It was as near to an average dead of night as one could imagine.  each of you is asleep, whether deeply and comfortably, or in fitful, restless tossing.  but each of you is awakened in the same manner by an unearthly glow as a magical sending penetrates your drowsy mind.  Worryingly, this invasion also bypasses any resistances or defenses you may have in place to prevent just such intrusions!

The sending itself is from an older, seemingly human male.  His robes are reminiscent of what one would expect from a courtly wizard, though they lack any obvious arcane symbols or marking of country affiliation.  He has bags under his eyes, and his voice cracked faintly, a sign of bone-tired weariness.

"Forgive me, I hope I don't alarm you, but time is short...I cannot go into details, but there are grave tidings from the kingdom of Arawndyl.  While he cannot admit it, the king pleads for aid...I have been told that only the remnants of the Silver Company can aid us...I do not know who this message will reach, but I beg of you, if you can, come to the Gilded Stag Inn in Arawdyl City in three days time...the fate of the kingdom, and possibly the world are in your hands!"

There is a sensation as the spell fades.  As if some force was trying to listen in, but moments too late...something malevolent, but unidentifiable.  Leaving you suddenly awake, with far more questions than answers, and only one way to even potentially have your curiosity satisfied.

Before the words of the strange dream apparition had finished echoing his mind, Markus found himself sitting bolt upright with a dagger in his hand. His darkened bedroom was bereft of foes, and only the steady breathing of the form beside him gave any indication that he wasn't alone.

But the aging Bounty Hunter was not about to let himself be lulled back into a false sense of security. Not with the enemies that he had made over the years. He quieted his own quickened breath and made sure that there were no physical threats creeping through his house that a sleep addled mind could falsely produce. Once he was satisfied, the big man stealthily rose from his bed and made for his wardrobe.

With quick, practiced movements he donned his rugged travel pantaloons and tunic. Riding boots, gloves, and sword belt quickly followed. Finally, the leather doublet that was the Jester's Raiment, and his signature sallet helm completed the ensemble. And for the first time in many months, he felt fully himself again. His reputation was such that he did not often have opportunity to track down those that defaulted on their loans. And no matter how much love he had for his family, in his heart of hearts, Markus was always going to be a man of action.

Moving with surprising silence for a man his size, and clad in such protective gear, the grizzled warrior moved over to his wife's side of the bed. He gently brushed his lips against the dark skin of her forehead, and for the briefest of moments a smile seemed to break through his natural scowl. The moment passed, and Markus went over to his writing desk. He scribbled a terse, but informative note. Liane was a smart woman. She would be able to read between the lines. And she had known what kind of man she was marrying when they became betrothed all those years ago. This was not the first time he had suddenly have to run off into potential danger in the middle of the night. She would understand.

Stealing out of the room, Markus traveled down the hall to peak into his girls room. Serafina was snoring just as she always did, and Catrin hugged her stuffed rabbit tightly in her slumber.

"I love you both..." he rumbled quietly into the still night air.

With that, he turned on his heel and made for the entrance. He stopped only long enough to grab the Headsman from it's place of honor above the mantle piece. He was out the door in moments. Markus saddled an mounted his horse with impressive speed and dexterity for someone preparing a horse in pitch blackness. The Bounty Hunter had mounted his favored destrier and ridden off into the blackness with the surety and swiftness of a man on a mission.

Either this was a legitimate call for help from a powerful and influential person, or a trick from some foe. Either way, he would take the job and increase the fortunes of his family, or he would mercilessly slay the potential threat, and anyone connected to them. No one posed a danger to his family and lived.

And so the Gilded Stag Inn in Arawdyl City was his destination. Where there he would either find fortune or blood. Possibly both.

  In a rough-walled chamber of a winding tunnel, several wind-breaking turns back from the entrance, Kella Stravnos sat up with what would have once been totally uncharacteristic aplomb. While the wizard's message played out, she reached one thin hand from under her pile of furs—bugbear, judging by the smell—and flicked a sizzling flame through the apparition's center of mass. It didn't even ripple.

  "Hmph," she grumbled. "Not a ghost."

  She laid back down with entirely unnecessary force and rolled over to put her back to the sending, but it just remained centered in her vision. She even screwed her eyes tightly closed. Nothing helped until the spell ended on its own, leaving her to again breathe steadily in the utter dark. It was several minutes before she sighed, a sound every bit as tired as the man's voice had been, and sat up a second time.

