It is a late spring evening, a warm breeze floats through the Sleeping Owl even as the rain turns the roads outside into an impassable morass. The usual riff-raff is here tonight - farmers, laborers, loose women looking for entertainment, everyone looking for company, game, or drink. Not necessarily in that order.

On the closer tables sit the regulars, who talk about the day's work at their farms or mills, and the state of their favorite bulls and cows. The guards have their own table against the far wall, next to the fire. They are granted that perk for having to work late at nights in the cold. A special table is reserved for the women who come in, specially the married ones. They are left to their own. On the other side of the room sits the priestess of Chariss, in the company of the one wizard in town, a man usually dressed in somber dark robes with a large hood. They make a strange pair, her youthful beauty in contrast to his old grizzled beard and long unkempt gray hair. While her eyes shine with kindness and compassion, his evaluate everyone and everything they lay on, giving you the feeling that there is something hidden he was seeking to guard against.

And then there's you.

You have a few spare tables to yourselves, reserved for the "new blood". There seems to be many of you here tonight, recently arrived from the eastern road and looking for a place to stay. The Sleeping Owl is a large tavern. Whoever built it had enough foresight to believe it would have to host many souls in their travels. And he was right.

As you sit on the stiff wooden bench which runs the length of the table, a bar maid strolls by with trays in her hand, heading for another table.

"Be rig't wi't you, lads, lasses. 'ts a busy nig't t'is one, w'at wi't t'e rain and all. Stay warm, is w'at I say. Find a good set of arms around yea, and keep 'em t'ere."

Her inviting demeanor played well off her buxom curves, but everyone in here knew that Larissa already had all the company she wanted, being the blacksmith's wife. Still, she is a rumpy woman who enjoys men's attention. But you wouldn't dare cross her. She would brain you with a iron skillet before you knew it.

As you sit there at the table, surrounded by faces you haven't seen before and the din of loud drinking, bad singing, and a boisterous game of dice, you take notice of the people who share your table.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:22, Mon 20 Apr 2020.

The usual riff-raff is here tonight ...

Sitting among them is a garrulous elf with an easy smile and a mischievious twinkle in his eye.  Young as his type go, he is dressed in the latest urban fashion, if plainly, in shades of green and brown.  Average height but with a wrestler's wiry build, he has metal armour under the clothes, sword and bow, and looks capable.

You have a few spare tables to yourselves, reserved for the "new blood".

After a few circles of friendly mingling, the elf ends up here.  "A long day on a long road," he says idly to the fellow newcomers, some of whom he had seen earlier that day in passing.  "Almost drank as much dust then as ale now.  I'm Petar, traveler and storyteller.  Now that the travels are done, let the stories begin.  Now where is that wench?"

In reply to Petar the Elf (msg # 2):

Phelan responds with more of a grunt than a greeting. Her eyes are downcast yet still seem to be surveying the room. She eventually grumbles, "Phelan"