It is as the last rays of sunlight are retreating over the woods beyond the town that a rider makes his way down the cobbled main street. He is tall and muscular, with curly, blonde hair. A cloak of navy blue is draped loosely over his left shoulder, which does nothing to conceal either his shirt of chainmail nor the gilded greatsword which is strapped to the side of his mount; a white destrier stallion of fine breeding. The farmers on their way to the local tavern glance at him with looks of awe and wonder as he reigns in his charger outside 'The Thricehung Bard' and, after giving the establishment a dubious glance, dismounts, tethers his mount and enters.

The tavern is busy this late in the evening. Farmers and traders alike have gathered there to drink and talk, their work for the day done. A few mercenaries are scattered about the room, the raw lads seated in shadowy corners silently watching and the more seasoned veterans positioned closer to the fire, ale in hand. The atmosphere is a friendly one, and the barman, making his way between tables with six mugs of ale in hand, seems to know most of his patrons by name. Now and then, a snatch of laughter or coarse jest rises above the general noise.

A few men look up as the stranger enters but aside from a few shifty looks from some of the mercenaries in the corner, he attracts little notice.

The warrior approaches the bar, drumming a gloved hand on the counter as he awaits the barman's return.

"You there," he addresses the man as he returns, "I am seeking a war hero who I am informed is a resident of these parts. A dwarf by the name of Dorin Durendil."

"Old Durendil, eh? Aye, a good man he is, least for a dwarf," the barman replies. "Lives in the mansion far end of town, near the lake, though those what have business with him ought to know that. He--"

Before he can finish his sentence, there is a sound from outside as if from a sudden crash of thunder (though all know the evening was clear and fine, and there is no accompanying rain)-- and a moment later, the door is flung open again to reveal a slender, handsome and rather youthful looking varim-- though the arrogant sneer curling his charcoal-grey features and the mud dirtying his snowy hair do much to disguise this. He is garbed in purple-and-black robes embroidered with spiderweb patterns that have clearly seen better days, being also mudstained and with the torn look of robes that lost a fight against Thanian briars, and his left arm hangs stiffly, as if wounded.

He looks between the veterans--whose hands are already hovering over their swords-- to the farmers-- who look as if they would like to be doing the same if only they had swords-- to the bar, where the resplendent warrior stands, red eyes lingering on the chainmail and the fine noble's garb underneath it that mark him as a man who not only clearly outranks everyone else in this room, but may also be able to outfight everyone else in this room, too.

The varim bears down on him, slightly limping.

"Wine for me, barman. You, Paladin. Been waiting long? It's your own fault if you have been. You could have told your men to give me better directions for this place for our trade than just 'the town on the other side of the forest.' The wolf problems you have here in these parts are disgusting."
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:06, Mon 05 Oct 2020.

The paladin, who clutches his greatsword by the scabbard and appears just as inclined to draw his weapon as any other of the men in the room, gives the varim a puzzled frown.

"I believe you have me confused with someone else, varim," he says tersely.

The varim, leaning somewhat heavily on the counter, sends him a dark look as he withdraws a geld and slides it across the counter to the barman, who reluctantly sets racism aside in favour of scooping up the geld and departing to the back room in search of said wine. Once the barman is gone, he replies in a low sneer:

"You think I don't know that? If I'd been meant to be meeting you, human, I wouldn't be calling you 'Paladin'. But since I don't want to be spitted and you don't want me to set off a fireball in here, and, moreover, have codes if you're a knight that demand that you protect innocent people, bear with me and pretend to know me so things in this pathetic cesspool do not escalate. One day of rest is all I need, and then I will be gone and you can move on with your dull, heroic existence and forget you ever met me."
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:41, Mon 05 Oct 2020.

The knight appears quite taken aback by this response, opening his mouth, then closing it once more, his brow furrowing even further.

"Who are you?" he manages at length, lowering his voice as he looks the varim up and down, "And what the blazes happened to you?"

