Blaern's Gate, Calaunt
Date: Morning, 4th Tarsakh 1376 DR, the Year of the Bent Blade
Weather: Spring, cool and clear

Early the next morning, the adventurers assembled at the Mocking Maiden with their horses and supplies, eager and ready to hit the road and go after the missing scions of the city's ruling families. Not by chance, they were following in their very footprints, or rather hoofprints, following the same trail to the same supposed destination.

Heading out of Calaunt through its south-east corner, they would pass through Blaern's Gate; it was commonly nicknamed the Belch, after either what the name sounded like or the particular smell that lingered there. Outside the city at last, they would take Blaern's Trail – also known as the Wandering Trail – east across the Vast to the town of Thindilar. From there, they would take the Cross Road north to the village of Blanaer, which was threatened to be just as smelly as Calaunt, unfortunately. However, it promised a trail up into the Troll Mountains and hopefully to the legendary Hollow Mountain, if the suspicious map was to be believed. This seemed the most direct route to the site, and the one most likely taken by the young adventurers, but they'd have to look for clues along the way as to where they'd really gone.

Unfortunately, they had one more hurdle to clear. The streets, normally choked with crowds and odours, were now thick with troops of soldiers on patrols and parades. These were not the household guards, these were the Teeth of Calaunt, its standing army, all six thousand of them: ruffians in well-polished armour, corrupted battle-mages, and war-captains, shouting orders and fouls insults. 'In line, you filthy mother-less trolls! One two, one two!' screamed one, spitting foam. They just kept pouring out of the Fortress of the Five Vultures.

Elsewhere, there were weaponry shows and contests, like axe-throwing and duelling, and all the attendant merchants hawking food and snacks, and thieves and pickpockets preying on them all, adding to the chaos.

'Ah. I did not expect this.' Maelarra noted ruefully from atop her high horse. 'Today is the Arming, a local festival for inspecting the militias, commemorating a time of defence against regular orc raids. They do it in the countryside this time every year, but rarely in the cities.' she explained, watching a troop march past. 'But with their scions missing, this city is on edge, preparing for war and not sure who their enemy is. So the Arming is the perfect excuse to muster the army and show strength... Calaunt is a keg of smokepowder, ready to blow.'

They pushed their way through the crowded streets, finding the Belch utterly jam-packed as a troop tried to march out while commoners and traders tried to come in, the gate guards tried to check them, and all three argued the point between them. Meanwhile, the stone golem stood by patiently, and had been polished to a high gleam in the spring sunlight.


OOC:
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/The_Arming
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:02, Mon 13 May 2019.

 Tseran - having at least the beginnings of an idea that this was coming - has stuffed damn' near everything of value that he owns down into the depths of his pack and laced it shut about as thoroughly as he can manage, trusting to the rapier at his side to persuade anyone who might be inclined to attempt a forceful removal of the pack itself to seek a less capable target...

 ...but there's still one hell of a crowd out there, and it's one that actually makes Tseran think longingly of the company of crocodiles, since they at least can be relied upon to bathe regularly and generally conduct themselves in an honest fashion, refraining from preying upon one another as a matter of everyday exercise... Unlike the people of Calaunt, for whom (in Tserans far-from-humble opinion) the best it can perhaps be said is that, in the event of a total collapse of society they won't resort to cannibalism, it'll be one of the first options on the table...

 Joining the group and hovering at the stirrup of the Lady Maelarra, the irritated elf can only remark "Better then that we avoid setting any sparks... Shall we tag onto the end of one of the columns and use them to clear our way?"

Aerin had been in good spirits at the prospect of leaving the City of Odours and Thieves. Humming to herself she had saddled Albion with special care, knowing the ageing heavy warhorse would chafe easily because of the half-dragon's heavy load. Rewarding her trusted companion with a carrot and an apple before mounting, she took point - as was typical for her, whatever wanted to harm her friends would have to go through her first.

It was when they got stuck in the unexpected traffic jam, when her mood darkened, the short-tempered Rashemi in her couldn't stand the ineffective way the guards and soldiers were handling the situation and tried to remedy it with diplomacy, or whatever would pass as diplomacy in Rashemen...

"Clear the way! - Clear the way for the most noble Lady Maelarra Hlartrym on important Procampan business, or be reduced to smoking ashes!" she roared, her face brewing a storm and tendrils of smoke licking from the corners of her mouth as she gestured for everyone to free the path.

ooc: Intimidate 22.

'Yes, indeed.' Maelarra agreed. She patted the magical haversack at her side, close to her body and facing inward to her companions to guard against any more bag-snatchers. 'I have the seals of Procampur and Duke Haldyn to afford us passage through the gate without interference. '

As the dragon roared, civilians scattered and even the troop in front picked up their pace, the ones in the back who'd seen her crashing into those in the front who hadn't and propelling the whole troop forward in the same manner as a caterpillar. They reached the Belch in, well, less time than they would have otherwise.

'What is the meaning of this?' the head gate demanded of them, because the rage of a mighty dragon-warrior was as nothing to the displeasure of his bosses if he let any spies or kidnappers slip through. Behind him, guards were riffling through the possessions of visitors in search of magic to confiscate.

Unperturbed, Maelarra spoke up with diplomatically dulcet tone. 'Good morning, lieutenant. I am Lady Maelarra Hlartrym of Procampur, and these are my guards and aides. We are on official business for Duke Stormkin and must not be delayed.'

He looked suspiciously over them. 'Where's your seals, then?' Maelarra produced and unrolled it, displaying for him to view. The man squinted at the vellum; either he was in serious need of glasses or was quite illiterate. Or he could be faking it. 'I can't see, let me read that...' He tried snatching it from her hands, but Maelarra was ready this time and lifted it away. Sometimes, it was worth riding a high horse.

'No, sir, I regret this cannot leave my person under pain of death – and not my own.'

The man grinned vindictively. 'Refusing to present your credentials, eh? How do I know it's not a forgery?' He raised his voice. 'Guards!'

"Hrrm..." the dragonkin cleared her throat to get the obnoxious guard's attention. "I can see you take your duty seriously." she said, producing a small purse with what seemed to weigh as much as 50 gold pieces - tailored to the common rate for bribery and casually held it next to her big thigh. "It is good you are a man of duty, hence I am convinced you understand how we are bound to our duty to Duke Stormkin and the Thultyrl of Procampur. This... fee should speed up processing our request to leave the city." she said with a smile revealing very sharp teeth, while leaning forward to get into whispering distance to the lieutenant.

"We know you're trying to overwhelm us like those thugs with their pet land shark yesterday, which will result in numerous unnecessary casualties on your side. One of the first to die will be you, that is a promise. - If we are taken prisoner, Duke Stormkin will be furious and heads will roll, too. - So I suggest for the benefit of everyone involved, you let us pass." Aerin whispered in a level tone, she was fed up with the corruption of this town but would put up with it one last time if it got them through the gate without further hassle. Her words were not a threat, they were a reminder of whom the guard was facing and what he could expect if he didn't make a wise choice.

The man looked greedily at the purse and then worriedly at Aerin. Then he suddenly grinned, all greasy charm, saying 'Of course, milady.' He peered up at the scroll and seals, suddenly recognising the crests. 'Ah, I see it now, no need boys.' he waved back the guards, and held out his hand for the purse. 'And thank you, milady, for the kind donation to the guards' benefit fund...'

Aerin's face did not betray any emotion when she dropped the bag into the lieutenant's hands, but it cost all her willpower not to sneer in disgust. "Smart decision." she commented and nodded her head, giving everyone the go-ahead sign. The adventurer was no fool, though, and remained alert in case the man was not just greasy but also foolish. One hand lay casually on her thigh, right next to a couple of wands she kept in her belt. Staying aside to let the others pass the Rashemi switched position and brought up the rear.

Slove as usual fell in with the group of adventures.
He keeps out of the way and quite while they try to get out of the city.

 Bribery... Of course bribery... Of course, were Tseran to be perhaps a touch more charitable he'd probably be willing to concede that when given the choice between 'argue with the angry dragon woman in front of you' or 'take the bribe', there's more than just coin weighting the scales (so to speak). In any event, he follows along like a good little aide de camp (as it were) and keeps close to their patron, fingers more than slightly itching to twist into casting position.

The following occurs once the companions have gained some distance from the city walls, where the teeming masses of troops on parade, and those watching said troops, have thinned out to a significant degree...

Angel had not been in her room on the morning that the companions had gathered to (finally!) leave the filthy, stinking city of Calaunt. In fact there was nothing to indicate that she’d even occupied said room at all, except for that mysterious coin found standing, balanced perfectly on its edge, on the bedside table. As the companions made their way through the "Belch" gate and onward to clearer paths, there was no sign of the copper-haired she-elf and it was beginning to look as if she had abandoned them... which to at least one of the companions was no real surprise at all.

Suddenly a whooshing sound drew attention skyward and those who looked quickly spotted the surprising sight of a winged humanoid descending toward the companions. By the time those on the ground heard the sound of wings, she -- for the mysterious flying person was obviously female -- was already in the process of landing nearby. Touching down gracefully, she folded white-feathered wings behind her back and tossed hair the color of spun gold behind her shoulder. She had elvish features with deep blue eyes, and though none of the companions had seen her before, she seemed somehow familiar all the same. Placing one hand on an exquisitely curved hip, she regarded the companions with an impish grin. Then she tossed a small purse toward Aerin. "I believe that's yours," Angel's voice stated... and the purse was revealed to be the very one Aerin had earlier given to the guard.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:37, Fri 17 May 2019.

As the winged creature approached the dragonkin once again moved a hand close to the wands in her belt and with the other gestured for the caravan to stop. She was not a good shot with bow or crossbow, but the magic inside the ornately decorated sticks was an excellent alternative. The shape came closer and if the woman had intended to attack, she would have already, so Aerin figured there would be talk before anything else. Squinting she looked at the winged creature before her, an avariel? They were a rare sighting but she had seen mages adopt their shape for their wings and ability to fly, could this be another of the mages that had attacked them yesterday?

Thoughts crossed her mind of who or what they were facing, but when she spoke the Rashemi recognized the voice and remembered how fluidly the elf going by the name of Angel, had changed her form. Catching the money pouch one-handedly, Aerin smiled "There you are my dear jester, and I was worried you had wandered off to find yourself another pompous noble to entertain." she said with mirth in her voice. "Thank you for picking this up, it seems the lieutenant was not as keen on having it as I had thought." she added with a wink, putting it back to where it had come from.

OOC: This goes before Angel's post.

Outside the city, they found more of the same, just with markedly less city. Outside the walls, they passed through the hovels and businesses that spilled out or tried to escape, the caravan yards, the paddocks for cattle and livestock, the abattoirs that turned them into meat and hides, and the odd tannery that combined the hides and the leftovers what they left behind into fine quality leathers...

Gradually, these thinned out into open fields and farmland, most as grey and dreary as the city. One large field had been given over, or perhaps commandeered, for manoeuvres and drills by the Teeth of Calaunt. The soldiers formed blocks and lines and turtles until their never-satisfied captains were done with them. Later in the day would come duels and archery contests. Many people had come out to watch, followed by the traders and the pickpockets. The military magelings wowed people with their illusions of beasts and defences.

Even beyond them, the stink of Calaunt continued to haunt them for miles like a curse or a vengeful spirit. It lingered foully in the air, tainted their clothes and hair, was trapped in their very nostrils.

At last, the Wandering Trail turned east, away from Calaunt and into the open Vast.

"There is no more pompous noble than your illustrious self I'd rather entertain," Angel quipped back, her tone serious but betrayed by her smirk.
"And it is always a pleasure to recover my lady's lost things," she added, offering a mocking curtsy that was made even more grand with a flourish of white wings.

Aerin inclined her head in a thankful gesture, then let her eyes wander over the many people that were crowding the place, then back to where the trail led and the air promised to be cleaner than here. "So, do you have a horse or will you be our eye in the sky?" the dragonkin asked, a little jealous of the jester's ability to fly and escape the rotten smells.

"I can be whatever you want me to be -- and some things perhaps you don't," Angel replied, her mocking grin deepening into something akin to wanton mischievousness. "But to answer the question, no. No horse for me. Wings do me well enough and when they tire I have my own two feet. One or the other, they have never failed me yet," she added, and then raised her hand as if to whisper behind it conspiratorially. "And I save a killing on stable and boarding fees too!"

"Well then," the dragonkin said, "be our eye in the sky." and gestured for everyone to move on, as it didn't seem there was anything else to discuss. She did like the thought of having a flying scout, few people were scanning up in the air and this would give herself and the others an advantage over possible ambushers.

Slove is very happy to stay away from Angel.
Even happier not to talk to her.  She is trouble and Slove has enough of trouble in his life not to go look to add to it.

 Tseran, for his part seems to be counting as the group leaves the city proper, going from some reasonably large number down towards an inevitable 'zero' whereupon he looks around himself, seeming to be pleasantly surprised and then relaxing very slightly from his posture of generalised cynicism.

 Five minutes later, Angel drops out of the sky and he grumpily pulls a small scrap of parchment out of his robes and makes a couple of additional notations upon it before tucking it away and continuing along - on foot - at the side of their patron, seemingly as prepared as Angel to carry himself about on his own two feet (likely due to his established 'unexpected arrival' in the city).

'Well met again, Miss Angel. I am relieved to see you have decided to rejoin the party.' Maelarra greeted with good manners, adding with a small smile, 'Because not knowing where you were kept me in the most dreadful suspense.' Briefly, she appraised the winged woman named Angel, fairly sure she had no right to the wings, nor the name. Still, she was sure, or at least she was told, she would be an asset and it would be good to have her working with them. Because having her working against them was too terrible a thing to contemplate.

They rode on, east across Blaern's Trail. As the name said, it was no road, but an unpaved track carved into the dirt by the many feet, hooves, and wheels of those who lived in this part of the Vast and brought their goods to market in Calaunt or Thindilar; evidently, the Merchant Dukes had not thought it necessary to pave or patrol it much.

According to Maelarra's map (the most up-to-date provided by Procampan cartographers, she swore), it was 25 miles to the town of Thindilar, their first stop, which they seemed likely to reach by nightfall.

Beside them stretched green fields and farmlands, with the low peaks of the Troll Mountains rising in the north, and before the Vesper river. The signs of the reported orc raids were all too clear: deserted and burned-out farmhouses studded the landscape, some no more than blackened claws emerging from the ashes.

'Some trouble in the north is stirring up the orcs, driving them south. We must be wary.'

”And you as well, Mistress Maelarra,” Angel replied, returning the greeting with a curtesy and winged flourish. The mocking smirk deepened at the mercenary cleric’s appraisal, as if the she-elf could tell that Maelarra was questioning the irony of form and name. At Aerin’s suggestion that she be their eyes above, Angel replied with an ”As you wish, m’lady,” and snapped open her wings. In a few strong flaps she was airborne again, promising to return if she spotted trouble. But before she’d gone too far, she suddenly looped back, diving fast and flying low to the ground. Quick as a blink, she zoomed past Tseran’s head, close enough that her passing ruffled his meticulously-combed hair. “Missed you too, pretty boy! She said as she passed, her tone one of playful teasing. Then she was climbing away toward the clouds again...

