Many adventurers who plan to lobby for the jobs outlined at the meeting visit Wizard’s Grace, a popular nearby tavern, before the proceedings begin. Some hold traditional toasts for good fortune, some schmooze with the townsfolk in hopes of being hired, and some seek to scope out the other adventurers with whom they might be working—or competing for the jobs at hand.

The wizard's grace is an odd U-shaped building with the main tavern set up at one end and then the rooms and stables curving back around. It is nice for some as during the day patrons can access their rooms without going through the tavern but still it is a very unusual design. The locals claim it is based around the sigil of town founder and savior Lamond Breachton but cynics in the crowd would suggest one of the previous owners thought horseshoes were a very lucky shape when planning the inn's expansion.

In any event it is nearly as old as the town itself and has become a staple for visiting adventurers and locals alike. Walking along most of the back wall is a 35' long bar which is supposed to be tended by Trinil Uskwold (female human innkeeper) although truth be told she is usually busy with her three young children and keeping them out of trouble. Unfortunately her husband passed away a couple years ago in a hunting accident. Instead her father, Markle Uskwold (male human bartender) tends the bar while her mother, Lucile Uskwold (female human innkeeper) watch the bar and the inn respectively.

Because of the influx of traffic around the Call of the Heroes the bare employs twice as many cooks and wait staff as normal with three chefs in the back (nicknamed collectively the Hydras with how they snap in unison at anyone who enters) and five serving staff.

From the entrance the right side of the tavern holds two large fireplaces, both of which have big pots of boar stew brewing all throughout the day as it is a traditional meal served for the call of heroes. There are two grand banquet tables near the fires for larger parties of a dozen or more while throughout the rest of the bar are a half dozen smaller, 4-person tables.

To the left is a private seating area with its own, smaller fire. That table is currently unoccupied.

Finally in the back corner is a stage for traveling bards and minstrels. Right now there is a large half-orc woman tuning a lyre but she isn't currently performing just yet.

---

The current layout and patrons of the Wizard's Grace is as follows:

Table A (9 chairs)
-One young man (human male) tossing pebbles into the fireplace.

Table B (11 chairs)
-Empty

Table C (Private area, 6 chairs)
-Empty

Table D (4 chairs)
- Two woodsmen appear to be talking to a traveling Varisian harrower based on the Harrow cards she is laying out on the table. (male human woodsmen, female human fortuneteller)

Table E (4 chairs)
- Three rough looking men in leathers with dirty faces hunched over their bowls of stew whispering quietly to one another.

Table F (4 chairs)
- One half-elf swordsman with a serious look on his face staring at the runes etched into his dagger as he eats his bowl of stew. (male half-elf sellsword)

Table G (4 chairs)
-Three adventurers appear to be gambling. One has their hand splayed out while another stabs the point of a dagger quickly between the first's fingers while the third one appears to be betting on whether the hand will be stabbed or not. It seems a silly game but there is a surprising amount of gold and silver on the table. (female tiefling, male half-elf, male dwarf)

Table H (5 chairs)
- Three locals already drunk and heckling the bard to play a bawdy song ( male human commoners)

Table I (3 chairs)
- Four adventurers arguing with one another about who's job it is to find a chair for the fourth one who is standing. (male human fighter, female elven wizard, male goblin troublemaker, female gnome archer).

Bar (8 stools)
-Four town guards eating stew and keeping an eye on things (2 female, 2 male human guards)

---

OOC: When you enter please specify which table you're sitting at.
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 06:02, Tue 28 July 2020.

Nezaglomie makes it into the town just before the gates close.  She had expected to get here sooner, but the old gnome gave her bad directions, telling her to come around to the southwest gate rather than the east.  Or maybe it was good directions, and he steered her out of trouble, but that walk through the Crimson Tide Wood was certainly creepy.

He was true to his word, at least, and the main road off the gate leads her directly to the Breachill Archives.  She stands on her toes to look in the window and it's clear the place is already closed for the night.  I know the secrets are here.  I just have to be a little patient.  She continues down the main street, past the town hall, looking for a place to get a meal and maybe a room.  Spotting a tavern with the sign "Wizard's Grace" she figures that maybe her luck has improved.

She enters into the front door and naturally moves straight to the fire.  She is please to see that there are a variety of chairs, some for bigs, and some more appropriate for people of her stature.  At 2 feet 9, she is a little undersized for a gnome.  No amount of swagger or presence will make up for the fact that a climb up on to a human-sized chair is going to look embarrassing.  She sighs.  But the smaller tables are not near the fire.  I guess I'll have to cope.

