As far as Gethin knows, Chester sweats because he would love to tell you everything he knows but the nature of the geas--just as the prince would love to scream to the heavens that he is, in his true form, a frog--prevents them.  Such stress manifests itself in various ways.

If he examines the ledger, Quinn will reveal that it is not, in and of itself, magical, although now that he's been in the inn for an hour or so, he can't dismiss the palpable aura of enchantment.  In a bygone time, he might have performed various tests on the magical auras, eventually isolating two schools of magic: transmutation and enchantment.

I've had far worse than this, Faedran reflects as he takes the battered wooden mug full of future-curd and drinks it all down in one long pull.  He never takes his eyes from the barkeep; his face a questioning semi-frown.

That gory task done, he wipes his mouth.  He waits a moment, trying to purge the taste.  A belch.  Another.  The thirst was dealt with.  Now for the hunger.

"I don't suppose you offer spoons?" he growls, the storm almost among him.  The cottage cheese would have to do, however the thought of roasting meat and broiled vegetables, and about a dozen other things he had been half-expecting, threatens to engrage him.

Faedran needs no spoon, but he was sure other townies would demand it.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:39, Fri 03 Apr 2009.

Down the hatch!  I'm in a bar; I'd better do some drinkin'.

The not-quite-spoiled milk steams down the drinker's throat like the bursts of gratitude sometimes received by the purveyors of special services in the appointed suites.   With the excess dribbling a bit about his lips, Faedran assesses the state of his stomach.


"This'll be going on your tab, naturally," the server of curd announces.  Whether he's referring to the meal and drink or the promptly proffered wooden spoon, Faedran can't say.

Spoon in hand, Faedran's about to set to ... to shovel it in ... to get down to some eatin' when he realizes one thing.

He's a guy.  He can't eat cottage cheese.

~~~

Score 7/30  You've obtained the rank of Unconsecrated Cottage Cheese. 

This message was last edited by the player at 21:49, Fri 03 Apr 2009.

Having returned to the lobby after telling his friends in the bar about the geas, Matwau now poked Gethin in the side.

"Sign it." he urges him, with no real idea what signing something means. "I want to discover what a chamber pot is."

The Half-Elf was a creature of the wilderness.  He'd eaten raw worms, wriggling from the soil.  Bloody raw meat he has consumed in quantity.  Even the still beating heart of his first solo kill, his parents looking on.

But this ... he can't eat this!

Faedran sits there, staring down at the lumpy whiteness, and tries not to cover Aloitious with a stream of spew.

Endurance check: 10 vs DC 12, fail
22:16, Today: Faedran rolled 10 using 1d20+2. Endurance check.  Eat the Cheese!.

It was Antillios's fault.  If he hadn't half-suppressed a snicker when Faedran had been about to go down on a bowl of cottage cheese, the half-elf might have successfully steeled himself for the repast.

~~~
*You can assist each other with this minor challenge (Endurance DC 12).
*You can also be creative about how to make the cottage cheese more palatable for a circumstance bonus.
~~~

Score 10/30  You've obtained the rank of Unconsecrated Cottage Cheese.* 

*This should have been your score after Faedran drained the "milk."

"Faedran, my lad," Antillios begins, "There's always times in our lives when we must eat that which was not meant to be eaten.  Such as now."

"First, ye can't let your beard get in the way--in a manner of speaking," he continues, carefully removing his suit of armor and setting it on a table behind him.

After removing his armor, the warlock searches in his pack for a packet of peppers of a dusky rose hue.

"Second, ye have to go on the offensive.  Bring the brimstone to the beast!"  He then tosses some of the peppers in whole and squeezes a few of them over the mess, dripping seeds and oils on the cheese.

"Finally, don't look back or to the side.  Your food's your own business--not his or his or hers."

Then, simple as that, he sets to and shovels it in.

~~~

Score 15/30  You've obtained the rank of Consecrated Cottage Cheese.

Dwarves are strange creatures, Faedran remembers a saying.

Miraculous ones, too, he decides.

Not wanting to risk speaking, lest something other than words come out, the Half-Elf retreats to a corner, where he might regain some dignity.

edit:

But then ... more miracles.  The revolting pile of diary-maggots is gone, replaced by something far less mundane, but determinedly more delicious.

Fight fire with fire was another common saying.