Suddenly Arrazin was there, next to Aerin as if nothing could be more natural a thing in the world. He rode atop his shining black thayan steed, leaning forward on the pommel in a rested stance and looked around at the others of their small troupe. "So, this is the company we keep nowadays? Where, oh where have the simple traders and simpleton paladins of yesterday gone, eh?" He turned towards her and flashed a crooked smile. "So many elves and not a drow among them, are you making an effort to put me at ease Aerin?" The smile lingered for a while, longer than usual for him, before he eased back into his usual focused, business-like countenance and shifted his gaze forwards down the road.

 Tseran - who is indeed a man of meticulous grooming and care in his appearance - keeps his hair in a long braided ponytail and the diving ruffle only really works when the little leather tie at the end of it is taken...

 ...which, since that's something Angel could do in her sleep means that her escape is secured by the elven mage promptly turning into a quite respectable facsimile of a scrawny Owlbear with his beak-like nose about the only thing sticking out of the mop of untrammelled locks, one hand coming up in a fashion that's decidedly 'you damn' kids!' with perhaps a modicum of 'If I could see you, I would scorching ray you added in.

 After this, there are a good few minutes of fuzz-wrangling in which the irritable, fussy wizard mutters dire things about 'winged merchants of chaos and disorder' while trying to get the mass back under control - a task eventually managed in time for him to respond to the suddenly appearing Arrazin's remark by opening his mouth to protest the remark about Drow... And then rather remarkably flushing and shutting it again, apparently conflicted all of a sudden.

 Instead he simply notes, picking up his pace while grumbling "I almost welcome the possibility of ambush..."

All Aerin could do was swallow the startled yelp she was about to make as Arrazin 'joined' the group once again. She smiled at the tight-lipped Thayan, "Indeed, as boring as it may appear at the surface, as curious it is beneath." she replied cryptically, hoping to do the 'Iron Dragon' honour with this remark. "It is good to see you have returned from your... own business." the dragonkin added. Having him back at her side was a reassuring constant, him being the only member of the original 'Heroes of Procampur' troupe apart from herself. He had been at her side before they saved the Thultyrl, having her back when they were still chasing super-sized goblins and arachnids and even the odd tiger. Looking back that fight almost seemed trivial, compared to the demons they faced in the Midnight Tower or the enemies at the Dragon Cult.

It was good he was back! - The Rashemi didn't say more, they never seemed to need many words to communicate.

Looking over her shoulder, Aerin saw Angel messing up the elf's hair and smirked, she was a handful and it would be interesting to actually learn how she did what she did and what trouble she would stir up next.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:35, Tue 04 June 2019.

Maelarra's gaze returned from her survey of the plains and the distant burned-out farmhouse, listening in on the others' conversation, and observing Angel's antics. 'I have always maintained that I am a simple trader.' the cleric of Waukeen supplied to Arrazin with a small smile. Of course, she was also a noble, a priestess, an adventurer, and a merchant dealing in faith itself, so she was underselling herself significantly.

'Come to think of it, I do believe I have not yet thanked either of you for bringing the Hamayarch, Alamondh. I was away from Procampur at the time, but if it weren't for you and your companions, I would not have had a home to return to.'

[Private to Angel: From her eye-in-the-sky vantage point, Angel could look down behind the walls and fences of the burned farmhouse. There, she could see two enormous blue-scaled reptilian creatures, rooting through the debris.]

From up above Angel spotted something interesting and veered off to take a closer look...

[Private to GM: Dragons?! Angel thought, curiosity overriding common sense  -- as it normally did. Now what would dragons be doing rooting around a burned out farmhouse? She asked herself as she caught an updraft and moved closer to get a better look...

OOC: Wisdom of 8, what did you expect?   :)   ]

Maelarra's protest tore Aerin from her reminiscing about the 'good-ol-times' and before she could come up with a comment on how the noble priestess was pretending to bear herself like an ordinary merchant, the same woman went on to stun her by thanking her and Arrazin for their part in bringing down the hated advisor of Procampur's young ruler. Her mouth stayed open while the little gears in her head were processing the fact and formulated a reply. "That was ... a long time ago." the dragonkin replied humbly, "But thank you for acknowledging this. We'll tell the others when we meet them again, our deeds have not been forgotten."

Before the situation could develop into an awkward silence, Angel changed her flight pattern and Aerin looked up, remarking "I wonder what she found..." with the elf's cat-like attention span the object of her curiosity might be as interesting as the glint of a broken mirror or a tarrasque on a rampage...

Maelarra tracked the winged woman's flight. 'She's headed toward that farmhouse.' She gestured to the burned-out farm that seemed to have been targeted in one of the recent orc raids.

*

Angel flew in for a closer look...

[Private to Angel: The dragons seemed to be looking for food, and were too distracted to look up in the sky at her.

She watched as one rolled over the carcass of about half a cow, picked it up in its fangs, and flung it to its mate. The other caught it and they began a brief but gruesome tug-of-water. Energy crackled in their maws and the meat began to smoke and char. Finally, the first one let go and the other chewed strips of roast beef off the bones.

Curiously, neither dragon seemed to have wings.]

Slove slides beside Maelarra Hlartrym.  Not letting the cleric get away with what she was saying.
My dear Lady Maelarra Hlartrym.  You are as much a simple trader as a chancellor is, of a large kingdom is that pretends to be but a simple book clerk of local general store in a little village nobodies hurd of.  And we all know it.

He takes in one of he's breath's, making rasping noise.

You still have one of the best backsides I ever seem.  I never get tired of staring at it.
He waves his hand close to her as if to smack it but they both know he never really do that.  Unless she ask him nicely first.

However you are yet to strike a deal with me.  The last one you had chance to do you backed away from.
That's not like you is it.

Then he is off to see what is in the farm house.  His feet out pacing all but the freshest of horses.
Once he get close to the farm house he slows down and moves quietly.

Aerin sighed, "Why wait for the report from our eye in the sky? - Let's walk into a trap!" she thought, remembering the time when they approached a cabin and were confronted with acid-spitting dragon-lizardfolk crossbreeds. Rolling her eyes she gave Albion a gentle nudge, the mount dutifully began to move. Looking over her shoulder the dragonkin spoke to Arrazin "You coming?"

Having gathered what information she thought she needed, Angel turned to fly back to the group only to see that they were headed her way... and the ugly elf was already nearly to the farmhouse!

She dived quickly and sped past Slove, close enough to be heard as she called out a warning... which she also hoped wasn't loud enough to alert what she had spotted in the farmhouse.

[Private to Slove: "Stop, you fool! Dragons! Get away!"]

Then zooming past the hideous elf, she continued on toward the others...

With out a word Slove turns and heads back to the group.

Angel landed in front of Aerin’s horse, holding up her hands for the warrior woman to stop. ”There are dragons in that farmhouse scavenging for food. Blue scales, no wings, and lightning comes from their mouths,” she reported...

Seeing Angel approach, Aerin signalled for everyone to stop, noticing as well that Slove was coming back. "Hmmm... blue dragons without wings? Never heard of anything like that." the dragonkin wondered, mostly to herself before turning to her other companions. "Tseran, Maelarra? Have you ever heard of dragons without wings, blue dragons in particular?" she asked the more educated of her companions.

She turned her attention back to the winged elf before her "Dragons, you say. How many, two, three, half-a-dozen?" she asked worriedly, one dragon was a challenge but two or more seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. "Have you seen a path that would allow us to circumvent the dragons? Give them a wide berth so we can pass unnoticed?" she asked the woman, hoping she had seen something helpful.

ooc: Knowl.Arcana 10 - identify dragons.

"There are two that I saw," Angel replied. "They seemed pretty intent on feasting on the animal carcass they'd found, so I don't think they've spotted us yet. I didn't see a specific path that might be safer than any other, but if you wish I fly up and keep an eye on them while you all hurry past. That way you'd at least have some warning they were coming."

[Private to GM: I assumed that the farmhouse sat on one side of the path we were following, not in it's direct way. So if you would could you provide a basic lay-out of the road we're traveling down and where exactly the dragon-infested farmhouse is? (Please and thank you!)]

Maelarra returned a look so withering she might well have cast a spell to grant eyes like a medusa. 'Master Slove, have you never heard the wisdom that one should never offend the one who casts the healing spells?'

The farmstead lay about 360 feet from the road, on the northern side toward the distant River Vesper and Troll Mountains. The ground sloped gradually in that direction, criss-crossed by low fieldstone walls separating fields and paddocks with the occasional stile between them, small shack, or feed trough. A track led up from the road to the farmstead itself, with a large two-story farmhouse, a big barn, stables, and sheds, all burned-out but still standing. The alleged dragons were behind these; now they listen, they could hear some crunching.

Aerin knew that all true dragons had wings, but also that there were a great many dragon-blooded cross-breeds (of which she herself was a prime example), mutants, offshoots, and large scaled monsters that might as well as be dragons.

'Blue dragons typically dwell in dry, desert environments, and even in summer we do not have the like anywhere near here. We may see all the other main colours, but not blue. And no self-respecting dragon would be seen without wings.'

Slove put forward the following.

Do we feel we should clear this area of the dragons and allow for it's people to return.
Or do we feel the dragons has as much right to hunt here as any other creature.

He then says as side note to Maelarra.
Have you not heard the words do not try to Teach grandmother to suck eggs.  Unless I was mistaken I was casting heal spells and using the lines of what you just used before you had taken your first breath.  And if this world keep it promise to me to extend my personal pain and I live my full years.  I will still be casting then on your children after your gone.
As for offending you.  One of these day you will admit to yourself you like it really.  That in that cold golden money laden heart of yours you have soft spot for that stupid ugly elf you meant.  But not to day I fear.

He then takes in breath of air.

Oh an unlike your faith I will always heal your children for free.  Telling them it is promise I made freely to there mother.

He then turns back to talk to the others.
So remove the dragon or go round them?
This message was last edited by the player at 19:44, Sun 16 June 2019.

Aerin listened to Slove and to Maelarra, who confirmed what she had thought herself. It was true, their mission was not to clear the area of any threats but to find the missing scions, however, somehow the dragonkin felt it was their obligation to the innocent people of Procampur, to make sure they could live without fear - be it of orc raids or dragonkin.

Chewing a bit on her lip she said "We can see the creatures don't care about who they kill or what they destroy in their search for food. Hence we can assume they will kill unless stopped; and since the people of Calaunt are busy playing with themselves, it falls on us to make sure to end this menace. - Do you agree?" she asked, wondering who else would share her view.

Slove makes another one of his hissing noises behind his hood.
Maybe it our duty to not kill the dragon and let then feed on the people around her and then the leaders of Calaunt stop playing with themselves and do something useful?

Then he shakes his head.

I think we all know that not going to happen.

"Perhaps we should lead the dragons, or whatever they are, to Calaunt and give the troops something to really drill against," Angel stated dryly, it being unclear if she was really being serious or just facetious. "But either way, as my sainted mother -- gods above rest her name -- always said, only a fool goes buying trouble."

"Which might explain you," she said acidly to Slove. "But certainly not the ladies fair," she added, indicating Aerin and Maelarra. "And maybe not pretty-boy either," she continued, flashing Tseran a mocking grin. "Which reminds me, I think this is yours," she finished, holding out to the wizard the hair-tie she'd swiped earlier.

Slove answers Angle.
So who is taking a leaf out of who's book purchasing ledger then.  Is it me out of your ledger Angle or you out of mine?

He lowers his hood for once.

Then looks at Angle and back to Tseran (giving him a wink).  Then looks down at his own hands and back at Maelarra (giving her same wink as Tseran).
This done in over dramatic way to make his point.

He returns his hood back.

As Maelarra is in charge of this expedition I think it maybe her call.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:10, Mon 17 June 2019.

 Tseran may be forgiven for his relative silence thus far, which is largely sourced in the fact that most of the group is mounted and has a tendency to hare off at the least little stimuli like a dog who thinks they've seen a squirrel while he's entirely at the mercy of the carrying power of his own two elven feet...

 ...but he still perks up when the dragonkin are mentioned, reaching up to part the positive waterfall of hair that makes it more or less impossible to discern his expression, peering out and frowning as he notes "Wingless isn't common for dragons, more usually found in those with their blood but Blue Chromatics lean towards being a tad more discerning than most... That said... Were there any other details you noticed?" before making his own fairly reasonable proposal "I would suggest approaching them with good manners from a distance. If they have the power of speech, then they can be treated with and if they're not harming anyone, fair enough. If they don't, then it would depend upon whether or not they attack us, wouldn't it?"

 Here of course, Angel turns up and earns herself a long, dry look before Tseran extends a hand (a curtain of hair once more obscuring his features) to take the thong back, which he proceeds to use to tidy himself up again while quietly contemplating how many explosive runes it would take to repay the woman for his ending up arse-deep in alligators for most of a month and dryly replying "That's two."

 ---

01:53, Today: Tseran Tal'chiar rolled 11 using 1d20.  Also identifying dragons, +12.
 So, 23 then!
This message was last edited by the player at 06:13, Thu 20 June 2019.

"Two?!" Angel gasped in pretend shocked surprise. "We get to roll in the hay TWO times?!" The winged she-elf asked and then clapped her hands and squealed in faux-delight as she bounced on her toes. "Should I keep the wings? Oh, don't be silly; of course you want me to keep the wings," she continued, chiding herself and answering her own question. "But maybe you'd prefer wings of a different sort," she added, fixing the wizard with a purely impish look as her form shifted...

... and in the blink of an eye a completely different sort of Angel stood there. White-feathered wings gave way to large, black leathery ones, while blonde hair had become a glossy raven-black. Her skin tone had gone from a creamy ivory to an angry sunburned hue, while her eyes became so red they almost glowed. Horns sprouted from her forehead to curve gracefully over her crown and a spaded tail grew from her backside to curl deliciously around her leg. And if Angel was beautiful before she was positively ravishing now...

"Is this more to your liking, pretty-boy?" she purred, her voice dripping with sultry temptation, as her spaded tail came up to gently caress Tseran's cheek. "Do you like it naughty... or nice?"     
This message was last edited by the player at 21:19, Thu 20 June 2019.

"You two: Get a room!" Aerin boomed before Tseran could answer. "But AFTER we resolve this situation." she added, slightly less loud. Watching Angel shapeshift triggered something like a deja-vu in Aerin, but of course she couldn't have seen the elf in this form before, could she? Shaking her head to clear it the Rashemi concentrated on the issue at hand again.

"We can do it the way Tseran suggested, but I would prefer to go alone, so if they don't react ... favourably to the suggestion of leaving, you don't have to suffer their anger." the dragonkin explained. "Though, I hope you can be near to back me up should things go south."

"Here that?" Angel crooned to Tseran, playing off Aerin's booming interjection. "Next time we stop at an inn you and I get to share a room," she added, giving the wizard a lewd wink, playing her joke out for all its worth. Then she laughed and in a heartbeat had shifted back to blonde-hair and white feathers...

 Tserans response is somewhat delayed in any event, by his hastily having to swallow the sudden surge of bile that's his initial and instinctive response to Angel's otherwise seductive offer - which abruptly makes him long to be sharing sleeping arrangements with the alligators once again (although in her defence, that's entirely Tserans problem rather than hers) and when he does have control of his tongue once again it's to icily answer "I should sooner set any hay I may happen to be rolling in on fire.", batting with one long-fingered hand at Angel's lascivious tail, "And I should sooner share a room with a serpent."

 From this of course, it can be ascertained that the generally ascetic mage does not look with favour upon the advances being pressed upon him - although he does have a history of getting into close tangles with at least one Naga so... Eh.