Za walks over to Table A, where a young human man is tossing bits of something into the fire.  "How are you, sir?  A fine evening, I hope," she says with a bright smile.  Moving between him and the fireplace, she steps up on to the hearth, ignoring the heat that emanates from under the stew pot.  The hearth gives her enough of a boost that she can climb up on to the chair with a little dignity, where she kneels rather than sitting so that her head and shoulders are fully above the tabletop.  "I am called Nezaglomie.  Are you in town here for the event?"
This message was last edited by the player at 14:02, Thu 30 July 2020.

The Wizard's Grace... He'd likely have continued on distrustfully had he taken the handful of minutes it would have taken to sound out the tavern's name. The tall Ulfen warrior was not particularly learned in the scribblings and scratchings that supposedly made up the many words which seemed to power the world around him. He knew many runes and symbols, several letters and even a number or seven, and if really hard pressed could probably out do a child of similar understanding, but such things mattered little to him. With a shrug at the puny wineglass portrayed upon the tavern's sign, the tall, armored human stepped through the door, turning a bit sideways and ducking a little in order to pass the threshold.

He stood looking around for a moment, his head nearly touching the heavy beams of the ceiling. After a quick scan of the place, and a rather disgusted grunt, the warrior made his way toward the table of, perhaps, a kindred in occupation if not in spirit. The bear-fur boots made muffled slapping noises as he crossed the heavy floorboards. He pulled out a bench seat and sat down heavily. He adjusted his sword to a more comfortable position, and eased a few of the buckles of his armor.

"Maerk is Maerk," he said by way of introduction to the half-elven sellsword, "Chil-dren of Steel, but no more. Now Maerk looks for... other work. Swordhire yes? What outfit you are?"


Going to try for Table F with the sellsword

A goblin strides into the Wizard's Grace, not too outlandish a sight in these times and this region. However he is visually fairly distinct. Pretty good looking for a goblin, his body is healthier looking than most. Less misshapen. His small frame belies strength likely on par with a hard laborer at least and though his movements are oddly springy the goblin moves with clear grace and discipline.

Atop his head is a tricorne hat with a small, battered feather on it and a fairly unobtrusive strap to keep it secured to his head if things get windy or violent. A long, weathered coat doesn't hide the leather armor underneath. In all, he seems dressed as an adventurer that would prefer the sea, which this is clearly not.

He nods with a tip of the hat to the half-orc bard and strides over to the barkeep, a wide smile on his face. He doesn't seem to pay any mind to the fact he's very short (average goblin height), and the bar itself is made for use by mostly human-sized folk.

"Hail, ale-frien'. Do ye 'ave any scraps that'd be suitable for a slurpin' bah a fine hound? Ah'd pay ye some coin fer 'em if'n ye do. My ridin' scruffer's a fine lass'n'she deservin' some fine treats."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:48, Tue 28 July 2020.

In reply to N'za Glom (msg # 2):

The boy looks over at her with a big dopey grin.

"Zaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" he says, letting the word morph as his tongue flops out and he starts wagging his head around to create a miniature Doppler effect with the sound.

He grins at her, a bit of drool sliding down his crooked grin and then tosses something into the fire. It appears to be a pebble of sort but it makes a soft little pop as whatever it is bursts in the flames.


OOC: Wasssasaaaaaaap

https://youtu.be/JJmqCKtJnxM?t=20

This message was lightly edited by the GM at 19:00, Tue 28 July 2020.

In reply to Maerk (msg # 3):

The sell-sword takes his eyes off of the dagger, looks up at Maerk and gives a nod. A sign of acceptance from one killer to another before turning his attention back to the dagger.

Maerk can't help but catch how the light ripples along the steel creating a rainbow-like effect as if the weapon had been dipped in very thin oil. Perhaps it had been, or perhaps it had some kind of magical enchantment on it that created that slick effect.

In reply to Yarr the Hearty (msg # 4):

The old man behind the bar gives a nod at the goblin and hobbles over to the door to the kitchen.

"Got any scraps?"

Almost simultaneously a trio of voices shout out at him.

"You think we cook with scraps?"
"Scraps? I'll show you scraps!"
"You're interrupting us for scraps?"

The old man leans back out of the doorway quickly as a tin cup goes sailing by, hitting the door and splashing him a bit with some kind of clear liquid.