  "Not that kind of ghost." She waved at a pile of dry logs even further into the cave than her bedding, and ribbons of fire began to weave through the stacks. They gave off enough light to see the ring of blackened stones next to her, the pot suspended over them, and the charcoal she could have lit instead. Kella took her time standing, then even more collecting her things. A pan, some camp utensils, a worn pair of boots. The smoke rapidly filling the tiny cavern didn't seem to bother her. A heavy cloak. A spark made the leap to her pile of furs, and she stepped carefully over it on her way toward the exit.

  Almost no light reached the mouth of the cave, but the crackling of the wood was louder than her footsteps on the gravel. She paused there, long enough to give the stars a sullen glare, and began the long hike down out of the hills. A few dozen yards, though, and she turned around to kick over a rotten log. It took her some real digging through the strongbox hidden underneath before she pulled out a clinking purse. Arawdyl was more than a week's walk; three days would be a hard ride, and a horse wasn't optional. She might even have to enchant it as she went. Whatever else was in the box, she left exposed and abandoned. They had asked for a remnant. She hoped they'd be appropriately disappointed.

The sending itself was a bit unnerving.  Not frightening really; more unusual and a bit foreboding. Far more inconvenient was the sound of his door practically being shattered from its hinges. It would seem that some spellcaster among his court had sensed the breach of their wards and alerted the guards. While Hargrim couldn’t fault his men for loyal service, the deafening din, and his wife’s shocked cries could have been skipped entirely if he’d had any such choice in the matter.  Still...there had been a sending, and there were agitated, heavily-armed dwarves in his room. Despite being clad in a dressing gown, Hargrim drew himself up and tapped into the mantle of his authority as a ruler, his deep voice booming out at parade-ground volumes.  ”Hold!  Hold, gods damn you!  Remember yourselves!  I am unharmed!  Someone bring me Fingolf and Thrain...immediately!”

Hargrim was mildly satisfied to see his guards jumping into action, carrying out his orders with haste and skill.  In only a short time, his son and his chancellor were gathered in his chambers as Hargrim dressed,  he pulled on weathered traveling clothes, his tunic emblazoned with the royal coat of arms.  He clasped hands with his son, and clapped his wisened chancellor on the back as he spoke.  ”Proper explanations must wait.  I’ve been given word and dire warning of problems greater than our kingdom. Thrain...you’re not ready for the crown, my son, not even temporarily...but neither was I, and i’ve Managed not to lead us to destruction. I’m sure you’ll surpass that sad bar.  Fingolf, old friend, I can count on you to continue providing a voice of wisdom to the throne?  Good!  A king’s departure isn’t a moment of State, so spread word quietly, and see to it everyone does as they should.”  Hargrim had never worn his emotions openly, and wasn’t about to start now. His fondness spoke through his concern for others, as always.

Hargrim trod to his armory, and for a few brief moments, a grin flitted across his craggy features. He moved with decisive sureness, donning his plate, and clasping his enchanted satchel, with its variety of essential items stored within. With a sigh that mixed longing, satisfaction, and sorrow, he hefted a heavy, one-handed warhammer, his legendary Forgesmiter, the weapon that had given his clan a name millennia ago.  That bit of history carried its own set of burdens and obligations...oh yes.  Clasping his arming belt, gauntlets hanging from it, he tugged on a worn but sturdy pair of hob-nailed boots.  His journey would normally have taken 5 days on foot.  He intended to push through and do it in three.

As he set out, Hargrim almost chuckled as he fell back into old habits, muttering an old marching song to himself as he strode out into the world at large again.  King Steelsplitter would leave his kingdom with regret.  The wicked, the wild, and the untamed could tremble in fear as Hargrim Steelsplitter, Moradin’s Wrath, descended on the world once more.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:01, Fri 04 Jan 2019.

unlike many other taverns along the torch-lit street, this one wasn't particularly rowdy.  in fact, it was austere by comparison.  Sitting rapt upon chairs and benches, an array of men and women, young and old all gathered.  In one corner, on a small, raised stage, a hooded, robed, and gloved figure stood among a group of musicians.  She held a lute in her hands, and she strummed an intricate melody to complement the soft droning skirl of pipes and a doleful harp as she began to sing an old Elvish love song.  Though no one in the crowd understood the words, her voice, alternating between a frail, tremulous quaver and ringing tones, conveyed sense of love, loss, yearning, and regret that every soul there could understand.

