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."