The varim sends him a scowl, but seems to decide that his usual default option of 'it's none of your business' is probably not applicable here, since he is making it the knight's problem.

"You may call me Your Lordship or Lord Zaelinor. I'm not from these parts, so I doubt you've heard of me. As for my current state, assassins are what 'happened' to me. One assassin called Mordus Antari in particular, whose entrails I will take great pleasure in feeding to wild pigs once I get hold of the filthy curn. Filthy sxy'rox of a spiderspawn," the varim mutters, red eyes glinting with malice.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:25, Mon 05 Oct 2020.

The knight does not seem to recognise the name of either the varim or the assassin hunting him, but he seems suitably disturbed by the tale.

"Assassins?" he repeats, pausing as the barman shuffles back in with the varim's wine, and continuing once the obsequious man has moved away to a table of rowdy mercenaries, "Who hired these assassins? And why are they hunting you?" he adds, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"How should I know? The one who sends the assassins knows the answers to those questions, not the one being targeted by them," Zaelinor sneers, withdrawing what looks a lot like a thin needle of silver from a sleeve and dipping it in his wine and withdrawing it, eying it for a bit.

Apparently satisfied with the colour of the needle (it stays silver instead of turning poison-black), he puts the needle away and takes a sip, expression souring even more when he tastes it. "Disgusting swill... As I say, one day of rest is all I require, not an investigation on my behalf if that is why you are asking. When not surprised while in reverie, I assure you, I am more than capable of solving my own problems. I assume you are up to providing protection for me for one day, by the way? My uncle tells me Thanian knights are disgustingly softhearted, and I'm sure I'm more deserving of aid than whatever pathetic peasant you actually came to this cesspit to help. If your matters can't be put aside, then I will even volunteer to lend you my extraordinary intellect and services free of charge for the 24-hour duration, which considering standard mercenary rates and my usual consulting fees should be more than sufficient payment for anyone for one day of bodyguarding."

It's said arrogantly, but the knight gets the distinct impression from the tension in the varim's shoulders and the wary look behind his sneer that the varim doesn't actually have a backup plan for the answer being 'no', and certainly doesn't have the means right now for the standard mercenary rates he refers to.

Lastergon watches the varim's wine testing procedure with a curious glance (he isn't the only one), and his brow furrows in concentration as he attempts to follow the varim's grandiloquent speech. His expression morphs into an unimpressed scowl at the suggestion that he is in Valarn to lend aid to some random peasant.

"I am an emissary of the Crown," he sniffs, puffing out his chest slightly, "And am on a quest of some importance for which I hardly require your assistance."

His gaze lingers on the varim's haggard and ragged appearance for a moment and his expression slowly softens. At length he gives a relenting sigh.

"But I suppose if you insist on tagging along I will not stop you. Just try your best not to get in my way if you can help it. I presume you are not familiar with these parts?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:58, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

The varim bristles at the 'get in the way' line, and the knight gets a poisonous look at the phrase 'tag along', but there's a flicker of relief in his eyes, swiftly burried under the wall of spite that seems to be his default emotion, when the answer is yes. He takes another mouthful of wine, and this time does not insult the flavour of it.

"Not really. One hovel of peasants is much like another with you humans. Is there something I should be aware of, beyond the assassin problems?"

"Hmph," Lastergon grunts, not appearing surprised to learn that Zaelinor knows nothing of the local area.

"Nothing that you need concern yourself with," he replies in answer to the varim's question as he turns away from the bar, "You just worry about those assassins of yours. Assuming they actually exist," he mutters under his breath, clearly underestimating the keenness of varim hearing. He pauses for Zaelinor to finish his wine as he adds in a louder voice, "At present I am on my way to meet a dwarven war hero who supposedly resides in this town."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:23, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

Zaelinor sends him a sour look that says 'would I really look like this if they didn't?' but doesn't verbally rebut that mutter. Instead, he tosses back the rest of his wine and sets his glass down. (Though he seems inclined to keep leaning on the bar until they are actually leaving.)