Slove added.
Aerin you selling Tsaran and Angle short.  I think they should hire a whole mansion house and be given a good month to explore the possibility there in and we must not forget grounds as well.
Then back to task in hand.
If you want do talking I happy to back you up if all goes south.

Maelarra rolled her golden eyes to the heavens at Slove's remarks, then set them upon the distant, burned-out farmstead, contemplating the problem before her. She listened to the team's ideas and proposals, and finally its distracting banter, before reaching a conclusion. 'Our mission is to find the Calauntan scions, and we cannot let ourselves be distracted by every side-quest that comes our way... However! Something has surely driven these creatures out of the mountains, just as it has the orcs that raided these farms. And if we do not deal with this problem now, we shall inevitably have to deal with it on our return, in some must worse form.'

'Aerin, as you and Tseran proposed, you will go parley with these creatures however you think best. The rest of us can follow a distance behind to provide back-up if needed.'

The Rashemi listened to Maelarra with a raised eyebrow, did she just agree with this course of action? She had and even implied that it was a sensible thing to do. Aerin wasn't one to let an opportunity pass. "Let's go then." she commented and urged Albion on towards the burnt out buildings and to face two, most likely, aggressive creatures intent on electrocuting and eating them.

As they neared the building's remains she leaned towards Tseran and said "You best wait and take cover in the rubble while I persuade these fine specimens that it's healthier to go back where they came from." Her hand went to her potion belt, confirming one specific flask was still there.

[Private to DM BadCatMan: Checking on her Resist Electricity potion.]

"I'll keep watch from above," Angel offered. "Watch my wings," she added, snapping open her white-feathered ones. "If they turn black," she continued, demonstrating by turning the feathers black. "Lady Aerin needs help." Then she switched the feathers back to white and took to the air...

[Private to Aerin of Damar: Shoot me a PM when you want me to turn my wings black and summon the others. Otherwise it's all you. Have fun!   :)]

 "That seems eminently reasonable." Tseran answers, sticking good and close to their patron, mounted though she is as he reviews his limited but so far, generally effective techniques for causing someones day to take a turn for the incendiary, whether with true, honest to Mystra magic or... Well, the other area he's been tinkering with in his copious free time.

As the others took varying degrees of cover in front of the burned-out farmstead, Aerin carried on through to the rear. Around them was devastation: burned buildings, bloodstains, and broken black-fletched arrows. A dead man lay on the ground, cut almost in half, a broken sword still clutched in his hand.

The farm seemed to have been ransacked of its valuables and all the animals and food stores carried off, with some beasts butchered on the spot for a celebratory feast. What the orcs couldn't take or eat, they'd just killed or fouled.

Coming to the back of the farmstead, Aerin heard the tearing of flesh, the crack of bones, the hungry chewing, and she smelled burnt meat. Then, rounding a corner, she saw them. The "dragons" were forty feet long, from whip-like tails to serpentine trunks to sinuous necks to crocodile-like heads. They had blue-scaled hides, with armoured plates that gleamed in the sun leading to backward-sweeping horns on their heads. They had no wings, as Angel had said, and their bodies were crouched low to the ground, hiding their legs, giving them a snake-like appearance.

The pair were industriously devouring dead cattle they'd found and charred, but when they scented the half-dragon on the breeze, they stopped abruptly and swung their heads her way, glaring at her with cat-like eyes and dripping fangs.

'Dragon-blood!' hissed one accusingly. They shifted their bulks, rising up on their hidden legs: one, two, three, four, five, six pairs. Behirs! They hated dragons.

As they rode towards the creatures Aerin finally caught a first glimpse of the creatures and realized they weren't just large, they were friggin huge! For the first time in ages something like worry entered the Rashemi's mind, but she did her best not to let it show. The closer they got, the more worried she became and started protecting herself, calling upon the draconic heritage she carried. Eventually she realized that this was going to be too dangerous for Albion, she feared he might become a collateral casualty. Sliding off his back she gently patted the powerful warhorse and told him to stay behind, she would have to rely on her own feet, augmented by more magic. "Tseran, you should not go any further. Take cover and stay out of their reach at all times!" she warned the magus, fearing for his life.

The creatures became even more fear inspiring when not on the back of a horse and Aerin gulped audibly as she walked closer. Just when she wondered how she should address the creatures one had already made her out and 'greeted' her. "Shoot!" she exclaimed and quickly drained the vial she had kept in her hand.

"Uh... um... Greetings! - As representative of the Procampan authorities I command you to retreat back into the mountains from where you came." she answered in the most commanding voice she could muster. "Now. - Or suffer the consequences!"

ooc: Intimidate 20.
12:26, Today: Aerin of Damar rolled 20 using 1d20+13.  Rashemi Diplomacy aka Intimidate.

Preparing on her way:
 - Shield (+5 AC, 10 mins)
 - Expeditious Retreat (Move +30ft, 5 mins)
 - Drink potion Resist Electricity (3 mins)

The two behirs reared menacing above the lone warrior who confronted them, glaring down at her. Sparks crackled in their jaws, and their tails whipped and snapped behind them. But the sheer audacity of her threat gave them pause for thought. Were there more such warriors lying in wait? Did she speak a dragon? 'We cannot go back into the mountains.' the first behir rumbled angrily. 'We go south to new territory.'

As the behirs reared up, Aerin had to use every shred of willpower not to tremble before them. Instead she slowly pulled a wand from her belt in a non-threatening manner, showing she wasn't about to attack. "No. I will not allow that, but..." she started with all the remaining courage she had. "But I can see nothing wrong with you feeding upon what has been left over. -

You say you cannot return to where you come from, tell me why and I promise I will try to remedy that situation for you. I am a protector of Procampur, if there is a threat to you, it is likely a threat to innocent people as well and needs to be dealt with." Aerin, said, explaining why she would help two creatures that were probably going to eat her anyway.

Reluctant to reply, the two behirs turned their great heads to face each other, hissing a conversation between them. They didn't seem to have realised their whispering was still loud enough for her to hear and understand. 'Let's just eat her anyway, before she calls for more of them.' the second behir snarled.

'No! That is why we must not eat her.' the first one snapped back. 'You must stay safe.' The other bowed its head in acceptance, and the first one turned back to Aerin.

'There is no more prey in the mountains. Not enough for me, my mate... and our unlaid young.' With a thunderous drumming of feet, the behirs scuttled around, so the first behir stood protectively in front of the second, with her swollen belly.

"This is the time for diplomacy. - What do I know about diplomacy?" the dragonkin thought but for those cases they had the perfect candidate. Maelarra. Lady Maelarra as it was.

"Alright, I understand your point and I am not going to send you back. I have no wish to slay you or your unborn either." she said sympathetically. "What would you say to an offer where you and your mate, as well as your offspring, are fed and your mate and child are kept safe for the time being? - In turn you would offer your temporary allegiance to the Thultyrl of Procampur, protecting the land in his name until your home in these mountains can be inhabited again?" Aerin suggested, adding "That means you do not kill anyone unless provoked or commanded to."

Then she picked a wire from her glove, made it straight while speaking a few words and looking up at Angel's shadow in the sky. [Private to Angel: Message spell: "Angel, the behirs will parley, get Maelarra and the others here."]

She turned half-way back and waved, hoping the others would understand that it was safe to go meet the Rashemi and the behirs.

ooc: Cast Message

[Private to Aerin of Damar: Message spell: "As you wish, my lady." Angel replied, familiar with the effects of the spell Aerin used and its capacity for returned communication.]

Keeping her wings solidly white (after all Aerin wasn't in trouble... yet) Angel dipped and swung around in a tight turn, heading back toward where the others waited. On her way, she dipped down toward where Tseran waited, partway between Aerin and the others.

As she passed by him, Angel called out in the language she and Tseran shared,[Private to Tseran Tal'chiar: [Language unknown: "Andforrea plosol sible ro ure utalpetono."]  hoping that if the behirs overheard they wouldn't be able to understand what was said.

When she reached the others, Angel landed and addressed those who waited with Lady Maelarra. "Aerin has identied the creatures as behirs. She says they are willing to parley and asks that you all come peacefully."

 Tseran, who prior to this point had taken cover and kept himself ready to spring a counter-ambush should the foe have proven instantly hostile rises out of his position and moves forwards when addressed, moving easily and smoothly to come around the corner and...

 "Oh good grief, not again."

 ...this is perhaps not the expected response when spying a pair of enormous and deadly creatures clad from tip to toe in unyielding armour and equipped with the power of a living storm but with the rearmost of the two so visibly egg-heavy he can only flash back to his encounter with an overly touchy-feely Naga whose fear for her own clutch drove her to reach out to the elf-mage (amongst others) for aid only after coming close to squeezing the life out of him, a prospect he's unlikely to survive if one of these two gets it into their heads to do the same. And therefore, instead of fear he's expressing in its place an Angel-stoked air of towering irritation, albeit one devoid of aggression.

 He half-turns and calls back "It's a mated pair of Behir, and I for one am not picking a fight with a gravid female. Hopefully, they can give us word of what's up ahead." before stalking up alongside Aerin and eyeing the duo sourly before offering a polite, if slightly stiff bow for all the world as though he's a farmer greeting the new neighbours, "Tseran Tal'chiar, Diviner of the Lady's College of Silverymoon. Congratulations on your impending clutch."

Slove rises from his hiding place and moves forward.
His bow in hand but down by his side.  No arrow in his hand.
He moves forward and places himself to the left of the main group.
He does not say anything but his action are clearly protective of the group but not aggressive.

Back at the road, Maelarra clapped her hands together. 'Behirs! Splendid! I've always wanted to see one. They are dangerous and proud, but reportedly not wicked, though they shall have nothing to do with dragons.' The party moved forward through the ruined farmstead, with Maelarra following Tseran to the scene. Arrazin, for now, stayed watching the rear and the trail, sensibly paranoid of ambush, alongside Maelarra's maid Tamae, who just waited.

*

As the others showed up, the behirs shuffled back on many legs, wary of an attack, though the female preened at Tseran's congratulations.

'Well met, mighty behirs. I am Lady Maelarra Hlartrym of Procampur.' Mae greeted with a bow. She looked between Aerin and the behirs, asking 'Where were you at in the parley?'

But the behirs seemed shocked, even offended by Aerin's offer and at last growled 'We will not serve your dragon!' They evidently had no idea who the Thultyrl of Procampur was, worrying instead that they represented some dragon lord, based on Aerin's appearance. They weren't very bright either.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:52, Wed 03 July 2019.

The dragonkin shook her head with a bemused smile "Thou shalt not serve me or any other dragon, as I serve no dragon either." she said, attempting to calm them. "I would not insult you like that!" Aerin added in truly diplomatic fashion. "The Thultyrl is human, just like her, and rules Procampur." she said, suddenly realizing that the behirs didn't consider her human, but she herself couldn't consider herself dragon either, what was she now? - That was a question to be addressed at a more leasure time, not now.

Turning to Lady Maelarra she addressed the noblewoman "Mylady, I was just offering these noble creatures food and a safe haven for nesting until the mountain offers enough nourishment for them to return, in exchange for the father's service to the Thultyrl. - What do you think, the first behir to join the guard? Wouldn't that look nice on your resume?" she explained her train of thought. Leaning closer she added "They have done nothing wrong, but without guidance they will eventually get into unnecessary conflict with other citizens. I think with my suggestion we can avoid that." she whispered, then straightened herself again.

'Indeed. Either they'll devour too many cattle, horses, or sheep and raise the ire of Calaunt or the merchants, or some would-be adventurer will get it into his head to slay a dragon.' Maelarra agreed furtively. 'But it is beyond our capacity to escort a pair of behirs south when we are headed north.'

Meanwhile, the behirs conferred, or rather argued, between themselves. 'We cannot serve humans either!' 'I'll demand they give us territory to guard, and no more.' 'They'll trick us, take our hatchlings for their own.' 'I will not let that happen.'

'I will not ask for your service.' Maelarra interjected, trying to raise her voice over their snapping and growling, and eventually getting their attention. 'My city is too far away, I fear. Instead, I'll make a suggestion. Due south of here, across the plains and beyond a paved road, there is a small forest. As far I know, it is unclaimed and will provide boars and other food for you and your young. Just avoid the town of Hlintar to the west and do not take its horses and swine, and you should have no trouble with its merchants. Protect the forest and it will protect you.'

Slove just stands and listens.  He knew if he said anything then thing would just get worse.

 "Mmmm, not to mention you should probably stay well clear of Calaunt... They're having a muster at the moment, lots of soldiers with precious little to do, they might take it in their minds to go a-wandering. I don't suppose that either of the two of you are at all familiar with maps?" Tseran interjects in his inimitable fashion, fishing out his best current rendering of the area derived from the various maps they've encountered so far and carefully unfolding it as he makes a modest effort to work out where they are and where the regions that are being described lie.

'And Thindilar, in the east.' Maelarra added to Tseran's warning. 'All the towns and villages are mustering today, in fact. But it's only practice for defence of their own young. They don't seek battle.' Well, Calaunt might well be on the warpath, but saying that wouldn't help. Maelarra Tseran's warning – it would keep the behirs away from all the settlements.

As Tseran produced and unfolded his map, he was suddenly confronted with two, very large, very crocodilian heads; two very large sets of jaws filled with very sharp fangs; two maws that could bite him in two or swallow him hole or blast him to cinders with lightning breath; and two glowing cat-like eyes. That were trying to read a map. 'Where are we?' 'It's upside down.' 'What are all these lines?' 'The mountains are too small.'




OOC: The "You are here" goes roughly halfway between Calaunt and Thindilar on Blaern's Trail.

Noticing the behirs poking their heads curiously to look at the map, Aerin jumped aside, not to be squished under their heavy bodies. "Whatever makes them happy and doesn't involve a massacre on either side." she said with a shrug, not intending to get into the way of a peaceful solution.

 The Behir are by some degree the largest creatures Tseran has spent any significant time in proximity to, but after being squeezed near to death by a Naga, sharing a really rather delightful dinner with a Drow and spending some weeks with nothing to talk to but crocodiles, he's reached the point where he lifts a hand and lightly pushes the male's head to one side - or at least pushes on it as he states "Don't breath on it, you'll set it to flying. Is he usually pushy like this?" in a testy tone of voice, the second question being quite patently directed with some degree of domesticity at the female before snagging a couple of rocks and weighting the parchment down, "I know, the mountains are rendered for effect, not accuracy... And the lines are various forms of road or path, major ones at least. Solid lines are main roads in use, broken lines are trails or lesser roads. Lines either side of a road crossing a river denote bridges, and these are the names of settlements or mountains rendered in the common speech, which you may or may not read... There, where the river is crossed without a bridge is the Viperstongue Ford and we are... Approximately here." - his finger lightly indicates the location of the group - "Give or take a few miles. I'm afraid that the map doesn't indicate major predators or concentrations of prey however."

 It actually appears that the fussy, fastidious mage has a stronger need to tutor than he has a sense of self-preservation... Which probably explains a lot.

'I am not!' insisted the male. 'Yes, he is.' insisted the female, who was equally as pushy. 'I don't know why I ever mated with you.' Thankfully, behir courtships only lasted long enough to kick the young out of the nest.

As Tseran explained cartography, the two massive behir heads pored over the tiny map, occasionally jostling or knocking each other out of the way. Once they'd worked it out, or thought they had, they raised their necks like cranes again and scanned the horizon. They probably had a better view from their height. 'And which way is "S"?'