"Not for me you bloody fools, for a customer!"

"Send him round back and I'll chop him up into the next batch o' stew!"
"I swear to the gods above I will gut you if you waste any more of our time!"
"You want scraps? Here, take all the scraps you can handle!"

The old man leans back again and a plate full of trimmings goes sailing by and smashes into the door sending bits of fat and ligiments and other odds and ends not suitable for a stew crashing to the floor.

The bartender lets the door close and then jerks his head towards the passthrough at the end of the bar.

"Anything you pick up off the floor is yours, no charge."

He gives the goblin a smile and a nod and then hobbles back over to where he was cleaning the glasses.
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 19:09, Tue 28 July 2020.

Nezaglomie looks at the boy with a little alarm.  She considers that his bizarre pronunciation of her nickname is a bit excessive for an odd accent.  On the other hand, he doesn't look like he is trying to provoke her.  These bigs certainly have an odd way about them.  Maybe this one has a brain injury or some such.

She notices that the bar stools are a bit higher, and would allow her to sit normally at the table without it coming just to her chin.  With a quick Prestidigitation she moves an empty stool from the bar, pulling it next to the chair she is currently kneeling on, then shifts over to it.  Hopefully this strange human won't think I'm trying to get away from him, just looking for a more comfortable seat.

She barely gets herself situated when a goblin walks in.  It looks a little better dressed than other goblins she's seen, but it is probably just as vile.  The creature tips its hat and speaks to the bartender, just like a regular person.  Is the barkeep going to throw it out, or do they tolerate vicious killers here in Breachill?  She's a little surprised that the bartender seems to take the goblin seriously, and even suffers some sort of craziness from the kitchen for it, but then she smiles when the bartender tells him to pick up scraps off the floor.  That's about right for a gobbo.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:45, Tue 28 July 2020.

Yarr bows slightly to the barkeep.

"Ah be sorry fer the trouble. 'ave yerself a silver fer tha danger to yer brainbox. Ah know m'self 'ow terrible 'twould be for ar moneymakers ta gid scuffled. In ar lines ah work sportant ta be pretty an' ye got a far bit mordalose then me, ya scrap donatin' incubus you."

Yarr grabs up the crashed plate and collects every morsel. Then he goes the extra mile of taking out his handkerchief and cleaning up the liquid and other lose, unfetchable bits of mess on the floor. His expression still upbeat.

"Can't 'ave someone slippin'. Only fair I swab the planks a bit fer the trouble."

Yarr starts to softly sing a jaunty tune for cleaning, not loud enough to bother anyone, but people fairly close to the bar might hear.

"Ther once was a lass from ages past, an elf she be with a lot of sass. A queen wid a sword, the sight left none board. A beauty she be, morethan you er me. A shame ye see, a great tragedy. Dat fool man o 'ers only liked her ass. The lass, the lass she's more th'n just'n ass. Dat much I could see, but she won' sail 'way wid me..."

----


OOC: Performance 13
This message was last edited by the player at 05:58, Thu 30 July 2020.

Sularius entered the The Wizard's Grace with a content smile on his face and a bounce to his step. He'd just spent the last couple of hours perusing the collections at the Reliant Book Company which, for such a small and young human settlement, were surprisingly impressive. But for now, there were more important things for him to focus on, the Call for Heroes.

His eyes scanned the room as he entered the tavern, quickly perusing the room and the guests within as he mind began to wander and develop stories for each of them. He shook his head; I'm no storyteller, he thought to himself as his eyes focused on the cute gnomish woman that was sitting near the fire.

He couldn't be sure from this distance, but he thought he saw glint on her neck from the firelight, like what might be caused by scales. Fueled by his curiosity, he made his way to the table, offering a cursory nod to the boy who held no interest to him, and then turned to the gnomish woman who he could now clearly see had red dragon scales on the back of her neck. "Good morning, I'm Sularius, may I join you?" he asked as he motioned to one of the chairs.

I figured on 18 perception check was good enough to notice the scales...if not, let me know

15:35, Today: Sularius Alariel rolled 18 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 11.  Perception.

What can be described as one of the most beautiful of elves just walked through the entrance of The Wizard's Grace. Her long semi-wavy red hair went to the small of her back, and was think and silky smooth. She was elegant, tall, and gorgeous as if she was chiseled straight from Shelyn's bosom herself. Considering her mother was the head of the artisan guild, and thus Shelyn's church in Breachill, that thought wasn't far fetched.

