THE LORD OF MURDER SHALL PERISH, BUT
in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny.
Chaos will be sown from their passage...
                                    —Ancient prophecy

  One year ago, the Sword Coast was nearly plunged into a war. A mercantile organization known as the Iron Throne manipulated the great nations of Baldur’s Gate and Amn toward war, eager for the profits that would come from such a conflict. The plans of the Iron Throne were exposed and undone by a group of intrepid adventurers and wizards known as the Harpers.

  Although war was averted, the Iron Throne was merely a front which disguised much greater threats. The leaders of the Iron Throne had unwisely involved themselves with many dangerous entities. They hired unscrupulous wizards to study magical secrets that were better forgotten. They made pacts with power-hungry men who wished to become gods. They hired shapeshifting assassins who could infiltrate the throne rooms of great kingdoms. Although
the Iron Throne has been shattered, the evil that they unleashed still lurks within the city of Baldur’s Gate.

 You know all about this because one of your friends' reach out to you with a rumor that a man named Khalid, has sent out an urgent missive looking for characters of trustworthy nature. Same friend let it be known that he is a Harper agent and that you must be on your way to the Coast Way called the Friendly Arm Inn. As soon as it is possible.
This message was last updated by the GM at 02:43, Sun 22 Nov 2020.

The Friendly Arms Inn is ran out of an old stone keep at the center of a small hamlet along the Coast Way. It is a stopping point for many caravans coming from Baldur's Gate, Neverwinter, nations of Amn, Calimshan, Tethyr.

The hamlet itself located on the hill, with keep almost hovering above it. You can see the keep as you clear the forest. The air smells of hot food and sweet mead, your weary feet are aching for a decent bed.

As you make your way towards the hamlet, then towards the inn, then up the large set of stairs (one may wonder how any drunkards broke their necks climbing down these stairs after a night of fun). Heavy wood doors open into a cozy tap room bathed in warm lantern light. The inn is packed with patrons dressed in varying attire both familiar and exotic. Scattered among them stand a handful of well-armored soldiers who all wear a distinctive insignia of a clenched fist wreathed in fire. As you cross the inn’s threshold, one such soldier approaches you, holding out a gauntleted arm. He says, “You won’t be needing weapons here. Leave them with me, and I’ll return them upon your departure.”

Around the inn, if one is to take it all in...one can see about 5 soldiers dressed in uniforms of the Flaming Fist. Behind the bar is a rosey, cheeked gnome. His shirt reads, "Bentley". While all smiles with patrons you notice his matter of business attitude with the soldiers, especially becoming more animated when he notices someone not following the rules set by him.

To the side of the inn, almost right next to the fireplace you notice a tanned man, wearing ornate half-plate and a shield on his back. He is eyeing the entrance, nervously clutching the bread, picking at it and at times taking a quick sip from his tankard. It is as if he is looking for someone, waiting for someone's arrival.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:47, Mon 23 Nov 2020.

Temperance had spent the past few minutes in the stables, making sure Brick was comfortably lodged, his saddles were properly tacked down, and that she could temporarily leave the contents of the pack saddle here while she arranged for lodgings (which the stablehands assured her was fine).

The tiefling looks relieved when she enters the inn proper, and she's happy to hand over her crossbow, staff, and dagger to the Flaming Fist guards. She notes the nervous-looking man near the fireplace but doesn't approach immediately, instead going to Bentley at the bar.

"Excuse me sir, would I be able to organise some food and lodging for the night please? And is there a possibility of a bath or a wash of some sort?" she asks the gnome.

A tall, broad, and dark figure fills the doorway for a moment before Rak-Norag steps into the inn. He looks about the room, taking in the scene, looking for the one called Khalid. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the man looked like. He supposed that it would be easier for Khalid to find him.

He notes the bar, eager to quench his thirst after a long walk. Before that can happen, he's met by a soldier requesting he yield his arms. Rak-Norag grunts and looks about, seeing that the crowd appears not to be carrying weapons. He leans his staff against the wall near the door and slowly goes about unstowing all his weapons - a large axe, two small axes, and four javelins - and handing them to the guard.

"These are my life," he says in a raspy voice, his eyes cold and flat as they meet the soldier's gaze. "You treat them like they are made of gold."

He takes up the staff in one hand and walks over toward the bar. "Ale," he says, raising one hand in the air.