Slove move backwards and away.  Watching with hidden smile on his face.
Keeping his thoughts to himself.

"Oh don't say that!" Angel's voice protested from above, as she finally landed among the assembly. "You surely don't mean it! I mean look at her," she added, wings folding against her back as she gestured to the female. "Don't you just love her curves and the way the sunlight glistens off her scales?! And those teeth. Wow! I mean I'm not into reptiles like Tseran here is," she continued dryly, indicating the wizard. "But I'm telling you I think she's quite the catch."

Now Angel was a master at manipulation and she obviously loved playing games with just about anyone or anything else, but barring her off-hand remark about Tseran's herpetophilia there was something in her voice that hinted that there was more to her words than just teasing fun. Did she perhaps have a soft spot toward lovers and hated to see their quarrels? Maybe her own parents had voiced similar things to each other? It was a small but maybe significant clue into the inner workings of a she-elf who rarely exposed the truth about herself.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:31, Sat 06 July 2019.

The dragonkin smirked at Angel's quip but didn't comment, she was content to let the others handle the diplomatic part of the encounter, now that her part had been completed. It felt good to see everyone was confident in their area of expertise.

 "The 's' signifies 'South'. East and West are the directions of the sunrise and set respectively, as you no doubt are aware." Tseran answers, both serving to explain matters and carefully sop saurian pride before Angel's 'helpful' interjection causes him to sigh heavily and observe, to the male this time "If it is any consolation, I am not entirely certain that the capriciousness and strangeness of females is in any way altered by the presence or absence of scales, fangs or additional legs. It is for the rest of us to simply tolerate them as best we are able. You, I fear have by far the better bargain there than I.", indicating Angel and the female Behir respectively, rather to the detriment of the former.

The female preened at Angel's compliments, arching her long neck back, lowering her spines, and making doe eyes at the male. She really was quite elegant. Reminded of their nights of passion, the male bowed his head in apology. 'I do know why.' he murmured.



'But they are still wonderful, aren't they?'' the male confided in Tseran.

With the directions and key made clear, the behirs looked from map, to horizon, to map, to horizon, and seemed to have fixed the details in their minds, or at least they thought they did. 'Thank you. We will go south to this blob—'

'Forest.'

'Forest, and avoid the human towns.' He used his snout to knock off the rocks and then try to roll it up, evidently intending to claim it.

Noticing the behir's attempt to take the map, Aerin looked up at Tseran "Do you think you could create a copy? - One that these two can actually make use of?" she asked, hinting at the 'disability' of the creatures, having no arms.

 "Mmmm, you would know better than I." Tseran replies in response to the male Behir, while making use of the considerable training he's had in controlling his thoughts and imaginings - coupled with his own powerfully directed studies - to discretely edit out the memory of a coquettish Behir from his short-term recollection - while slapping lightly at the males snout once more "You won't be able to carry this map easily... Give me a short while and I'll copy one onto something hard for you. How good are your eyes at discerning small details?"

'I read your map well enough.' the behir insisted.

With the abandoned and ruined farmstead around them, it would be easy to find a plank or board Tseran could sketch a simple map on that the behirs could carry as they travelled.

 "Excellent. Then one to a similar scale, but resilient enough to survive being carried between teeth or in claws." Tseran answers, looking up and over at the damaged structure before rising and brushing himself off, then moving in search of some suitable material - eventually settling on the planed-down surface of a table made from a single cross-section of a tree. He brushes it off and produces some of his tools before settling back down and beginning to use the knife with which he shapes ivory to etch the surface to take ink while noting "You may wish to settle down to digest your meal. I hope you have no objections to our party doing likewise?"

'No.' said the male behir through a mouthful of meat.

The behirs had already turned back to their meal, messily tearing apart and devouring the slain livestock they found. After finishing off their cow, bones and all, they found a fat sheep. They each took a leg and suspended it between them, as if about to play a grisly game of tug of war. But then sparks crackled in their jaws and smoke rose from the sheep as the wool burned and the flesh charred, thanks to the powerful current running between them. When it seemed done, they stopped and ate it together, but it was clear the male was leaving the choicest cuts to the female and her unlaid eggs.

'D'you wanf shome?' asked the female, dripping gore.

'Ah, you are too kind, thank you, but you and your young will need it more than us.' Maelarra declined politely, looking paler than ever. She'd always been willing to try anything once, and with unflappable dignity and grace, but seeing the livestock dismembered so messily had quite put her off thoughts of food. While behirs could swallow beasts whole, they unfortunately chose not on this occasion, perhaps so they could divide up the meat.

'May I ask, why was food so scarce in the mountains?'

'Orcsh.'

'But surely orcs are no trouble to such great creatures as yourselves?'

'Lotsh of orcsh.'
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:57, Mon 15 July 2019.

Slove just adds.
Now killing orcs.  That something I could sign up to any day.
We all have our weakness.

Orks. Aerin nodded in understanding. If they were so numerous and so bold to venture near Calaunt, then they were either very desperate or had been united by a strong leader. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last.

Turning to the behir's once again the Rashemi asked "So, if there are so many orcs, have you noticed where they gather? The place where they bring up their young?" she asked, it seemed that the scions' disappearance actually was caused by orcs, and if they were still alive, they'd be held captive at the main camp.

Angel beamed at her success and nearly preened herself at the male's compliment.



"That can be easily remedied," she replied to the wizard and then transformed into a regal-looking lizard-woman. "Ssssseee, I'm even game for sssssome roleplay; jusssst the way you like it." She teased, her words accented by saurian sibilant hisses as she ran her hands over her own sunlight-glinting scales.



"I'd be delighted," Angel-lizard replied, moving toward the female... and thankfully turning her attention away from tormenting Tseran

[Private to GM: I'm pausing here to allow you a chance to have the behirs react to Angel's transformation and roleplay the female giving Angel a piece of electric-roasted mutton.]

 "Thank you, but I had breakfast this morning... Your offer is most gracious however." Tseran answers with impeccably fastidious manners, only to be jolted out of his work - in which he's using a fine, shaped chisel to carve out exquisite little curves of the surface of the sanded-off table surface so that he can apply ink to them for a more resilient surface - by Angel's shapeshifting, which earns her a painfully dry "An improvement, if only because you now seem appropriately venomous." before he returns to his work, rapidly submerging himself in duplicating useful details from the smaller map to the larger.

Aerin didn't comment on Angel's antics, merely suppressed a chuckle. This was a special one, she thought to herself. For the time being she left Tseran to complete the map, while she scanned the horizon for any incoming threats.

'No, not a dra—!' Maelarra began, as loudly as she dared, as Angel completed her transformation, but by then it was already too late to stop her. She certainly didn't dare to complete the word "dragon" in front of two behirs.

The male was about to give Aerin an answer when the female happened to swing her head Angel's way to offer a hunk of half-burnt mutton on the bone. Then the male looked her way too. Then they looked from Angel to Aerin for comparisons. 'You are dragonspawn!' the female hissed, both rearing up with lightning crackling in their jaws.

ooc: Who are they looking at, Angel or Aerin?

OOC: One each. :)

Aerin rolled her eyes at the behir's minds catching up so slowly. "No." she said with resolve. "She's a shapeshifter playing around. - I'm the only dragonkin, but I assure you I'm just as much human as I'm dragon." the Rashemi pointed out, hoping to draw the behirs' attention away from Angel, "Perhaps you can explain what's your issue with dragons?" the warrior-witch demanded to know, her arms defiantly resting on her hips.

"Whoa!" Angel exclaimed, holding her hands out in front of her in a beseeching, stopping gesture, even as she changed form again into the red-haired she-elf of her normal form. In the light of the behirs' reaction, all joking and playfulness had left the mischievous female and now she was all serious. "I'm an elf! Just an elf!"

Seems Tseran and the others had finally found the key to countering Angel's teasing torment -- all one had to do was genuinely threaten her life.

'You're trying to trick us!' accused the female, who'd been suspicious and not wholly intimidated at the start, and remembered it in full now, with an added sense of betrayal. 'You send us into a dragon's trap!' Sparks fell from her jaws like froth.

The male raised a warding paw to his mate, not holding her back but indicating to wait, and answered Aerin 'Humans hunt us to say they have slain a dragon. Dragons hunt us and say we are competition. We say "count the legs" but they never do. So we will never go into a dragon's land, nor let one into ours if we can help it.' He regarded Angel with a scrutinising cat-like eye. 'Prove it. Prove you are not a dragon-spawn.'

Behind them, Maelarra put her face in her palm. 'Oh, goddess.'


OOC: Diplomacy check, please. Or Bluff or something else that improves attitudes.

Prove it?! Angel thought. How the Nine Hells am I supposed to do that?! But the she-elf's mind was quick though and after only a few heartbeats she suddenly hit on an idea that might cast enough doubt on her being a dragon that it might seem like proof.

"Here! Look!" She exclaimed, quickly pulling out coins that were hidden on her person. "See!" she added, meeting that behirs' gaze as she hurriedly dropped them to the ground in front of herself. "All I have!" She continued, dropping the last coin on a pitifully small pile of maybe a dozen silvers, half-dozen gold and a platinum piece or two. "And it's all yours. Now if I was really a dragon don't you think my hoard would be much bigger? And what self-respecting dragon would willingly part with a single gold piece?"   

[Private to GM: 22:25, Today: Secret Roll: Angel rolled 28 using 1d20+11. Bluff check.]

 "If we were intent on provoking a fight, I assure you that I would not be sat within biting distance and patiently carving you a map... I would, by contrast be hiding behind a boulder, preferably one on a different mountain." Tseran states without looking up, displaying all the diplomatic savvy of a dwarf with a headache while still continuing to work on his map, seemingly without concern that he's going to be involved if a battle develops...

 ...although the truth is simply that he's of the opinion that he'll likely be eaten before he can cover five yards of ground anyway so panicking and flailing will just provoke worse trouble.

Aerin was not at all skilled at diplomacy, however, she was skilled at combat. Moving slowly into position to breathe fire at both behirs, she hoped the situation would not become hostile...

Initially concerned that the alleged not-a-dragon was just showing off her hoard, the two behirs watched and counted carefully as Angel laid out the coins. They looked between her and the coins, then at each other. 'Dragons never give away money.' 'And they usually have more than this.'

With a few more moments' thought, they accepted Angel's proof, and her gift. 'Very well. We accept you are not a dragon.' the female decided, and clawed the coins toward herself, regardless of what she might do with them.

'Do not surprise my mate like that! Not in her condition!'

'What do you mean "my condition"?' she demanded of him.

'...Hangry.'

 "My understanding of these matters dictates that you should now apologise. It does not matter that you have no idea what you have done to require doing so, females rarely have reasons for such things that males are able to comprehend." Tseran advises as he starts to delicately set up inks that he can use to stain lives into the wooden map... Having, it must be said learned about women the hard way (from books), something which no doubt explains a great deal.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:33, Fri 26 July 2019.

Slove sat down and watched.
He was trying to put everything that just happened into his long memory.
He was sure this was a tail he could sell to some bard in some town in the future for nice price.  He was sure this could be major part of bard epic tail.

He was laughing to himself but nobody could see or here.
He did not want add to confusion the behirs kept having over what was happening.

The male behir chewed on this concept, or maybe just a bit of meat stuck in his mouth, then bowed his head to the female. 'I am sorry, for something.' His mate snorted with a puff of warm, ozone-scented air.

Maelarra stood behind Tseran to check his progress, and to say softly 'Can you possibly make this go any faster? I'd like to be back on the road and away before we must intervene in a domestic dispute.'

Angel released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding when the behirs concluded that her "proof" was sufficient to judge her "not-a-dragon". Taking the opportunity afforded by Tseran's dry comment and the behirs' further social interaction among themselves, the she-elf gratefully slipped into the background...

 "I could simply scrawl some crude diagram and be done with it... Or I could do my best to ensure that this couple have the best possible chance to find a safe place to hatch their clutch in good health while avoiding any conflict with local villages." Tseran states, starting to add stain to the etches in the wood, marking out the rivers in blue and known areas of forest in green, using red for villages and towns and black for the roads that link them, raising his voice to cast it to the group as a whole "On which topic, does anyone know anything of the local area that might not be common knowledge to the rest of us? Rumours of beasts or bandits, druid groves..?"

'Ah, there are sometimes bandits along the Cross Road, here, though they shall not bother behirs. For one, they have little to steal.' Maelarra warned, speaking up for the behir's benefit and distracting them from their own dramas and those of dragons. She indicated the next road south of Blaern's Trail. 'Regardless, crossing the road will be the hard part. I suggest you do it at night. There are caves and hollows around here you may shelter in, but stay far from the farming settlements here...' With her help, Tseran was able to add a few more landmarks and warnings.

'Now, the forest may, and I mean it might possibly, be home to druids, fey, or other woodland folk. It's a second-growth forest, cultivated by druids to undo orcish devastation in times past. Be honest about your intentions and promise to protect the woods, and I don't think you shall have much trouble. Even the Malarites in this land are moderates and they will respect behirs' right to hunt.' she said optimistically.

'Hmm. We will remember this and be careful. Thank you.' the behir said solemnly.

 Working with the Behir to make sure that they understand the map as he's transcribed it, Tseran adds a thin layer of surface varnish over the pigment and then puts his equipment away, returning the various tools more usually intended to fashion exquisitely complicated moving parts and coloured plates to their pouches and pockets then rolling them all back up and putting them away before standing and noting "There. Give the varnish a few hours to dry and it should be waterproof.", after which he glances back at the Behir couple and smiles before dipping his head, "It has been a pleasure to meet you both and again, my best wishes for your clutch."

Aerin stood by, listening and waiting for the situation to resolve. Peacefully. While she was the one ready to lop off extremeties or slice open bellies, she did not wish for the day to evolve into destroying a loving couple and their offspring with no evil intent.

She crossed her arms and exhaled patiently, not saying a word, afraid she could make things worse.

The two behirs scrutinised the map closely to make sure they understood all the markings, or at least to pretend they understood. Satisfied, they looked back up to Tseran, Maelarra, and the others. 'This will be very useful. We thank you deeply for your aid.'

'For us and our young. We did not expect this kindness. Will you eat with us?' the other said, indicating the half-devoured carcasses.

'Oh, maybe just a bite.' Maelarra surrendered to the inevitable, considering that the sharing of food was an important custom among many races and cultures, symbolising the bond of hospitality, and that she didn't want to risk giving offence to the behirs even now. She produced a delicate knife and sawed off a small hunk of charred mutton. 'Though we must move on soon if we are to make Thindilar before nightfall.' she reminded the others, wondering if anyone had anything else to add. She ate the meat, chewed it, and managed to swallow it.

 "Why not?" Tseran asks, moving over to the seared and shredded meat with the cast-iron stomach of someone whose profession occasionally calls for him to eat live spiders (never, under any circumstances attempt to contest a wizard in matters of food) while  noting "It is only a small kindness. You did not attack us, and there was no reason for us to attack you. Aiding you this way helps to prevent you from coming into conflict with others and it cost us nothing but a little time.", slicing off a few small, thin strips then dipping his hand into his pouch to sprinkle a little salt gently on the meat and asking "Have you ever tried to flavour the food you cook? I'm afraid that I know little about the Behir sense of taste, so I'd not know what to recommend, but most races enjoy salting cooked meat."

Aerin grimaced behind the behirs, but decided if Tseran could stomach the crispy meat, then she could as well. Quietly she took a bite, nodding at the couple respectfully.