There was her trusty black cat, Jasmine, wrapped around her neck. Suddenly the small feline jumped from her shoulder and scurried over to the bar.

"Don't cause any problems Jasmine." Yala would slowly make her way over towards the fire where the gnome, Sularius, and the other gentlemen are sitting. Offering them a smile. "So...yeah, can I sit with you guys?" Even her voice was soft, serene, gentle on the ears to hear.

"I won't!" The black cat called back as it leaped onto the bar at one end. Which would likely be odd, if the girl and her talking feline weren't natives to here. Wait, talking feline? "Mrow! ...bowl of milk please?"

Some people make an entrance, some people just walk in the door.

After Yalandlara's entrance, the next elf to appear on the scene can only "walk in the door."  She's tallish and thin, with whatever curves she possesses buried under layers of cloth and gear, but there is a glow to her skin and a warmth to her eyes that make her feel approachable--the girl next door or a kind older sister.

She goes right to the bartender and places her order, "A mug of ale to quaff, and a bottle of wine to share, and Cailean's blessings be upon you and those who take your fare."

That was odd.  Usually the rhyme is "and another mug to share".

And so saying sits down near the end of the bar, leaving the stool on the very end open to whomever wanted to speak to her.  After receiving her order, she raises her cup high and downs the ale in a few quick swallows, AH!! Okay, now I'm ready for confessions! Come one, come all!  The Accidental God needs no pew or booth!  Just an open stool and a friendly ear.  No judgement in these hallowed halls, just us baptizing our sorrows in alcohol!"

The place was becoming more and more crowded, which made a large man like Maerk feel more and more cramped. He shifted uncomfortably, heard the bench groan in protest, and decided to inquire about the sellsword's dagger.

"Much pretty this knife, you find or spoil of war? Many spoils has Maerk taken, but Maerk now have not much. Maerk will win the choose. You go choose?"

Nezaglomie notices the strangers attention right away.  She could hear her mother's voice in her head, He's just another boy hoping to be with you.  With Za's natural beauty, she certainly had no shortage of boys, and even adult gnomes, making such attempts, but this was a big and she wasn't quite sure how to act.

The man walks directly to her table,  "Good morning, I'm Sularius, may I join you?" he asks as he motions to one of the chairs.

"Of course, please, ummm, sir," Nezaglomie responds, somewhat unsure how to answer.  He used a familiar form right away, as if we knew each other.  Maybe he is a barbarian. "I am called Nezaglomie.  It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Za is just working up the courage to ask the man whether he was here for the Event when a stunningly beautiful elf enters the publick house, drawing all eyes to her.  As the woman approaches with her lovely black kitty wrapped around her neck, Za relaxes a bit.  Ahh, an elf, probably a wizard with that familiar.  Surely she is someone who knows the appropriate way to greet a stranger.  I may get some relief, after all, from the brain-damaged man and the barbarian.  The gnome brightens with a welcoming smile and hopes the elf will join this table.

After speaking quietly to her cat, the lovely woman approaches.  "So...yeah, can I sit with you guys?" Her voice is soft, serene, quite gentle, but her phrasing, her overly-familiar tone, her use of the word 'guys' (!?!) is terribly jarring.  As if I am not even here!

"Please, lady," Nezaglomie manages through slightly clenched teeth.  Are all the bigs so terribly ...  Even within her own mind, the gnome hesitates to use the word 'rude.'
This message was last edited by the player at 14:12, Thu 30 July 2020.

In reply to Maerk (msg # 13):

The silent swordsman looks up from his knife and stares at Maerk for a second. With one gloved hand he rubs it quickly along the side of the knife and the blade bursts into flames. The tongues of the fire lick at his hand but he doesn't seem to notice it. With his free hand he rubs it along the side of the knife and it extinguishes again.

"Yeah...I'm going to get chosen. You might as well pack up and find another shithole to work out of."

His tone and demeanor had shifted to open hostility after finding out that Maerk was indeed potential competition.

---

In reply to Arnellia (msg # 12):

The old bartender cocks his head in confusion at the mutation of a typical Cayden blessing. With a shrug he turns and fills up a mug with ale and pulls a bottle of wine off the shelf. It is only a few years old and Arnellia doesn't recognize the label but one can't expect a fine wine selection in an isolated town like Breachill.