As she sang her her accompanying band played on, two helpers walked through the crowd, collecting donations from patrons.  While she never paused in her playing, her attention seemed to shift to each patron for a split second, a brief acknowledgement of their generosity.  As her song wound to a close, she strummed out a last few mournful notes and sighed.

"Please, let me thank you all for your generosity.  From the looks of it, I have to inform you with mixed feelings, that tonight will be my final night playing at this inn."  She held her hands up, trying to forestall cries of disbelief and sadness.  "I'm flattered, really I am!  But as much as you've been an amazing audience, and one among many I'm blessed to have heard, I really must be moving on soon.  Thank you!"

Leaving the stage, she swept up[stairs to her rooms, taking the purse of donated coins from an assistant.  She counted them slowly, and with a hint of trepidation in trembling fingers bit down on one, then laughed.  She pulled down her hood, revealing the deep pink, almost reddish hue of a Tiefling woman, and giggled with girlish glee.  She whistled sharply and an assistant came in shortly.

"Get this boxed up and sent to Lord Highbairn.  If it's not on a horse within the hour, I'm taking it from your hide..."  As her assistant fled, she let herself drop backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully.  "Ten years...god...that felt like forever..."

Satari drifted off to sleep shortly after, until being awoken by the sudden sending.  After doing her best to check if it was a dream (it wasn't), and if she'd lost her mind in the last several hours (not impossible, but unlikely), she decided it must be true.  And what timing!  Giggling again with wicked glee, Satari reached for the greatsword on the floor, snapping the thin silver wire of its peacebond easily enough.  Things would be very interesting soon...but luck was on her side...after all, it was hard to get much closer to Aradwyl City than already being in Aradwyl City!

Acanthya was having a pleasant dream filled with gently rolling hills and meadows lush with vibrant grasses when the apparition formed in her bedroom. The man's voice filled her mind and for a brief moment, she thought it part of the dream. As the visitor continued his plea, her mind was grudgingly forced into wakefulness. With the edge of her blanket pulled tightly against her chin, she sat up. Blue eyes starred intently at the old man as he delivered his message and then faded back into the nothingness from which he had come.

"Well, that was different," Acanthya thought to herself as she glanced at the small table beside her bed.

Upon it set her nightly tea, grown cold with the predawn chill. She didn't remember putting anything in it beside the herbal mixture Mother Grannin had prescribed, but the night's events made her seriously question herself. Reaching out a slender hand, she dipped her finger into the cool liquid and brought the digit to her lips. Tentatively, she tasted it and almost immediately her pretty face screwed up with disgust. While the medicine woman's concoction was good for helping her get to sleep, it lacked the finer nuances of palatability.

With a resigned sigh, Acanthya threw back the covers and stood. Dressed only in a thin gown of pale silk, the dark-haired woman walked over to the room's lone window and looked out into the gloom. Her elven heritage allowed her eyes to pierce the darkness and she could see the small garden filled with early spring growth. Beyond that, and just at the very edge of her vision, the sweeping canopy of an old oak tree beckoned. She knew she had to answer the summons, but she knew she had to visit the massive tree before she could.

Small, pale feet shuffled quietly along the earthen trail that led from the cottage to the majestic oak. Any sign of greenery had long been worn away from the frequent trips to and fro, the path cleared by an incessant longing that would never be fulfilled. Acanthya paused when she reached the first intrusive root that jutted up from the ground. Stepping carefully across, she smiled as she remembered the first time she had tripped over it. That smiled quickly faded when the gnarled fastness of the tree finally stood before her.

Sinome risa amin heart ten'oio," Acanthya whispered softly as her fingers traced the prominent runes carved into the oak. "Here lies Kadrian, beloved husband of Acanthya, stalwart companion of The Silver Company, and valiant foe of all that was evil."

Unshed tears glimmered in Acanthya's eyes as she read those damning runes. It had been three years since his death and even now, the half-elf could not help but feel the pain of his loss. Sinking to her knees beneath the sheltering canopy, she leaned bodily against the tree and wept. When her sorrow had finally dissipated, she smiled weakly.