'We cook it.' the behir said simply, knowing too well that meat tasted much better cooked than raw.

After sharing some polite portions of the meat and some last bits of advice for the wandering behirs, the two parties at last farewelled each other.

The behirs filled their bellies with what meat they could find, took the map and coins in claw or gullet, then raced away from the farmstead on a thunderous patter of many feet. On Maelarra's suggestion, they elected to cross the road now, while it was mostly clear and the adventurers were on hand to watch for other passers-by and potentially soothe any conflicts if they were seen. It was better that than wait for night and risk encountering late, drunken, hot-headed locals returning from Arming celebrations, or wait for tomorrow and risk encountered hung-over, hot-headed locals returning from Arming celebrations.

'I must say, that went rather well.' Maelarra noted, and not without a lot of relief, as they resumed their ride. 'We'll reach Thindilar by evening, and encounter the tail-end of the Arming day celebrations there. And done rather more tastefully than in Calaunt.'

 Tseran of course has a few simple proposals on the topic of cooking but for the most part he's happy to let things slide into a polite parting before he clears up his equipment, washing out his brushes and generally making good, then nodding in agreement to Maelarra as he agrees "A singularly enlightening and exhilarating encounter... Would that we had such fortune with our nominally civilised encounters." and settles into the long, long hike once more.

Uncharacteristically silent after her nearly-killed, money-losing encounter with the behirs, Angel simply transformed back into her winged form and took to the air once more, promising to alert the others if she spotted any more trouble...

[Private to GM: Sorry for the one-liner post, work's been busy of late. ]

Aerin's eyes followed the behirs as they left for better hunting grounds, still a bit incredulous they had managed not to become their next meal. She also realized, quite late, that Angel had taken to the sky again, probably feeling safer far away from the intimidating creatures.

At Maelarra's comment the Rashemi snapped out of her introspective and nodded, "We should get going, I don't wish to make another encounter like this at night." she said and mounted Albion again. The dragonkin patted the destrier's flank in an affirmative gesture, sometimes she wondered just how trustful her companion was, staying when other mounts would have bolted and fled such a dreadful enemy.

Thindilar
Date: Late afternoon, 4th Tarsakh, 1376 DR, the Year of the Bent Blade
Weather: Spring, cool and clear

By late afternoon, the travellers arrived at the bustling market town of Thindilar, a practical and no-nonsense place. Compared to the city of Calaunt they'd left, it had an honesty and an air of freshness (not to mention fresh air) that seemed quite welcome. They passed yards for trading livestock, markets, and workshops for the town's artisans and craftspeople.

But the focus today was the Arming festivities. Unlike in Calaunt, with its bullying show of strength by its paid thugs, here they saw the local militias showing their readiness to defend their homes. Farmers and craftsmen, men and women, old and young, all walked around in their polished armour with their weapons sheathed. All were proud, and the young were grinning from ear to ear. 'They've finished mustering and inspecting the militia. See those youths with their new shields? They've been accepted into the militia, and accepted as adults.' Maelarra explained fondly.

'And now it's time for the shows. People come from all around to see the duellists, the blade magicians, the weapons masters. They hold contests and demonstrations, and may take students.'

They watched as two masters duelled with longswords within a roped-off square. They had incredible skill and control and complex techniques, and displayed flashy acrobatics that wowed the crowds. One had the eyes and hair of a Kara-Turan, the other a Damaran, but the differences between them seemed erased. Finally, one defeated the other, knocking her to the ground, his sword-point to her heart. But they relaxed and the victor helped the defeated up, both of them raising hands together with smiles.

Then a town crier marched through, ringing a bell and bellowing 'The archery contest starts in half a bell. All who would compete, make your way out the south gate.' The man moved on, repeating his notice.

'Well, Slove? Do you wish to show your skills with that bow?'


OOC:
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Thindilar
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/The_Arming

Aerin watched the proceedings from horseback and felt reminded of her own youth in Rashemen. Just that in Rashemen boys and girls were trained with weapons, a necessity in the harsh lands bordering on Thay. Here the youths were sent abroad to survive in other lands as their rite of passing, returning after a full year had passed. The time  was meant to widen their experience but also information was gathered and passed on. Of course mostly young men went on a dajemma but young women were not discouraged, like Aerin.

She wondered how her family had fared, whether her mother was still alive and if she was still angry about her daughter leaving home. Blinking away some moisture from her eyes the dragonkin collected herself. "Well then, let's see what they have to entertain us."

Watching the weapon masters display their stunts, Aerin wondered if they could do that during a real battle. One where armies were pitted against each other and there was a massive collision of warriors, chaos everywhere and not much room for such acrobatics. She was tempted to get in a ring and see what would prevail: Strength and stamina, or finesse and nimbleness? But she quickly realized that this was her ego speaking and it was not appropriate for a servant of the crown, or in the spirit of the Iron Dragon.

 From Tseran's perspective, a few minutes of peace from the perpetually provoking, perennially pestilential presence of the winged shapeshifter is something of a blessing and he takes a moment or two every so often to scan the skies as he comforts himself with the consideration that there's never really been any malice in the creature, so she can be trusted to keep watch for them... Well, unless whatever she stumbles over is something she considers funny instead of actively dangerous, a realisation that sees Tseran redouble his watch for skunks, porcupines and other treacherous minorfauna.

 It's almost a surprise then when the group finally arrives at Thindilar without incident and he's able to pad along contentedly with one hand keeping his rapier out from between his legs, competent (barely) to defend himself with the blade even if he has absolutely no intention of (further) embarrassing his old fencing-master by trying to actually draw the benighted thing as he sighs softly and asks "Little thought given here to the Art it seems, or do they display such things later in the day?"

Angel kept watch over the companions as they traveled, but she was rarely seen in the skies... the benefit of one who could change the very color of her skin and clothes to match the background white and blue of the sky and clouds.

When the others were close enough to the new city -- Thindilar if she remembered Maelarra correctly -- Angel flew on ahead and entered the city undetected... mainly because so very few people ever bothered to look up. Assuming an appropriate disguise for her new surroundings, Angel, now a red-haired human girl, made her way down to the gate where she guessed the others were to enter.

However she grew bored watching for them and decided to do something more entertaining while she waited...

[Private to GM: Okay, if I take ten on any Hide and Move Silently check to enter the city undetected, then that's a 31 and 22 respectively, not counting any bonuses you might grant from camouflaging herself to blend in to the background sky.

And since I needed to come up with something else to do than the usual trying to trick everyone with a disguise shtick, here's what I would like to have Angel do... While she's waiting she gets the spontaneous idea to try entertaining the passing crowds with a bit of street magic accented by some dance moves. If I take 10 again on the required Sleight of Hand and Perform: Dance checks then that would be a 15 and 18 respectively, which should at least be an "entertaining performance" according to the PHB. So when the companions enter at the gate they should see a red-haired street performer entertaining the crowds... or at least trying to.

Please let me know if I need to come up with something else and rewrite this whole post. Thanks! ]

'This day is to showcase the martial arts more than the magical, I'm afraid.' Maelarra answered Tseran. They'd found a spare hitching post outside an inn where they could tie their horses; it was becoming too crowded to ride much further through town. 'There may be some hedge wizards and a few battle mages who work with the the militias, but they take a step back on the Arming. However, the techniques of some dedicated warriors edge into actual magic – some call it the Sublime Way. They are crusaders and blade magicians.'

Climbing off her horse, she left her valet Tamae to tie the reins, while she pulled a finely crafted nunchaku from her purse. 'Some of us, however, simply dabble.' She began to whirl the linked sticks through the air, then snap it around her body in a dazzling display. Traded from the east, the nunchaku was a traditional weapon of the Waukeenar, said to be based on a simple threshing tool used to separate grain from chaff, giving rise to agriculture, economy, and industry, hence it was favoured by the Merchant's Friend. On the other hand, it was also said to have been inspired by a desperate merchant fending off thieves with a fistful of coins in a sock. Demonstrating a few trap-and-lock manoeuvres, Maelarra swung the nunchaku over her shoulder, then bowed to a clapping and cheering audience that had gathered around her. 'If you want to get anywhere today, you'd do well to show your skills.' she said with a proud grin to the others.

[Private to Angel: Those Hide & Move Silently checks work without issue. There's a lot of activity and people aren't watching the skies. But expect people to be trigger-happy if you do spook them. ;) I've posted some new rules for Perform checks you might want to use. Feel free to send me your show separately as usual if you like.]

Slove Maelarra Hlartrym.
Human competitions have never been of great interest to me.  Not even elven ones.
However sometimes it something that has to be done.
Let see,  I think I like come second if possible.

Nobody can see his smiles under his cloak but somehow you feel that it could be the case.

Slove head off to join the archery competition.

 "My skills... my skills... I believe, that one endeavours to hold the blade by the bumpy end and insert the pointy one into whatever part of ones opponent that first becomes accessible, is that not the case?" Tseran asks, being trained with the blade at his hip but not to any degree that could be confused with significant martial skill. He does however politely applaud the little display Maelarra puts on and then moves to join the ebb and flow of onlookers rather than attempting to prove something he has next to no ability to prove in the first place.

Aerin's hands were twitching, aching to show her skill, however she realized that her prowess in battle significantly came from the strength of her arms, not exactly matching the skill of the weapon masters. Quietly she gripped Albion's saddlehorn firmly, the leather creaking, she stayed.

A red-headed girl on the side of the road was doing her best to entertain the crowds, with a mixture of prestidigitation and dance. And she made two whole silver coins' worth in tips. With so many street performers to compete with, and with skill at arms being the theme of the day, she'd have to do more than that.

Also unfortunately, she was still wearing the baggy hooded grey cloak she'd picked off the would-be killer in Calaunt. Shapeless and dull, it didn't draw the necessary attention. In fact, it had a way of making her blend into the background, to go unseen. A poor trait in a street performer. And yet, she didn't seem able to take it off.

Worse, as the sun dipped to the horizon, it felt heavier, and she felt weaker... [Private to Angel: Angel loses 1 hitpoint from her total.]

*

Meanwhile, the others watched an old gray-bearded dwarf in full-plate armour demonstrate techniques with a pike, while another read aloud from a treatise on polearms by the recently deceased King Azoun IV of Cormyr. '...These techniques we learned from the Steel Princess Alusair, and they proved most effective against the Tuigan Horde in far eastern Thesk. They learned that a turtle of dwarven pikemen is an unmovable force!' The sweating dwarf thrust his pike powerfully through the air, his stance stout and unyielding.

*

Slove went to the south gate, and out of the town to a field outside where the archery competition was being held. Targets were lined up at the far end that the archers were expected to shoot at. Keen crowds were gathering around the fence to watch the performance.

He was directed to join a queue of other archers, alongside many humans and half-elves who seemed to be local hunters and rangers, a few army scouts, and one or two adventurers. One odd participant looked for all the world like a large fox dressed in green who walked on his hind legs and held a bow in his paws.

Getting to the head of the queue, Slove was greeted by the clerk handling admissions. She began writing on a scroll as she said 'Your name, origin, and occupation, sir, and any interesting details about your style. It helps us drum up interest during the show. And your race, so we can apply any handicaps.' She looked up and blinked in surprise at Slove's scarred face. 'I'll, uh, put "Elf".'

Slove frowns at the poor girl.  Which most likely does not help.
He leans forward and say to her.
Names Slove.  I am an elf from the High Forest.  Dark brooding drifter here to take part for my own dark and twisted reasons.

All said in Slove rasping voice.  In a way that the poor clerk would not be sure if sloves just playing along with the archery competition and her request or being truthful.

OOC:
The truth being both.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:04, Thu 05 Sept 2019.

It was a joke, of course, just an ironic joke. She hoped. 'Ah, yes, ha ha.' she agreed a little nervously, and wrote down the details and the description. 'Okay, thanks. Just please wait in the marshalling area, you can make any preparations, and speak with the other participants. Next, please!' she went on hastily.

The walking, talking fox man who came next was no better. Worse, he introduced himself in rhyme. 'My name here is Fūdo, a master of kyūdō. I am a raconteur, just a fox from Kara-Tur.' he said merrily in an eastern accent and sing-song rhyme.

'Okay...'

Meanwhile, Slove was directed into the marshalling area amongst all the other archers. As Slove strung his bow, the fox man came to stand beside him. Using paw-like hands, he tugged off the hood of his green cloak, revealing his whole fox-like head: reddish fur, long snout, pointed ears, and twinkling golden eyes. He grinned, but it showed too many fangs to be reassuring. 'Dark and twisted reasons?' he repeated with amusement. 'Care to share?'

Slove looks over his shoulders at the fox creature.
He moves back away from him and stands studying the fox for a while.
Taking in as much as he can.  There was nothing much else to do and Slove could see the point of his odd actions.  Learn all you can about both your enemies and your friends.
All this done in total silence.
Then after what was to long slove moved back to where he was.
No.  He answered.  Then things would not be so dark and twisted.

Slove reflected.  Thinking to himself.
Darkness did not have to mean evil.
Twisted did not have to mean weakened or flawed.
Then he adds.
You can tell me about yourself if you wish.  I would be happy to listen.

'Ah. Life may be dark and twisted,' Fūdo answered philosophically as he knelt on the ground to begin his preparations. 'But the arrow flies straight and true.'

The fox-man had unslung a surprisingly tall and asymmetrically curved longbow, a dai-kyū of the far east, and a drawn a similarly long arrow. 'Well, if you want to know about me, you don't have to listen.' With no further word, he went about his shooting routine. First, he held the bow upright before him and nocked the arrow. Then, with careful adjustments of his posture, he stood up, stepped back into a shooting stance, and faced one of the practice targets, a bale of straw. His focused yet empty gaze never left it as he raised the bow, first to the side, then slightly elevated, and then before him, steadily drawing the string back as he went, the bow bending. Every movement was precise and controlled, unhurried yet efficient, without hesitation or error. And he made it look easy, even boring.

At last, he settled into the final shooting posture, simultaneously drawing the string back in full. He held it, perfectly still, the perfect image of the archer about to fire, for one second, two, three, four... and he released. The string snapped back, the bow unbent with a flutter, and the arrow flew away. But this caused no change in the archer's demeanour or posture.

After a spell, with the same exact movements, he lowered his bow and hands to his hips, turned to face his target, and backed away.

https://youtu.be/Rh-ohspuCmE?t=110

Slove watches the fox.
In his many long years slove had seen many bows.  The Fox-man bow was not new to Slove.
However he and none of his people used such a weapon for many reasons.
Many thoughts and some criticisms cross Slove mind.  His dark view of things ready to come out.
However for once Slove decided to keep quiet.  Time to watch and take in what is going on.

Slove skills with a bow was great he knew this.  He would not be alive now if it had not been so.  He had gained much experience.  Learning from the many different sides to his nature.
It was however based on his quick reactions.
On the need to take down a target.  He only ever used it to protect himself or others he had decide to protect.
Firing at a target that was not going come and kill you was something different.  Something Slove had not thought about or done much of.
What was Solonor Thelandira thoughts on such things.  He was not sure.

 For his part, Tseran has little interest in the discussion of best practice when it comes to the deployment of dwarvish pike blocks and less in the sort of petty illusion magics that sway the crowd, but the mention of the quasi-mystical techniques of the local bladesmen does, after a short time spark a measure of interest in him as it occurs that there may well be some overlap with meditative techniques that he's been developing to unlock his own internal powers and -after ensuring that he knows where people will be in due course - he moves to find one of their displays and see what, if anything can be learned thereby.