And magic with magic. Lesson learned!
This message was last edited by the player at 19:50, Sat 04 Apr 2009.

Quinn pulls thoughtfully on his ear for a moment, then sighs in frustration as he puts aside the idea of direct magical intervention.  "I'll hold off for now Gethin, but this is getting irritating.

The book isn't magic in and of itself, but there's no telling what effect signing it would have on the geas.  This whole place reeks of magic, so it could trigger something.  For example signing your name can signify consent."

Shrugging helplessly as he provides Gethin with completely useless advice, the young mage heads into the bar as he hears Faedrun making retching noises.  Peering over the half-elf's shoulder he wrinkles his nose.  "Let me help friend Faedrun."

Recalling something he'd been treated to on a trip to the capital, Quinn murmurs a liquid string of arcane words as he waves a softly glowing hand over the half eaten food.  The cottage cheese darkens to a deep brown colour, and the smell shifts to something enticing.

OoC: Faedrun now has a bowl of cottage cheese that tastes like chocolate ice cream.  I'm assuming Antillos is eating his own bowl, so if not cancel the last action.

Ravex, having been unusually silent as he watches Quinn and Gethin deal with the ledger, can't decide what he hates the most: the fact that he was deceived into entering this place, or the fact that magic was up to no good again. He does decide though, quite suddenly, that he's had enough.

"Enough of this non-sense!"

He rushes forward, leaps over the counter, and attempts to grab Chester.

Sorry guys, I just can't take it anymore.

21:53, Today: Ravex rolled 19 vs Ref using 1d20+5. Grab
21:52, Today: Ravex rolled 22 using 1d20+10. Athletics

Chester proves pretty easy to grab.  What do you want to do with him?

Ravex snarls at Chester as he lifts the man and moves him off the door to the cellar, making sure to keep his arms pinned. To Gethin: "Find out what he's hiding down below. Somethin' ain't right."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:06, Sun 05 Apr 2009.

One of you will discover that the trapdoor is locked.  The door is wooden and has a steel ring for lifting it.  With strength, you could probably force it open.  You could also probably just destroy it.

~~~
*DC 17 str check to force the trapdoor open (+2 for using a crowbar or similar implement; +2 for one person helping--only person may attempt to assist due to limited space).
*Let me know if you want to shakedown Chester or search the cubbyholes behind the counter while he's grabbed.

Gethin lays a hand on Ravex's shoulder.  "Take it easy, Ravex.  He's no threat to us."

He glances to Chester, trying soothe the poor man's nerves and generally trying to be an island of calm just beyond the sea of teeth that is right now inches from his nose.  "Alright, I'll sign the ledger.  And then I'm looking below.  Quinn, you search the cubbies behind the desk."

This is the second time today that Gethin has lacked for a basic tool -- the sort of tool that he used daily in his "old life" -- to complete some necessary task.  The palading mutters ruefully: "Should have packed more sensibly.  Brother Dennis always said there were few problems in life that a grubbing hoe couldn't fix."

He wouldn't even consider profaning the Flame of Pelor in this way.  The little dagger, once pulled from his belt and examine skeptically, looks woefully inadequate.

He glances at Ravex, still menacing the hapless bellhop.  At the two curved swords at his belt -- once magical and one mundane.  This was his idea, anyway.

Gethin draws the non-magical khopesh from the dragonborn's scabbard.  "...borrow this a minute."

With the dagger and khopesh for leverage, he pries and pulls the trapdoor up.

13:52, Today: Gethin Ballider rolled 25 using 1d20+6. STR check (assuming +2).
This message was last edited by the player at 17:57, Sun 05 Apr 2009.

That done, Gethin stands up with a satisfied grin.  Accomplishing well some task of simple manual labor has always cheered him up.

He steps toward the desk and signs (in block letters): GETHIN BALLIDER.  He marks "Trans," which he guesses (hopes) means "transient" or "I'm only staying for one night".  Under comments he writes, Staff friendly, but cleanliness poor.

He drops 5 gold coins on the table, listening quietly to the warble one makes as it rolls a few times before dropping flat.

He looks up at Chester.

The choco-cottage-cream-cheese was magically delicious, and as Faedran watches the drama in the lobby unfold, he nods approvingly as he finishes the last few swallows.

Ravex might not be a very sociably fellow, but he was equal-opportunity anti-social, which was only fair in the end.

He keeps a peripheral eye on the barkeep, in case the laying on hands (in the non-healing sense) on Chester would trigger some Polymorphic response or other magical effect in Aloitious.

In the domain of the strange* that they had found themselves in, anything seems possible.


* I considered using Twilight Zone here, but remain fearful of the Anachronism Police
This message was last edited by the player at 19:13, Sun 05 Apr 2009.

Having considered dropping Chester with magic, Quinn wasn't surprised when Ravex lost his rag.  Slipping past the dangling Chester, he starts to quickly check through the shelves behind the desk.  Assuming he finds nothing of particular interest he follows Gethin down below.

Stillness and flies having reigned for such a long time, the blur of action stuns both Chester and Aloitious.

Quinn sweeps through the cubbyholes and ferrets out six keys, numbered one through six, only one of which, presumably, has been paid for in accordance with modern notions of commerce and civilization.

The trapdoor no longer a barrier, Gethin enjoys a full view of the chamber below.  Spacious and illuminated (courtesy of an ever-burning torch), the break room for the Emperor of Curd looks to be serving as a storeroom.  Blankets, linens, chamber pots, and, yes, even magic fingers form their own middens.  There's writing on the wall as well, but it's too far away for Gethin's eyes to read.

Quinn now has six keys, numbered one through six.

The ledge now has one entry, Gethin's.

Ravex still has one Chester.