Sularius nods in thanks to the lovely gnomish woman and takes a seat. He opened his mouth to speak just as a beautiful elven woman approached the table. He stands, waiting for the elf to take a seat, before reclaiming his.

Addressing both of them he smiles broadly and says, "I am Sularius Alariel of Iadara. I am a lorekeeper of my people and seeker of lost mysteries, hopeful to join the Call for Heroes. Are you both here for the Call as well?"

Yarr hears a voice seemingly doing a cat impersonation for some reason, and so he pops his head up from the side of the bar where he was cleaning up the spilled bits to see what manner of weirdo was there near him. Sure enough, right there on the bar is a certain someone's talking cat.

"Gorblimey ifid ain't n 'onest ta gods talkin' whisker warbler! Hail, slinky friend! I dun think the ale slinger 'eard ye, but I've some vittles if ye don't mind 'em. There for me 'ound but he dun mind sharin' or cats. Had a little one imself once name'a Biscuits. Durn thing stole me boat but I'ain' no racist."

OOC: Any decent level of discernment between truth and just spinning tall tales could tell that Yarr neveer actually had his boat stolen by a cat named Biscuits. Though his dog may have had a cat friend named that.

Nezaglomie is still trying to relax her jaws when a flame bursts forth on another table.  A half-elf is holding a flaming blade!  As much as she appreciates the fire magic, the gnome is still surprised that such a thing is tolerated in a public place such as this.

The man called Sularius finally finds his manners, no doubt because of the beautiful -- if crass -- elven woman who has joined them.  He does, at least, have the courtesy to include Za in his attention as he speaks.  I'm just as pretty as she is, after all.  ... only a bit shorter.  The gnome brightens at the complete and formal introduction.  "A lorekeeper?  I had thought ...  nevermind.  You must have some fascinating stories, Sularius Alariel.  I have just completed training in sorcery in my home village of Loxellithan.  I know not of our companion, here, but for myself, yes, I am here for the Call For Heroes, as well.  I do wish you the best of luck in the challenges, and I hope that I represent Loxellithan well."

"I am a cat, not a 'whisker warbler'." The feline stood on it's hind legs, and held up it's front paws as if doing...air quotes? "My name as Jasmine, I am Yalandlara's familiar, she created me." Created...? "I will take that piece of meat right there." The intriguing black feline pointed a paw at a very specific piece of the scraps that was mostly meat.

"Markle...can I have a bowl of milk please. Yala will pay for it like she always does." The feline asked politely once more. Sitting at the end of the bar.
________________________________________________________

Yala would smile to Za, Sularius, and the other gentlemen. "Thank you!" She said happily. "I am Yalandlara Vallindel, of, well, here." She said with a soft smile sheepishly. That means....she IS the daughter of the Shelyn priestess. "I am an Alchemist that specializes in healing. I brew and sell mostly healing potions and the like, and heal others using alchemy instead of magic at my mother's temple since I do not have the divine spark in me."

Before she sits, she would take of the scabbard that contained her long elven curved blade and leaned it against the table. Then took a seat with them. "If either of you ever need healed, let me know and I well help you. Sick, poisoned, whatever." She pointed to a series of vials in a bandoleer along her chest. "I'm here for the Call of Hero's myself."

Every now and then she would glance towards the bar, where a black cat appeared to be talking to Yarr, a goblin. Yes, a talking cat.

Sularius nods to Nezaglomie, "I have been apprenticed as a lorekeeper for nearly a hundred years, so yes, I know many fascinating stories, but alas have none of my own. That is why I am here," he added with a warm smile. And then his brow furrows as if thinking hard about something. "You say sorcerer training? I had surmised as much due to, well, due to your appearance. But I was under the impression that sorcery was more...intuitive than wizardry. I'm curious to know what sort of training is required; is it more to do with controlling the inherent magic already within you?"

He then turns to Yalandlara, "Alchemy? Interesting, and I can imagine having your skills available would be quite advantageous. You mentioned you are from here; I wonder, could you share with as how this 'Call to Heroes' works? There seem to be many here, and I can't imagine there is work enough for all of this. Nezaglomie mentioned challenges of some sort. Is that how the heroes are chosen?"

The bartender scowls and shouts at Yalandlara from across the room.

"Yala, get your blasted cat freak off the bar. I won't be wiping up muddy footprints again."

Markle's reaction is less about the dirt and more about the fact that a talking cat disturbs him to no end. 'Cat's are for purrin', not conversin'' as he would always say.