OOC: Sorry, got distracted with life. Who needs it, right? I had to think what to do next.

Having finished his meditative act of archery, Fūdo had turned and regarded Slove with inscrutable fox eyes for some time, perhaps waiting for the elf to lead with a question. The master–student relationship worked best with a dialogue. The arrow had led him here, to the West, to this land, to this town on this day. Surely there was a student here. Or not. 'Show me how you shoot.' he beckoned Slove to stand before the target, 'And show me who you are.'

*

After going past cocky young bravos wearing their new swords with pride, experienced masters running shows and classes for said cocky young bravos in an effort to knock some caution into them before they got themselves killed, and older veterans who'd gotten that caution already and now just wanting to get the good seats at the tavern, all the friendly duels and running brawls going on, and the pie-sellers and merchants and all the rest, Tseran found a few shows like what he was looking for. He'd discounted the mundane, entirely natural techniques of warriors and soldiers – any basher could pick up a sword, and elf mage for that matter. The spiritual martial artists who spoke of ki or chi; the flashy blade magicians whose "Sublime Way" was something less, or something more, than true magic; and the psionicists who mentioned the art of mind over muscle – they seemed to command what he was truly interested in.

Here, he saw a small, serious, snowy-haired Kara-Turan woman in exotic lamellar armour, wielding a pole-arm almost twice as tall as she was with incredible skill, on horseback and on foot. When she leaped, whether out of the saddle or from the ground, she was in defiance of gravity itself. Her style was an eastern one, powered by ki.

There, he saw a scrappy and athletic blonde Impilturan woman, strangely tattooed, who fought like any knight or paladin of the Forgotten Kingdom, bold and powerful with her sword. He almost turned away, but for the oddity of her sword – she didn't actually have one. Just a silvery-hued blade of pure energy manifested near her clenched fist, a sword in all but form.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:56, Tue 17 Sept 2019.

Slove looked at Fūdo.  Looking into the foxes eyes.  Then nodded his head.
If it had been anybody else Slove would not bothered however Slove for all his harshness always gave respect when respect was due.  The fox was skilled bowcreature so Slove was happy to do what the fox asked.

Slove held his bow in one hand and his string in the other.  He spoke a few words in elvish.
[Private to group Elven: Help guide my arrow, lord of the hunt.]
Then with swift movement Slove crossed the distance between himself and point fox had stood.
As he did so he drew an arrows.  Notched it and was ready.  This done as one flowing movement.
For a second jut single breath Slove was still checking all around him.
The target, the people around him, his bow his arrow.
Then the arrow was let lose.  By the time it had hit target slove was back standing where he was.  All of this done with as much grace of movement as slove could possibly do.
This is how I shoot.  He answered.  This is who I am.

OOC:
Cast Guidance.  Technically Slove does not have shot on the run so this like two round action.
But with sloves speed and boots.  Also this would be +14 or +15 (within 30ft) action.
But this is rp so not expecting things to be totally by the numbers anyway.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:26, Tue 17 Sept 2019.

 Tseran isn't quite as dismissive of the merely martial arts as some might be - after all, he was trained at some length to utilise a wider range of weapons than a human wizard would gain skill in and he at least begins to understand the gulf that lies between simply trying to prod someone with a pointy stick and the sort of abilities on display here...

 ...but not being dismissive doesn't mean that he sets them on a par with the power to alter the fabric of reality itself through the channeling of mystical energy and the exercise of will. He passes the mere soldiers and warriors, moving on with modest fascination to the monks and then to the tattooed woman, who catches his eye with the fundamental similarity that links his painfully acquired skills to her own... Just as he uses the trappings of spellcraft to inform and shape his invisible arts, she seems to have trained herself to think about swords and it's a matter of mere moments before a soft chiming ripple of sound flows from the slender elf, accompanied by a silver-white flash in his eyes as he shifts his senses from the mundane to the uncanny to better observe her technique.

 ---

 Detect psioncs of course. ^_^

Angel felt the heaviness about her shoulders and realized her stolen cloak was showing... again. Had she just forgotten to blend it into her disguise or had it somehow become ‘unblended’? Something nagged at her memory like a strange flash of deja vu, but she couldn’t recall anything specific. She reached up to unfasten the cloak and give herself a break from its weight, but she suddenly found herself unbuckling her belt instead. Blushing, and not wanting to give the impression that her performance was going to turn into one of those shows, she hurriedly gathered her belongings and darted into the shadows of a nearby alley. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying attention to her anyways. Rebuckling her belt and pocketing her earnings — two silver?! Better than nothing, I guess — and looked out at the crowds passing by the alley’s entrance...

[Private to GM: Figured I’d play along some with the cloak’s curse and elaborate a bit on what happens with it. Do I see any of the others yet?]

OOC: Sorry, I've been struggling to keep up. So little sleep, so little inspiration.

Slove, no need for rounds here, but let's begin testing the crunch. :)

Fūdo watched Slove carefully and respectfully, studying every aspect of his archery form. 'Indeed.' he agreed. 'And perhaps one day you can see who are too.' he added cryptically. It was hard to tell if he was smiling and how with his vulpine face and fangs.

He went up to the distanct bale of straw, retrieved their arrows, and placed a small target in their place. He returned and gave Slove his arrow back.

Going on, the fox-man started to stride in circles around the elf, just idly walking and talking. 'Forget all that is going on around you: the target, the other archers, the crowds. Even me. Do it again.' he directed plainly. It sounded simple, but whenever Slove was about to shoot, he'd find Fūdo would just happen to be in the way.

OOC: Test of Precise Shot, hit AC 15

*

As Tseran's power chimed, some of the spectators around him glanced around, but couldn't place it, while others missed it in the din. Only the mind-blade wielder glanced directly at him, curious and with a cocky grin, before turning her attention back to the fight. And just in time – she only just ducked a swung sword. Laughing away her close call, she turned her duck into a roll, tumbling across the dirt and until she was some paces from her foe, an experienced caravan guard by the looks of him.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, her blade of energy was flung across the ring, burst against her opponent before dissipating. Now she was unarmed! She spread her arms helpless, smirking. Her foe scented victory at this foolish move, and charged. Only for his sword to be parried by the blade again, suddenly back above her hand like it had never left, and then scraping across his armour. The move stunned the crowd also, cheering.

Tseran detected the telltale scent of the Invisible Art, faint auras that would be of her tattoos (psychoportation, telepathy, psychometabolism, metacreativity) and her sturdy boots (psychokinesis), all inactive. And she was herself a psionic being, but whether trained or a wild talent, he'd never tell this way. But curiously, no active power, or one of no discipline he could identify, produce the blade of pure mental energy she wielded.

They duelled and sparred for a time, and once again she hurled her blade at her foe. This time, he was wary of such a surprise, and hung back, so she goaded him, showing empty hands. 'I really dunno how this thing works.' she teased, and held up her fist. With a show of concentration, something emerged – her middle digit. The crowd guffawed, and soon after the mental blade flowed from the finger. 'Ah, there it is.'

He charged in again, and after another clash of blades against armour, he was laid low, and the Impilturan was victorious. Gracious, she gripped his hand and helped him up, before shaking hands, quelling any grumbles of discontent over her tricks. 'Good fight, mate.'

An announcer called out 'The winner is Sambrylla Smith of Impiltur, Knight of the Order of the Bladewright.' 'Woo!' she cheered, utterly unlike an Impilturan knight.

*

After watching the dwarf pikemen, Maelarra turned to Aerin, asking 'Would you like to see some more, or have a drink in this tavern? I know I need a drink and a sit down after the ride.'


*

Angel made herself scarce, and from the alley she could spy the others come by. Slove went off to the archery competition, Tseran went to watch a duel where one of the fighters had some kind of magic blade. The others watched some dwarves and discussed what to do next.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:59, Wed 25 Sept 2019.

Slove listens to the fox.  Many thoughts and words came to the old elf.
He decide to keep his month such and follow the fox instructions.

Slove concentrated on the target taking careful aim.
But the fox kept moving.  Getting in the way.
Did he not understand how stupid and dangerous that was.
Moving target, still target, moving target, still target.

Moving target.  Slove lets his arrow straight into the fox.
Hiting the fox squarely in the middle with some force.
With out second thought Slove touches his wand and the fox.
Healing some of the damage he done.

I am sorry.  The elf said.

Slove steps back.  Not happy with fox or himself.

The question I would have to ask.  Why fire an arrow at object that not going to harm you.
That hitting it will make no different to you or the people around you.
All you doing is damaging something that does not need to be damaged and possibility wasting an arrow.

It is why I never understood these competition.  Explain to me the point.  The reason?
The best weapon to have is one that does not have to be used.

Slove question was genuine.  He was not having a go at fox just trying understand why such thing are done.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:28, Tue 24 Sept 2019.

Aerin looked at Lady Maelarra with a surprised look on her draconic features, "Why that's a really good idea, even if we sat in the saddle the whole day. Perhaps we find a bar where you can sit on a stool and I can stand?" she replied.

Turning to one of the bystanders she asked "Well met, we just arrived and are looking for decent accommodation, is there a place in this town that you would recommend?"

As the arrow struck him, Fūdo flinched and doubled over, but when Slove approached to heal him, he waved him back, holding the arrow in his hand-like fore-paws. He'd caught the arrow in the air. 'The first test is the hardest,' he began with a wry look, passing it back, 'For the teacher as well.'

He listened attentively to Slove's question, thinking it over, and finally replying 'Some would say the reason for competition is further training for the archer, that it is a challenge of their skills and a chance to compare their progress against their peers. And others would say competition makes the archer focus fully on the act of archery itself, not on hunting, not on battle.'

'And the purpose of the target... is to catch the arrow.' Fūdo added with a fanged grin. 'Better that than litter the good farmer's field with our shafts.'

'Come on.' Fūdo beckoned Slove to follow him right up to the practice target, just a bale of straw. As they walked, he said 'Now, I'll ask you a question – why fire an arrow at all?' They stood just a few feet away, making it impossible to miss and incredibly easy. Yet, with the same care and serenity as he'd shown before, Fūdo fired his arrow perfectly into the target and seemed satisfied with the result.

*

With the full discretion of a dedicated diplomat, Lady Maelarra entirely ignored Aerin's sarcasm. It simply would not be proper for her to explain that too long in the saddle had left her unpractised posterior sore. That, however, did not mean she had to resist making a dig of her own. 'Indeed, or you may lay lean against the bar, whatever you please.'

The flagged-down bystander, once he recovered from the sight of a half-dragon, answered 'Ah, the Head in the Clouds over there should still have some beds available.' He pointed to a two-storey timber and brick building, with vaulted ceilings. The signboard depicted a giant so tall his head was engulfed in clouds. The street before it was strewn with debris from an overturned cart.

"Thanks." Aerin said gratefully, giving the passer-by a many-fanged grin before turning to march in the new target's direction. Looking over her shoulder she gave Maelarra a smirk "Aye, lean I will, but that requires many pints before it happens, ha!" then confidently grinned some more.

Entering the 'Head in the Clouds' the dragonkin strode toward the counter as if she owned the place, convinced they had found a place where they could sleep well and without worries, for once. "Well met and good day. I'd like to book seven rooms for me and my companions." she said, then, almost like an afterthought added "Please." and smiled... not showing any teeth. The Rashemi had counted Arrazin as well, even though he wasn't present, and probably wouldn't stay here anyway. However, she was convinced he'd appreciate the attempt at misleading his real or imagined enemies.

Slove took his arrow from Fūdo.
A useful skill to have.  Picking arrows out of the air.  Especially when you walk in front of someone that firing an arrow.

Slove listened to Fūdo answer to his question.  The answer did not really come up with anything new.  However Slove's years had taught him answers do not always come easy or straight.

The one thing Fūdo had over so many creature Slove encountered was respect.
Fūdo gave Slove respect and that earned Slove's.

I will answer your question but first I must ask one of my own.
The lands you come from.  Are they at peace or war.  Your people are they rulers, servant or slaves of the land.  How long have they live in land.  Or are you wandering adventure with no home and land to call of.
If you answer this I can answer your question.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:43, Thu 26 Sept 2019.

 There's definite art in what this Sambrylla Smith is undertaking and that - when he himself has had to self-teach more or less everything that he knows and has discerned draws Tseran forwards as the conflict comes to a triumphant ending, the slim elf waiting for the inevitable back-slapping and congratulations to ebb somewhat before he seeks to address the young woman, leaning back a little to let something of her exuberance dissipate and then attempting to approach her in order to ask "Dame Smith, is it not? An impressive display... But I confess that I have never heard of the Order of the Bladewright, perhaps I might beg a moment of your time, if you are not over-busy?"

Spotting Ladies Aerin and Maelarra walking together, Angel - (still looking like a human girl) - followed them to and into a local inn. She stood behind them as she heard the dragonkin order several rooms and waited to be noticed... which was kinda fun from the perspective of a irrepressible sneak; seemingly just appearing behind someone when they least excepted it.

OOC: Taking ten on both Hide and Move Silently checks for 31 and 22 respectively. 

Street

Breathing hard after her duel, Sambrylla Smith turned to face Tseran, a grin of recognition on her sweating face. She was surprisingly young, maybe 22 winters, with straw blonde hair and piercing green eyes. 'Sure, if you throw a drink into the bargain, mate. But Dame nothing, call me Sam!' she said cheerfully, sounding like a bluff country girl. She grabbed Tseran's hand and pumped it vigorously; hers was strong and bore the calluses and scars of hard work and swordplay. The girl, under her mithral chain, was athletic and muscled without being brawny, with forge-tanned skin under her curiously mobile psionic tattoos. Whatever Art she'd learned, it had not been in a library, study, or quiet temple, but through hard work and martial training.

'Here, this place'll do.' She led Tseran across the street and into the Head in the Clouds.

The Head in the Clouds

'Water, and make it cold!' she called for her drink. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, like she'd smelled something bad, but couldn't place it, for now. 'Now, the Order of the Bladewright is a unit of the, deep breath now, Most Holy Order of the Sacred Shrike, better known as the Knights of Imphras II, a part of the Warswords of Impiltur. Brave defenders of the realm, loyal servants of the crown, devout faithful of the Triad. Holy paladins and priests all,' she declared grandly and proudly, then thumbed her chest, adding less grandly no less proudly 'And us, the Bladewrights.'

*

The innkeeper looked a little worried at Aerin's requested, and at the risk of disappointing her. 'Seven? Seven might be a hard, ma'am, what with all the folk in town for the Arming. I can do you five, if any of your party don't mind sharing?'

'My valet Tamae and I are in the habit of sharing, whether a room or bed, it is no problem.' Maelarra volunteered, the silent servant at her side.

The innkeeper looked past Aerin to the girl behind her. 'With you in a moment, miss.'

*

Archery Tournament

Fūdo's furry face made an approximation of a frown of thoughtfulness; it wasn't needed on a fox, but these expressions appeared to have been learned simply to deal with humans. 'I hail from the isle of Shinkoku, in a land the humans call Kozakura, the Little Cherry Blossom. Go east until you can walk no further, then sail east until you can sail no further, and you would be there.' Fūdo explained, gazing east with a little wistfulness in his golden eyes. He'd journeyed so, so far. 'And it seems the humans make proud war on each other constantly. But as for my people, we are not slaves or servants or rulers if we can help it. We live apart, in the wilds, with no homes but what we make around us. We are just humble foxes, and have been since the world was born.' He turned his inscrutable eyes on Slove again. 'Is that enough?'