~~~
Score 16/30  You're still Consecrated Cottage Cheese.

Passing the handful of keys to Matwau, Quinn jerks his head towards the stairs upstairs.  "Help yourself."  He heads down after Gethin and immediately zeroes in on the writing, edging past warrior to get a closer look.

In the employee break room, Quinn studies the scrawls on the walls.

Over and over in a manic unyielding script, he reads the following verse:

"All curds and no Wensleydale
Make Chester go lulu;
Pay the bill, complete the sale."
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:28, Tue 07 Apr 2009.

Matwau looks through the keys. "Sorry." He tells Chester. "But I will make a promise that we'll only look at the one we paid for."

The tribal creeps off upstairs to discover what a chamber pot is.

Ravex continues to hold Chester still as the others investigate. "So, you're gonna tell me, right now, why the view from the window is different from what's happening inside." He looks over at the ledger. "You want me to sign that thing, then you're gonna have to explain. Simple as that."

Guest Room #1
Visions of chamber pots and magic fingers dancing in his head, Matwau excitedly ascends the stairs to the guest rooms.  He holds a key with a single line etched down its front--a line he matches to an identical (in shape but not size) marking on the first door he sees.  While a primitive, he has learned about locked and unlocked doors and he slips his key into the slot and twists it the right way, opening the door.  He wistfully wishes that access to the chieftain's daughter were so easily granted.

But, the room, predictably, disappoints.  No artfully arranged fingers or chamberpots.  Not even linen for the beds.  The nearly bare rooms have but a bed, a desk with a single drawer, a picture on the wall, and the adjoining door mentioned by Chester.

Lobby
As fearsome as Ravex is, he can't persuade the ensorcelled Chester to divulge that which he has been ensorcelled ... not to divulge.  The stress of his predicament continues to manifest itself in beads of sweat that now openly course down his face.  If Ravex were bear-hugging you, you'd react just the same way.

"He's under a spell," Faedran says softly from the threshold of the bar area.

"This whole place is.  He wants to help us, but he can not."

Tempest mood passed as quickly as a summer squall, the Half-Elf is now melancholic, feeling empathy for these poor unfortunates.

Perhaps a Wizard stayed here a while back, decided he didn't like something, and placed this mighty Curse on their heads.  It reeked of injustice (or was that just the cottage cheese?)

"I think, as Gethin has guessed, we have to sign our names here to break the spell."

Faedran crosses the space, and does just that, taking the next available room.

He is really hoping they did not have to spend the night as well.

"Let him go, Ravex.  He won't tell you anything.

"I don't think we'll come to any harm in this place.  At least it's a place to get some rest."

"But I think I'll stick to dry rations again," Gethin sighs in disappointment.  Hopeful visions of cold ale, warm loaves, and golden roast duck with pudding melt before his mind's eye.

He gathers his things and heads to the room he paid for.