"I'm sorry to keep doing this. I know you've always told me to be strong, but it's so hard without you. You were my strength, the one whom I could always count on to stand with me against the fiercest of storms. Now, the clouds gather once more and I'm not sure if I can do it without you. I must try, however, regardless of the outcome."

Pushing herself back to her feet, she unashamedly dried her dampened eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. Dusting off her hands and knees, she bowed her head once more, eyes closed and her lips slightly trembling.

"I just wanted you to know why I stopped coming up here for our daily talks. Hopefully, I will come back and regale you with the epic story of how The Silver Company once more thwarted the vile machinations of darkness, in whatever form it has decided to threaten us this time," Acanthya said with a sad laugh. "Regardless, know that I miss you. They say time heals all wounds, but memory is the vicious reminder that undermines time's efforts. I love you now more than ever and wherever you are, I hope you are proud of me."

Placing her hand upon the runes one last time, Acanthya turned and slowly walked back down the path. Her mind was already mulling over the apparition's words and what they could mean. Flexing her hand, she looked at it with an almost questioning cast to her lovely face. It had been many years since she had seen combat or used magic for anything more mundane than keeping her cottage clean. Hopefully, the feel of steel in her hand would dispel the domestic tranquility she had enjoyed and bring back the honed combatant that she once was.

The first light of dawn found Acanthya astride Mist, galloping down the King's Road toward Aradwyl City. A hastily erected sign giving her students some homework to accomplish while she was away was all she left to explain her absence. Armed with her trusted sword and clad in her recently polished armor, her slender form was cloaked and hooded by a grandiose garment of a deep, azure hue. A dagger and small, sturdy pack finished her adventurous ensemble. It was a three day ride from her quaint little village to the capitol and Acanthya would need those three days to become accustomed once more to the weight and responsibility of her armaments.

OOC
Sinome risa amin heart ten'oio: Here lies my heart forever.
I used an online elvish translator that I'm fond of...:-)
https://lingojam.com/TheTelQuessirOnlineTranslator
This message was last edited by the player at 16:44, Sat 05 Jan 2019.

Aradwyl City was a fairly-sized city.  Not a kingdom's capital worth hours of regaling and the stuff of legends, but as the center of a kingdom whose fortunes and value came from rich mining, forging, and timber, it was a prosperous place.  THe city was surrounded by high, thick walls, and while the guardians at the numerous gates were alert, they were also quite polite, and didn't seem inclined to hassle anyone who hadn't given them cause to be obstructive.

Despite their numbers, the areas of the city were referred to as "quarters", despite there being quite a few more than four.  A few questions of locals reveals that the Gilded Stag is not, as one might assume, in the Visitor's Quarter where a number of other inns are.  It is in the Merchant's Quarter, bordering on the Smith's Quarter.  As you approach, it's clear that tactically, if someone didn't want to be found, it's a good choice.  The streets have a faint haze of soot and smoke from the forges, and the steady ringing of anvils is constant in the background.  Being one of the prime commerce areas of the city, it is also remarkably crowded.

The Gilded Stag itself seems to cater to foreigners.  While the majority of the clientele is human, a few elves and dwarves, and one rather drunk gnome who most people seem to be ignoring say a lot for the fact that disparate types are often seen there.  The room wasn't filled to the brim, but most tables were occupied, and the bar area itself, policed by an old, overweight innkeeper with a sharp, but witty tongue.

A league or so from the city, Grim stopped and changed.  It wouldn't do to march into a foreign kingdom dressed to take on an army; especially not if he was recognized!  Things could be a bit awkward then, and he preferred to avoid a diplomatic scandal.  So Grim did his best to blend into the crowds approaching the city, just one more dwarf in travel-stained, serviceable clothes.  After asking a few folk for directions, he slowly made his way to the Gilded Stag.  Along the way, he did detour to the Smith's Quarter.  As the ruler of a neighboring kingdom, it never hurt to see what goods were worth negotiating a bit of trade.  Or what craftsmen were skilled enough to be worth luring away to more lucrative pastures.

It was a nice distraction, spending a few hours wandering from smith to smith, looking over wares, even comparing a few journeyman notes with vastly more experienced artists of their crafts.  Part of Grim was actually amused to realize he was nervous about seeing who from the Company might return.  He had a number of guesses, but given how many old friends he knew about that he'd lost, speculation was a wasted exercise.  Instead, he walked into the Gilded Stag.