Slove looks hard at the fox.
It is the answer. The elf says.

Then realizing he needs to explain himself.
We have some things in common.  We come from species that wishes to live alongside the world we are born in.  To be part of this world.  Be born, to live a full life and to die at the right time.  To allow others to do the same, whoever or whatever they are.
We have lived through wars and seen our land taken by others.
You and me are both wonders far from home making the best of what life gives.

Sloves nods.
So to answer your question.  My people picked up the bow in a time forgotten by most to defend themselves from the creatures that says the land belong to them.  Creatures that would burn our homes down and see our land covered not in beautiful plants but is ash and smoke.
Why fire and arrow.  So the tree it came from my live another season.  That is my answer.

"Oh no rush," the girl said cheerily, and in a voice that was familiar to the two women in front of her. "I'm with them," she added, nodding toward the two women the innkeeper was currently assisting.

Aerin gave the woman a hard stare, as if it was a personal insult against her "You're not intentionally giving me a hard time, are you?" she said gravely before Maelarra volunteered to share a room with her maid - probably so she could boss the poor girl around, even in the middle of the night, to empty her chamber pot or fetch some water - which kind of resolved the problem, since Arrazin was most likely a no show anyway.

When the girl behind them quipped "I'm with them." the dragonkin's eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out who had the audacity to claim being with her companions. It took her a second or two, or three or four, to finally wrap her head around the realization that they were travelling in the presence of a shapechanger and that the girl before her was indeed their skin-changing Angel. "Yes, rrright." Aerin confirmed slowly, still looking somewhat suspicious. "We'll make do with five rooms, then."

While the innkeeper was making the necessary arrangements, Aerin took the time to reflect on what she had conveniently overlooked. When they met first, at lord Haldyn's mansion, the Rashemi had seen her true form, that of a high elf, but coming to think of it she had never before heard of an elf shifting shapes this effortlessly. It always took some sort of spell or magic item, totally unlike the elf's ability. She would have to keep an eye on her and figure out what was going on.

The girl grinned when Aerin looked at her and offered the dragon lady a playful curtsy. And then as if reading her mind Angel casually brushed her fingers across a hair barrette in those coppery locks and mouthed the word 'magic'...

 "It is the appropriate address for a female knight..." Tseran answers, as he attempts to recover some of the feeling in his fingers by flexing them not at all surreptitiously, being by his nature something of a quiet, measured soul and therefore largely unprepared to field the exuberance pouring off 'Sam' in positive waves, "...but very well, 'Sam'. I am Tseran Tal'Chiar, late of the Ladies College of Silverymoon and..."

 That's about where he's dragged off towards the public house, his feet not quite managing to kick up a dust-trail in the process, his mouth snapping shut until it turns out that the vigorous martial woman is actually intending to drink water of all things, whereupon he's about to protest the safety of such an act when his interest is taken by her explanation instead, the elf assuming an attentive posture as the spiel rolls over him, swiftly picking out the pertinent point "Who are not, by process of exclusion holy paladins or priests, which is rather the point that caught my attention. I've encountered only a few practitioners of the invisible art in my travels."

Archery Tournament

Fūdo nodded at Slove's answer, full of understanding. 'That is a worthy reason then.' He pointed to the target, his own arrow still in it, just a few feet away. It was impossible to miss. 'So fire the arrow.' This time, he didn't get in the way.

The Head in the Clouds

'Ah. That.' Sam understood, looking down at her hand, her bright spirit dimmed like a candle's flicker. When her mug of cold water was brought, she drained it one long, long swig, then called for another. Fighting was thirsty work. 'Yeah, we're not really proper Knights, you see – we haven't faced the Trials or been ordained as priests or pallies. But our blessing – the soul knife – makes us Bladewrights. It's hard to argue rites and regs when the gods have already given us our swords. Some do, mind.' She shrugged at that, and sipped her next mug.

Meanwhile, Maelarra dealt with the innkeeper, haggling over the cost of five rooms because it was her goddess-given duty. 'We shall only be here a night, and you're already doing such roaring trade. The noise alone should diminish your regular price...'
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:26, Thu 03 Oct 2019.

 "And yet the truth is what it is, will they, nill they." Tseran answers in a fashion that's functionally speaking, supportive then adding his own order - a glass of whatever dry house wine is available - to the replacement tankard of water before pressing on with his inquiries, "It is the 'soul knife' as you describe it that first caught my attention, although I was also fascinated by the other manifestations of the art you bear... There is, you say an organisation that teaches these skills? A martial tradition of manipulating these forces?"

'Something like that, but there's not so many of us you'd call it a tradition. There's no school or nothing. More like the older fellows find and train up those who show the knack. They know different tricks and shapes for the soul knife, so we're all a little bit different, apart from the soul bladey bit.' Sam explained, wiggling her hand meaningfully. But despite her playful, energetic spirit, she had too much discipline to just flash it around with good reason.

'Now, if you mean how to create it, well, we're none too sure. We believe it's a blessing, bestowed by our gods, marking us for special purpose, and all that. But if every kid who shows one is recruited to the knighthood, then it's kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy, isn't it?' she shrugged before taking a sip. She didn't want to question faith too hard, in case it stopped working. 'I saw a grey dwarf in Skullport do it, and he weren't blessed by the Triad.'

'As for how we first come by it, everyone's got a different story. The usual one – this happened to my instructor – is his sword was broken in battle and he prayed to his god for a weapon to protect his companions with, and lo and behold, whoosh there it is in hand, a soul knife.'

'But me, I made mine blacksmithing.' she ended with a grin.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:50, Fri 11 Oct 2019.

Aerin stood by, watching Maelarra in her natural habitat was an interesting experience.

Slove pulled another arrow from his quiver.
Placed it in his bow.  Aimed at the target and fired.

This was ridiculous and pointless thing to do really.

However out of respect for the fox Slove did as he was ask.
He took the whole thing seriously and as if he was a normal distance from the target.

 "Mmmm, after examining your auras, I believe that the knife itself is not inherently a divine manifestation - as you say, there is a degree of self-fulfilment inherent in the selection process for your order - but that does not mean it is not a blessing of sorts." Tseran answers, looking speculative as he rolls the question around in his mind before adding "Particularly since the invisible art as I understand it seems to correlate to the established schools of magic and I could not perceive any particular school in action around your blade."

 "No, if I were to venture a first-approximation analysis, I would propose that you have trained yourself to think about swords and are manifesting your will in that form - something that may be achieved by simple study, or by the touch of the divine unlocking what was in you all along." Tseran speculates, not of course without making it very clear that he's doing so before he lays a hand lightly upon his own chest in an apologetic fashion, "I am sorry of course, as a mage I tend to think of these things in analytical terms... What I have learned and uncovered of the art I understand by comparing it to what I already know, much as you yourself perceive it through bladework."

The Head in the Clouds

Sam shrugged carelessly, choosing to take the mage's speculating as being a bit above her instead of being a challenge to her faith, no matter how loose it might be. Besides, there were a few too many big words in there. 'If you say so. I do know my momma was a bladesmith, and I started an apprenticeship under her. One day, we had a big order come in from the Warswords, and set to work. It took us ages to complete, working hard, day in, day out. I remember the hammering most of all: bang bang bang bang bang bang...' she sang out, nodding her head with the rhythm. 'Like a heartbeat, it was, on and on and on. But, for all that noise and heat, I felt half-asleep, just doing without thinking. In the end, late in the night, we ran out of steel. But I still hammered out one more blade on that anvil.' she ended, remembering the marvel of the silvery, ghostly blade forged where there should've been hard steel.

Meanwhile, Maelarra haggled a fair price for all the rooms, dinner, drinks, breakfast, and all. Even the innkeeper seemed impressed. She turned back to Aerin and Angel. 'There we go. Now, this evening, there shall be a bit of a feast and bards shall sing ballads or tell tales, usually of a heroic battle-heavy variety. If you have any requests, we might find something appropriate.'

Archery Tournament

Fūdo watched Slove fire the arrow from only a few feet, appraised the result, and even did a little clap with his paws. 'Very good. Now then – why fire the arrow?' he persisted in his questioning.

 "That would be consistent with what I have discovered with my own studies... We unlocked the potential of our minds by approaching them through the familiar." Tseran agrees, once more indicating himself and then Sam by way of illustration "Myself through the processes of conventional arcane magic, you through bladework and craft.

 Of course, it doesn't quite get him to the point, which he then launches into "This does not entirely explain your equipment however. May I ask if there is a craftsman or smithmaster who manufactures them for you? The tattoos and the boots which you wear? I rarely get to speak to another practitioner of the invisible art, save through the pages of their journals and to meet one who has that level of attainment would be a great opportunity for me."

'I dunno that I have much attainment,' Sam mused, then leaned back and hoisted her leg and one of her solid army boots onto the table for Tseran to inspect, should he wish. 'But I have these. Boots of stomping, I call 'em. Most of our special gear is hand-me-downs from senior Bladewrights, or pass-me-alongs from the Warswords that they loot and can't explain or can't use.'

Next, she rolled up her sleeves, exposing wiry arms and a few battle-scars on forge-tanned skin. At first, then nothing to be seen, but then there came creeping down her skin, like an organized swarm of tiny ants, tattoos. They were typical soldiers' and sailors' tattoos: an anchor, a fist, a sword, easily overlooked by untrained eyes. 'We have a company tattooist who gives us these to help us out of jams or aid us in quests. A psionic power, ready to go. But otherwise, we don't make much equipment, not when we're mostly bladesmiths who don't need blades.'

Conveniently, a young militia-woman came by and passed Sam a short sword. 'Hey, Sam, thanks for lending me your sword.'

'No worries, happy to help.' Sam said, taking the sword. It was mundane, army-issue.

'You weren't short, were you?'

'Nah, I'm good.' After the exchange, Sam slid the sword into her empty scabbard. 'But it's still useful to have one. As training or back-up. And sometimes you've got to be disarmed of something.'

Slove reflected a bit.

Because you asked.
Because I could.
Because I wanted to.
To see if I could hit the target.
To see where the arrow would land.

He looked at the fox.

There is never one reason but many.  There maybe a main reason but that is never the total of the reasons.

Slove shifts his feet a bit.
So why did you ask me to fire the arrow in the first place?
It is the way of my people.  A question should always in part be answer with another question.
Until there are no more questions to be asked.

 Tseran dutifully examines the boot as it's thrown up onto the table, more or less automatically muttering a short cantrip that sees the mud on them creeping off to disperse onto the floor, followed a moment later by any grime left on the table proper... "Practical, and undeniably crafted using the powers of the mind rather than the art." he assesses, before nodding at the tattoos "As too, these.", lifting his own arm and delicately unbuttoning the sleeve to permit the complex swirl of neuron-patterned ink flow up his arm to reveal his own psionic tattoo, after which he opens his mouth to speak, only to fall silent when the girl arrives, letting her complete her transaction then nodding in understanding "Of course. I wear a sword myself because it serves as a symbol that I will defend myself, not because I have any expectation of using it well in a battle... I don't recall the last time I drew it in anger... But I digress, I had intended to ask... Do you think your order would be interested in trading in knowledge and items of the Invisible Art?"

The Head in the Clouds

Sam thought on this a long while, and with the kind of long 'Hmmmmm.' a tradeswoman might give when about to give a hefty quote for a job that customer wouldn't like. 'I don't reckon we'd have much to trade. Our gear is reserved for use by the Order, and our know-how of the Invisible Art is all based around the soul-knife – shaping it, techniques with it, channelling energies to smite demons and undead. Not much good if you don't have one.'

'But what we are looking for,' she began, 'Are the Lost Swords of Impiltur.' Tseran had heard a little of this: the great archmage Soargar, Mage Royal of Old Impiltur in the 10th and 11th centuries DR, had hidden away the kingdom's greatest artifacts, five-score magical swords, and royal regalia during a period of instability and collapse. On his death, he released them to the man who would be the next king, Imphras I. He and his companions, later his Royal Guard, took up the swords and founded New Impiltur. But fate was never kind to Impiltur. Sam took up the story, but spoke in a duller tone, as if in a trance, seemingly having memorised the history verbatim under hypnosis. 'In the Year of the Luminar Procession, 1127 by Dalereckoning, Princess Ilmara saw in the Scrying Stones of Myth Drannor that the hobgoblins of the Giantspire Mountains were stirring for war. She alerted her brother, King Imbrar I, to the threat. But, rather than muster his forces on the border and draw the hobgoblins out, King Imbrar marched north into the mountains accompanied only by his Royal Guard armed with the swords of Soargar's Legacy, together with a host of armsmen, determined to end the hobgoblin menace once and for all. They were courageous, impetuous, and foolish. King Imbrar, the Royal Guard and the armsmen, and the hobgoblins, were never seen or heard of again.'

She blinked, and carried on in her normal tone, 'Neither were most of the swords, but some have been spotted, even found. So us Bladewrights are questing to recover the rest for the realm. I followed a clue all the way to Skullport, but it was a bust, so I came back. A few of the swords were made in the Vast, and a few made their way back through these parts, so I'm having another look around. I'm travelling south to Tsurlagol to talk to the sage Othiiyr Velthrann, he always helps out the Knights... But any information about the swords would be well paid for.'

https://forgottenrealms.fandom...i/Soargar%27s_Legacy

Archery Tournament

Fūdo nodded to Slove's response, 'Of course. But what if we take away all those reasons – say there is no need to hunt, there is no foe to defeat, no contest to win, no target to hit. What are you left with?' This time, he closed his eyes and went through his exact and steady routine again: drawing an arrow, nocking it to his bow, drawing it back, and letting it fly. It hit the target perfectly, but Fūdo wasn't to know. He blindly reached out, plucked it, and returned it to his quiver, and seemed satisfied.

He opened his fox eyes. 'Your turn. Try it with your eyes closed, and tell me what you see.'
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:25, Tue 29 Oct 2019.

Slove answered the fox.
But you did not take all reasons away.  I shoot an arrow because I want to.
I enjoy using my bow.  I find pleasure and peace in using it.
Well most of the time.

Slove takes his place and holds his bow still.
How you ask of me something you really have no understand of.
Something I wish not to do.  I hope you understand at the end at least something of what you have asked.

A nasty rasping sound comes from Slove.

He closes his eyes and pulls an arrow from his quiver.
As Slove does so he a twitches little uncontrollably.  As he draws back the arrow the twitches increase.
Slove face start to show pain.  As he concentrate the pain grows.
As arrow get to it full draw back length half of sloves face seems to be bumbling and boil.  His flesh pulse and changes from red to black to purple to yellow and back.  Different part of damage face has different colours but effect is sickening to look at.
Heat can be felt coming of Sloves.  The twitches is almost convulsion now.
Slove fires the arrow.  It hits the target.
The heat and twitching lessens and Slove slowly outstretches his hand and takes the arrows.

Then he opens his eyes.  Tears come running down his face.

You ask me what I saw.  I saw white light exploding.  I saw my brother covered in flames.  He was in great pain as flames consumed him.
He looked into my eyes and I with mine into his.  I could see fear, dread, pain and eternal loss in them eyes, and then he was gone.  I saw flames on my own face.  A fire right up to my own eye.

Clearly Slove had scene this more times that he could remember or wished to.
Do you wish me to continue in more detail?
What I described to you is the short, sane version.