"Your crown is interested in sending knights to meet an old, useless non-human?" Zaelinor echoes sceptically. "Would I be being too nosy if I asked why?"

Lastegon sends Zaelinor an unimpressed glance as he exits the tavern, slinging his greatsword over his shoulder as he makes his way down the main street as the early evening mist begins to descend about them.

"You would," he informs the varim curtly as he makes his way over to the comfortable looking Durendil Manor through the windows of which firelight crackles merrily. The pair pass through the low gate, down the cobbled path and up a couple of steps to the manor entrance. Lastergon approaches the door, gives it three sharp knocks, then steps back expectantly.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:03, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

He only has to wait a moment before the door swings open to reveal an irascible-looking dwarf with a wild red beard and wilder hair above it, largely hidden under a helm that's missing one horn. Like Lastergon, the dwarf is wearing chainmail over a noble's outfit, but unlike Lastergon, the dwarf's noble's outfit clearly wasn't tailor-made and from the smell of him, either Dorin Durendil does not believe in bathing, or the rumours are true that he bathes while exercising swimming in the very muddy and algae-ridden lake that stagnates at the back of his impressively large estate. A battle-axe is strapped across his back, but he makes no move to draw it.

"Eh?" Dorin says. "Bit young, ain't ye, to be a King's Messenger?" he says, squinting up and down at Lastergon's finery.

"Are you sure you have the right address, human?" Zaelinor murmurs, pressing a scented handkerchief to his nose.

Lastergon wrinkles his nose in turn but resolutely stands his ground.

"I am Lastergon, knight of the Crown," he addresses the dwarf quickly, "I... *ahem* I seek an audience with your master, Lord Dorin Durendil."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:34, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

"Ain't no masters or servants in this house, young man," the dwarf says, with a rowdy laugh. "If it's Dorin Durendil ye be seeking, ye be seeing him. I'd invite ye in, but I don't much like the look of ye companion there. In my day, good Thanians didn't consort with the likes of them, and I stand where I stand no matter how things may've changed with all ye damn treaties. What do ye need, Sir Knight?"
This message was last edited by the player at 03:35, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

Lastergon's eyes widen in surprise upon learning that he is addressing Dorin Durendil.

"Er... right," he stammers, trying to reconcile the appearance of the dwarf before him with the war hero he was imagining, "I have come from Carendisal with an item which Dorclad Redmayne, a relative of yours I believe, was under the impression that you might be of assistance in identifying."

The dwarf's comments about Zaelinor sink in after a moment.

"Oh, this varim is hardly my companian," he says hastily, "I ran into him in the tavern just now."

"That don't make ye judgement any better, young man," Dorin criticizes him roundly, "But so long as yer 'acquaintance' stays out of me house, ye can come inside yerself then. Step in then, and show me yer item."

"Your 'assassins' won't mind if I step away for a moment?" Lastergon asks Zaelinor as he follows after Dorin, maintaining as much distance as possible from the dwarf without appearing rude.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:58, Tue 06 Oct 2020.

"Why would they?" Zaelinor sneers, watching Lastergon leave resentfully. "The less bodyguards I have, the happier they will be. Enjoy your little chat. I hope the odor does not do you permanent damage in there."

Lastergon shoots Zaelinor a resentful scowl as he follows after Dorin. This scowl morphs seemlessly into a pleasant smile as Dorin turns to face him once they are inside.

"I do apologise for imposing on you so late in the day," he says politely as he withdraws an item folded in cloth from the pouch at his belt. He proceeds to unfold the cloth to reveal what appears to be some sort of blue stone, fashioned into the shape of a webbed wing five inches long.

"It may be nothing of significance," Lastergon admits as he passes it to Dorin to examine, "But Dorclad seeemed to recall you possessing an item similar in appearance to this one."

OOC: Lastergon Aravor rolled 2 using 1d20+1. Spot.
Lastergon Aravor rolled 4 using 1d20+1. Listen.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:28, Tue 06 Oct 2020.