless, I'm afraid. Unless throwing flammable oil at them doesn't count - does it count? Because that is something I perhaps should do... My dagger? I only use it for cutting bread and cheese. Or have used until now..."

Iphigeneia, for her part, requests one of the cudgels and the cross bow, and laments the loss of her knives.  She informs the others that while she is a good shot with a bow, her use of one would be a disservice to the stronger bow-arms.

When questioned about her abilities, she will casually state that she is quiet enough on her feet to surprise wildlife, and possessed of deft hands and nimble fingers attached to them.

Requesting cudgel, cross bow.  If cudgels taken, then why not something else to swing!

Thinking that his drinking may be a bit out of line, Amalrik sits down and sips the drink in his goblet.  Listening as the others talk of the equipment and abilities he follows Brodd out of the hall and when at the quartermaster he walks over to one of the larger suits of chain and says; "If I were to get one of these suits of chain then I would give up my armor...yes, without a doubt." Then turning to Brodd; "I have no magic just my reliable and trusty sword."

"The quartermaster can store your spare armour here?" Brodd suggests.  "However, I'm told it wise when in the field to carry a spare leather jack, for scouting, swimming, and even sleeping in.  We can see if the mule can accomodate our spare suits."

The acolyte informs Sasar that he believes Charm magic to be very useful in certain situations.  Lacking an understanding of the particulars, he trusts the wizard to use it for maximum effect.

Baron: “I somehow doubt your warrior’s hides will fit well on this slender thief...”
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:21, Thu 20 Sept 2018.

"I have always found that you can never carry too much food, light and rope when in the wild. I'll fill my pack with as much of these things as I can, as well as some spare arrows."

Creston's pack didn't look like there was much in it. He could probably carry a lot of extra food.

"Don't ask me to carry iron rations, though," shuddering at his own mention of iron.

Sasar nods at the elf.

"I quite agree. We can never be sure if we will run into delays. Be it weather or other...circumstances. Like I said, I'll offer my mule to carry some of the party's provisions. I understand your concern regarding iron, Creston. It's only natural for your kind. So your rations can be carried by good old Angie, if you so choose."

The Baron nods to a lady who enters in plate mail and a tabard with a similar, but not identical design of the Baron's coat of arms.

"...and this is my brother-in-law, Lord Einhard. He has volunteered to accompany you on your journey. She already has her own supplies."

"Lady Einhard...the clergyman here, Brother Brodd, has taken the mantle of party leader. Since I wasn't sure if you were going to make it, I've already agreed. As you see we've had a abundance of recruits...If you two wish to divide up responsibilities, you're free to discuss among yourselves."
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:24, Fri 21 Sept 2018.

Brodd bows to the noble, as is befitting.  "Yes, it was decided in a tavern with very little presumption, your, er, lordship."

"I am happy to carry on, or step aside, or simply advise, as you will."

Regdoc poked a gnarled finger into his large ear and waggled it several times in an attempt to clear out anything that may have gotten in there.

"Did I hear him correctly Chomper? She's his brother-in-law? Bah! By the Frayed Hem this is confusing..."

He turned back to the map, letting the 'leader' sort everything out...

"By the way, I want my own tent, and I'll NOT be sharing with this one... He's got quite the odor when he's wet..." Regdoc demanded over his shoulder to Brother Brodd and the Quartermaster.

The pixie struggles to stay upright and ambles over to the newly arrived nobleperson.  His eyes close for a moment, and he looks about to fall down, when suddenly he forces his eyes wide open again.  He looks up and smiles at Lord/Lady Einhard.  "Nice to meet you lord...ladyship." **hic**

"Ladyship? I amfairly certain I am, not a woman, you know..." He chuckles. My husband is the Baron's brother."

The Baron chuckles. “My apologies. Such marriages are not common in this region, at least in this age. The Solar Temple did have prayers for them I noticed...”

"Well met, your Lordship." Iphigeneia is not much of one for words right now, what-with her still being a little shocked at her circumstances.

In reply to DM (msg # 77):

“Your Lordship.” Sasar bows formally.

“I am Sasar Hazdum, the chronicler and aspiring wizard of the party, at your service. I think I speak for everyone  when I say that we are extremely happy to have your strong arm and sharp blade supporting us in this expedition. Indeed, we are in desperate need of fighting men.”

((If no one objects, I'll set the stage for Scene II.))