Slove whole body and look was filled with sadness.
He was still shaking and twitching a little.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:07, Thu 24 Oct 2019.

 "Unfortunate, but honestly spoken. My companions and I are headed up into the mountains ourselves, entering Orc territory but if we should stumble over word of ensorcelled blades while we're in the region, I'll try and pass word along to your order... Allowing of course, that I travel in the company of warriors who might well wish to claim such weapons for themselves." Tseran adds the last clause with a rueful 'warriors, what can you do?' sort of tone that invites amusement rather than scorning those who have mastered steel instead of spell.

 "That said, I'm no scholar of Old Impiltur... Does a list of the missing weapons and their names or likenesses exist?" he goes on to ask, enough of an adventurer to ask for the practical while enough of a scholar to actually find digging up the sort of history that gets an elf access to royal libraries exciting.

The Head in the Clouds

Sam shrugged at Tseran's allowance, not too bothered by the idea that the warriors wouldn't want to give up such fabulous swords if they found them. It was evidently already fully expected by the questers. 'Eh, it's been two and a half centuries, we can wait a little longer.' Paladins were polite and patient, and could ask very persistently. 'But just knowing they're in worthy hands is worth it.'

She sipped her water, and answered the next question. 'Some records of them exist, but a lot's been lost. Lessee, the ones still known and missing are...' Again, she recited in a hypnotic trance, 'Ashram; Dornavver, the Demonbane; Ellendrin, the Weeping Blade; Felthann, called Liluth's Summertongue; Galathos; Iltornar, the Goretooth; Malagar, the Burnfang; Mau-Jehe, sword of the first Bladewright; Palreth; Sarghathuld, meaning Orcbane; Tendar, the Wailer; Ulfindos, the Corsair Scourge...' She blinked. 'And it goes on like that... Why, does anything ring a bell?'

Archery Tournament

With as sad an expression on his fox face as he could make, Fūdo nodded respectfully to Slove. 'No, it is enough.' he said softly. 'As for me, I see... my mother, slain by an arrow, let fly by a hunter who desires a fox's pelt. She barks, her back arches, she rolls over, she lies still. he shared in sympathy, looking away to the target.

Back to Slove, he explained 'My order believe that in the act of shooting the bow, with beauty and goodness, truth is revealed. You can see yourself. And with truth and goodness, beautiful shooting is achieved. It is a meditative art as much as it is a martial one, used for improvement of mind, body, and soul.' He made a foxy grin. 'I hope you don't think I'm simply looking for converts. But I think you have the skill, and the need, if you're interested?'
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:40, Sat 02 Nov 2019.

Slove makes another rasping noise after listening to Fūdo.
He takes out a small silver arrow with green feathers on it which is on a chain around his neck.
Converting me could be little hard to do.   If you did succeed, you may find yourself on the wrong end of few powerfully place arrows.

However when you have lived as long as I have and keep your eyes open.
Then you know there is always more to learn and understand.
It is my understanding that some orders are more about being a group creatures that follow a discipline and teaching.  Who's aim is to help and improve each other knowledge and skills.
Orders like this are less interested in what god you follow as long as the god doctrine and rules of the order do not conflict.
Now this type of order I be happy to learn more about.

'Well, you're in luck then!' Fūdo agreed with a fox's grin. 'Kyūdō – the Way of the Bow – is not based around any god or faith, but only what is in here,' he touched his head, 'In here,' he pointed to his heart, 'And in here.' He spread open his paw-like hands, still grasping his bow and and his arrow. 'You can apply it however you think best, as a meditation, a religious rite, a martial technique, or an art... But I think the Great Archer would not be dishonoured in any case.' he added, gesturing to Slove's holy symbol. There were precious few non-elves who would recognise the symbol and know the titles of Solonor Thelandira.

'What we all seek is to attain the state we call shin-zen-bi, or "truth, goodness, beauty". When an archer shoots truthfully, and with goodness in his spirit, a beautiful shot is the natural result. And in the process, he may seek seisha hitchū, "true shooting, certain hitting". Shoot truly and the target is hit.'

 "Nothing as yet." Tseran admits, noting down the names and descriptions - such as they are - in exquisite copper-plate handwriting after fishing a charcoal pencil and a small scrap of parchment out of his travelling kit, a reminder which he then folds neatly over and tucks into his kit to be properly transcribed later into his notes "But you never know when you'll run into something like that and having some idea of what the list might be will only increase the chance that one will turn up. If nothing else, my companions and I are apparently headed into Orc country, so there's at least a passing chance of us running across mention of Sarghathuld."

The Head in the Clouds

'Ah, Sarghathuld's been found already,' Sam supplied animatedly, 'And lost again, coz dwarves are unlucky like that, in the Mines of Tethyamar, they say. But they're welcome to it, it means more to the Stout Folk of the Vast than it does to us.' she ended with a shrug. The questers necessarily had to accept that there would be some swords for which other, and greater, claims existed.

'But it's not the only one either. The dwarves of Roldilar manufactured over a thousand blades of this special orc-slayer blood-metal, a dull grey stuff, to help 'em take Vastar, the orcish kingdom. Sarghathuld's just one special one. But in the end, there were more orcs than swords, Roldilar fell, and a lot are in orc hands, coz they're good at killing each other. You find one, it'll do the same for you.'

There was a fundamental irony to the Order of the Bladewright: the warriors who did not need magic swords, who quested to learn and recover them.

https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Sarghathuld
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Orcslayer

Archery Tournament

Going on, Fūdo explained the Way of the Bow, taking Slove through a whole new style of Eastern archery techniques while stressing he was free to focus on his native elven style or cultivate his own, and a set of philosophies and practices he was similarly free to adapt. The core of it, however, was using archery as a means of meditation to cultivate the self, to link mind and body and bow as one.


OOC: Since I'd just end up reiterating the Wikipedia article for real-world kyūdō and the original description for the Order of the Bow Initiate in Sword & Fist that summarises it, I'll do just that:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ky%C5%ABd%C5%8D#Purpose
(Starting about here)

Order of the Bow Initiate:
"The Way of the Bow is used by some for spiritual self-improvement, by others a philosophical art. Others practice it as a way of life, and yet others employ it as a religious ceremony. Of course, many find the art of killing with the bow to be an important skill in a dangerous world. The Way of the Bow is always what you make of it. The Way of the Bow embraces the following concepts:

"Through one's archery, one's true character can be determined.
The Way of the Bow is a spiritual art. By learning it, the archer learns about himself. By improving in the Way of the Bow, the archer improves himself.
The Way of the Bow is a highly meditative martial art whose ultimate goals are Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. When asked, “What is Truth?”, a Master Archer picks up his bow, fires an arrow and, without saying a word, lets his mastery of the bow serve as the gauge of the archer's progress along the “way,” thereby showing the archer's knowledge of reality, or “truth” itself.

"The Way of the Bow is a matter of precision and discipline: the relationship you have with your bow, the arrow, your body, and your mind. The Way of the Bow is standing meditation. When you shoot, you can see the reflection of your mind, as in a mirror. The target is the mirror. When you release) you also let go of your ego. You can see your own mind."

"If I'm reduced to swinging a sword at an Orc, I rather doubt it'll go all that well for me... I'm a number of things, good knight but a fearsome warrior-at-arms is not amongst them." Tseran replies with a certain amount of well-deserved self-deprecation, finishing his notes and tucking them away with due care for the possibility of his neat hand being smudged.

 "In any case." he then goes on, sensing a natural end to the conversation "Unless you have questions about what I have discovered of the invisible art, I believe this the point at which I should wish you good fortune in your quest, not that your martial display suggests you need rely upon fortune for your success."

With everyone else being busy with their own endeavors, Aerin enjoyed herself, ordering an ale to wet her parched throat.

Slove is thoughtful for a while.
I think.  Back in the forest is a library with much of what is in the world and different organization that may be found.
The Way of the Bow was listed in ne of it books.  Little was said about it.
A few elves had followed that path.  All it really told one was that each elf that choose this both over the more traditional elven studies of the bow considered it to be an honor to take such a path.

Slove nods his head.
Then if you are willing to show me this path I would be honored to follow it.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:21, Wed 04 Dec 2019.

The conversations went on long into the evening, with Fūdo teaching Slove the finer points of the Way of the Bow, with the archery competition forgotten behind them; Sam and Tseran discussing the intricacies of the Invisible Art; and Aerin, Angel, Maelarra, and Tamae listening to the bards in the Head in the Clouds. In the Arming tradition, they sang ballads and told rousing tales of battle and valour, of victories, not losses. A favourite was the legend of the local hero Beluar, a great elf warrior. In the Year of the Bloody Crown, 649 DR, as resurgent orcs swarmed over the falling kingdom of Roldilar, the dwarves' human and elf allies came to their aid. Beluar and his forces battled an orc army at Viperstongue Ford – just up the road from Thindilar – routed them, and doggedly pursued them north, beyond the Troll Mountains to Maskyr's Eye, never letting up for a moment, winning victory after victory, and leaving severed orc heads across the land, thanks to his sharp sword. Alongside this, there was feasting and plenty of drinking, rowdy games and good-natured brawls. There would be more than a few headaches and a number of other pains come the morning.

One thing they did learn in all this was that, several days ago, a group of young adventurers matching descriptions of the Calauntan scions and Dorn Hammerhand had passed through Thindilar, and turned north, toward the Troll Mountains. This tallied with the maps Tseran had found.

*

Cross Road to Viperstongue Ford
Date: Morning, 5th Tarsakh 1376 DR, the Year of the Bent Blade
Weather: Spring, overcast

In the morning after the night before, the adventurers woke early and set off, trying to make up for time lost. They took the Cross Road north; it was a proper road and well-travelled, but the merchants hurried along it quickly, for fear of raids and robbers. The day was uneventful, but the clear skies of the last few days gradually gave way to growing clouds.

Through the morning, they journeyed through the fertile floodplains of the River Vesper, and by midday they came to the river itself, wide and slow as it flowed reluctantly toward Calaunt. This was Viperstongue Ford, where the river was shallow and calm enough for them to ride their horses across, though they needed to take some care the horses didn't slip. There was a simple hamlet here, centred around the homely Stag and Viper inn.

 Tseran still doesn't actually own a horse, but he does his best to gamely keep up with those who do, pushing on until each they come to ford the river, whereupon he plunges in with a disgruntled expression, mentally kicking himself for never taking the time to invest in learning the ubiquitous spell, mount.

Slove also follows the group on foot.
However unlike Tseran he does not have any real problems keeping up with the group.
He sometimes goes off on small scouting walks when others are reason.
He also makes a large leap to cover a large distance of river and jump out again the other side.

Aerin looked up at the sky with a frown, the weather was getting worse and it might start raining soon enough. The warrior-witch wasn't worried about getting wet, her new coat, which she had bought in Calaunt would make sure she didn't have to suffer, but it also meant visibility range would be significantly shorter. But unless one of them suddenly became a druid, it was nothing that they could change.

As they reached the ford, the dragonkin gave the signal to stop and began scanning the other side of the river for a potential ambush. This was a good place to surprise people, right in the middle of the water, when they were at a disadvantage. Finding no threat waiting, she signaled to go ahead. [Private to GM: Spot check: 1.]

Noticing the grimace on Tseran's face the Rashemi smiled and steered Albion over. Reaching out to the elf she offered a hand and a ride on her steed's backside across the river "Here, sit behind me, Albion can handle the two of us."

Angel was unusually subdued and quiet as they left the city, and to the surprise of everyone she chose to walk along with Tseran and Slove.

When they reached the ford though, she then took a moment to transform into her winged form and easily flew over the river. Landing gently beside a soaked Tseran, she smirked at the wizard. "Amateur," she scoffed, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation.

 Tseran... Well, permits it would be something of a stretch but he does nothing to discourage Angel's company either, the three walking along in an amenable enough fashion - and even when he plunges into the river (replying to Aerin with a polite "No, by this point I may as well press on. Best we have our rider able to move freely without my weighing her down, but my thanks regardless.")out of the river he simply looks at Angel for long enough for her to observe that he is, in fact absolutely bone-dry and unstained by the encounter despite having plunged into the river to his waist and answers "Merely a difference of approach."

Taking care, the adventurers crossed the ford with ease. While floods on the Vesper were a risk in winter and spring, it hadn't rained for several days, and the waters remained steady and safe. But there was also no sighting of lost dwarven gold or flying ioun stones coming down the river either, as some travellers had occasionally been lucky (or unlucky) enough to find.

Leaving the Stag and Viper behind, it being too early in the day to rest, they continued north along the Cross Road, journeying out of the Vesper's shallow river valley and into a pass through the Troll Mountains. "Don't worry," dwarves had said, "It's just a name." Supposedly the Stout Folk had nearly wiped out the green giants that had given the Troll Mountains, or Trollcrag Mountains, their fearsome name. However, that was "nearly", and trolls were exceedingly difficult to eradicate. Still, very few had been sighted on the slopes in recent years, and not in any great numbers. But that was before recent orc activity had stirred things up.

Regardless, from the green forested slopes to the jagged crags and peaks of stone, they were put in mind of a troll's claws, grasping hungrily at the grey skies all around them. The Calauntan scions had gone missing somewhere in these mountains, and needed to be found.

At the end of the day, as the sun disappeared behind those peaks, turning them black against red, they came to the village of Blanaer. It was a plain, simple, even boring place, surrounded by sheep and cattle farms, with markets for selling the beasts and their manure. It stunk almost as badly as Calaunt, but at least it was an honest, hardworking stink.

And this was their last stop in civilisation, before they ventured into the Troll Mountains tomorrow, on the trail of the young adventurers.

The dragonkin rode quietly among the others, the incident at the ford was already forgotten as her mind was dealing with the potential fate of the scions of Calaunt. If there had been any trolls left in these mountains, they were likely dead. Then it would be important to find proof of their demise at least. Then her thoughts would turn towards the behirs they had encountered and what they had told them. Nothing could really hold her interest long and soon she got bored and her eyes surveyed the landscape without actually noticing much.

Eventually they arrived at a village. If they could find an inn, they might even be lucky enough to encounter a bard with some interesting stories to share. As they rode in on what passed as the main road, Aerin stopped the first grown up person she could find and asked "Well met, friend. Can you tell us where to find an inn in this place?"

OOC: Sorry, sorry.


Both the farmer and his cow looked surprised and a little worried at Aerin, not least because she was a large ferocious-looking dragon woman with a big sword, and therefore a bit exotic. 'Oh, ah, you want the Blanaer Inn, over there.' He pointed to a homely-looking inn on the main road near the centre of the village, furthest from the sheepyards.

She gave the man a smile, without showing teeth, "Thank you, good sir, may the gods bless you and your family." she said and gave him a nod.

Turning Albion in the right direction she rode on, gesturing for the others to follow her. The Rashemi looked around from the higher vantage point that was her steed. While the village wasn't exceptional in any way, it still reminded her of the simpler places in Rashemen, where farmers and decent folk were trying to make a decent living in a world, that seemed to become more crazy by the day.

Slove sees little point in saying anything else.
Aerin was able to deal with talking to others.
So the elf follows on to the inn.

 Tseran by contrast, is just flat-out exhausted by the long march and more or less directly aims himself towards the nearest spot that holds the promise of a few hours of rest with no sign nor remark that suggests he resents the 'honest country air' and its distinctive pungency... Not if there's a bench or (heavens hope) a straw pallet with his name upon it in his near future.