After looking around for a few moments, Grim commandeered a table.  No one commented, and a few pointed looks as others he'd never seen before approached told him that he hadn't lost too much of a step over time.  He ordered an ale, and waited.  It wasn't even the 100th time he'd been the beacon, the standard-bearer for the Company, and this felt appropriate.

The feel of the wind against her face as Mist's smooth gallop ate up the miles to Aradwyl City did wonders to invigorate Acanthya's adventurous spirit. Even the simplest of tasks held an easy familiarity and by the morning of the third day, just as the city's stone walls came into view, the dark-haired beauty had once again embraced her true calling. Gone was the village teacher and the domestic trappings that had been her life for the better part of a decade. Returned was the alert, warrior mage that bards still spun epics about around the tavern hearth, once more ready to do what was necessary to provide succor to those in need.

Making her way through the throngs of people that crowded the streets, she wrinkled her nose at the plethora of smells that inundated the city. The heavy miasma of soot, sewage, sweat, and a multitude of various odors gave the half-elf a moment of pause. It had been almost ten years since she had smelled anything but crisp, country air and it was a bit overwhelming. Grasping the reins of her horse as if to steady herself, she took several deep breaths to acclimate to the city's aroma before continuing.

Finally, after many twists and turns, Acanthya found herself before the Gilded Stag. From the outside it was less than impressive, but given the nature of their summons, it appeared perfect. Dismounting, she reached up and removed the helm of her half-plate armor. Sweat-dampened locks of purest night, free from their metallic prison, cascaded down around her beautiful visage. Turning her blue eyes toward the pair of stable boys that ran out to get her horse, she smiled warmly, strapped her helmet to her saddle, and reached into a pouch at her belt. Two gold coins were held on her outstretched hand as she held up her other hand to silence the two boys.

"This is Mist, a very good friend of mine. She's tired and in need of some water, oats, and a good rubdown," Acanthya said as she handed each of the dumbfounded waifs one of the golden coins. "Now, if Mist's saddle and armor are polished by tomorrow morning, I'll give you each another gold piece. Good?"

The two stableboys nodded wordlessly and quickly led the tired mare off toward the stables. Acanthya, still smiling, reached back and pulled her trusted sword from its scabbard. Glancing at it for a moment, she concentrated briefly and it vanished. Safely hidden away in a small pocket dimension, it would return at her call. In civilized surroundings, she had always considered the ability to appear unarmed while armed a great asset. Confident all was taken care of, Acanthya wasted no more time and entered the Gilded Stag.

Once inside, the dark-haired woman allowed her gaze to sweep the inn's patrons. Her intent was twofold, first she was looking for danger and second, she was anxious to see if any of her old companions had beaten her here. Thankfully it appeared safe, if a bit seedy, and her primary reason for her perusal was sitting at a table, waiting for his companions as if only a night of heavy drinking had held the rest up and not a sojourn of ten, long years.

"Hargrim...or should I say, Your Majesty," Acanthya said with a broad smile as she stopped in front of the lone dwarf's table. "Fancy meeting you here. Mind if I sit down?"

Grim looked up as a shadow fell across his table. While he kept his aura reined in tightly, his natural presence did a wonderful job of leaving space around him. Which only left a few, possibly more cheerful options. Grim looked up, and a small, but distinct smile rugged at his craggy features despite his efforts to hide it. That armor...he remembered it and the girl who wore it well. It only took a small amount of neck craning to take in Acanthya’s ethereal beauty.  Even if she’d Met him 50 years earlier, before he’d married, she was too much of a wisp, but he saw the appeal to others.  He frowned and kicked out a chair, stopping it just shy of hitting her knees as he grumbled.

”Take it for a warning lass; i’ll Let my own ‘majesty’ me because I owe it to them to lead. But from you?!  I’d sooner choke on an old boot.  Now, if my old Second wanted to join me for a drink to older days and fonder memories...that I’d gladly accept.”  Grim heaved to his feet and held out a hand, clasping wrists with Acanthya, then, doubtlessly to her eternal shock, the gruff dwarf pulled her in for a brief hug.  ”It broke my heart to hear about Kadrian.  I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.  You know if there’s anything within my power to do, lass...”  Grim trailed off. Bursts of sentimentality weren’t his strong suit, but he knew the gesture would matter.