"Here you go, buddy." said the wiry elf as he handed a sword and a whip to the guard. "Hey... weren't you working security at the place with the event that might not have happened the other day? Think I might have seen you drop that drunk lug from Calimshan with a solid left hook." He tapped his nose. "Probably mistaken, eh?" With a wink and a smile he walked in.

He stood just over 5' high, but pure ego put platforms under his leather boots. He wore a plain linen tunic over coarse breeches belted loosely around his thin waist. His dirty blonde hair was gathered loosely in a ponytail at the back, and the edges of tattoos could be seen on his neck and below the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. A coiled silver torc around his neck was his only jewelry, and a pack was slung over his shoulder.

~~ A squad of Fisties, a couple of pickpockets trying to work the room, an Uthgardt... who put his weapon down? ... a nervous guy waiting on a meeting, aaaaaand a gnome bartender. Bingo. That's the guy Gregin sent me to talk to. ~~

The elf walked up to the bar next to a tiefling. Ilmaterian type. "Barman: shandy, when you can."

He looked at the tiefling. "Heard a lot of pleading heading your guy's way over the years. Is that dealie there," gesturing to the symbol around her neck, "just devotional, or more professional-like?"
This message was last edited by the player at 04:52, Tue 24 Nov 2020.

In reply to Temperance (msg # 3):

@Temperance
Bentley the inn keeper smiles at you, "Sure, friend, sure". He studies you for a moment, "I think your friend is waiting for you over there, oh and if that it is indeed your friend. Well, shall we say your food and lodging paid for tonight". Bentley motions towards man seeing by the fireplace in front of a rather large, sturdy table, all by himself.

The gnome then motions something at the soldiers in the room.


@All
A single Flaming Fist soldier will separate from the group of them and approach the newly arrived adventurers one by one, quietly and politely requesting to take a sit with a man by the fireplace.

Rhen blinks a few times as he ponders the Flaming Fist soldier's request. Part of it is a hesitance to part with his weapons---they are not only a means for defense but his tools for survival. After all, it is much easier to pick off rabbits with a bow than wait for them to stumble into a well-placed trap. The other is confusions as to whether this is simply a custom of city dwellers. After a few moments, he hands over a pair of worn short swords and a sturdy bow.

"I...um," he stammers as he struggles to put his thoughts into words appropriate for the situation. "I will need these back. I use them to hunt."

Rhen walks into the inn, and his eyes immediately go wide. He has never been in an inn before, and the sights and smells are new to him. Things like plate armor, finely woven cloth, and jewelry were the stuff of stories for him until this moment. They seem to make his self-tanned leathers and practical clothing seem meager and inadequate in comparison. He stands still, unable to avoid gawking at the different people. He is snapped out of his trance when the guard approaches him and directs him toward the one called Khalid.

"Pleasant moons," he says to the group at the table. "I am Rhen of the Daggerleafs. Is one of you Khalid of the Harpers?"

Temperance blinks in surprise. "Oh. That's... generous. My thanks." She was about to get up when the wood elf approached and spoke.



Temperance smiled and touched the emblem at her chest. "Given the times the world has been through, that's quite understandable. And yes, this is 'professional,' as you say."

She was about to continue when the Flaming Fist member got to the wood elf. "Come with me - I was just about to go to... I believe it may be Khalid," she said, not breaking eye contact with him.

At the request from the soldier, Rak-Norag slowly picks up his just-arrived flagon of ale and downs about half of it, seemingly in a single gulp. He nods at the soldier, but says nothing, then moves toward the fire, ale in one hand, walking stick in the other.

He stops and besides the one who must be Khalid, unintentionally looming over the man. He slowly takes in the others who are gathering around before looking back to the seated man at the table. "I am Rak-Norag. A friend told me to meet Khalid of the Harpers here. You are him?"

In reply to Rak-Norag (msg # 9):

Khalid stands up from his seat and motions for the barbarian to seat down, "I-i-it is pleasure to m-m-meet you, Rag-Norag. P-p-p-please take a seat".


@All who is sitting down next to Khalid
Tanned man continues to nervously pick at the bread, nodding at each approaching new member, “Mmmmmy c c c contact said to expect 5 of you. W w w w we shall wait. Order for for yourself, it is on me”, the man stutters as he struggles to complete the sentence. A well travelled person may identify his accent of that from Calimshan. And someone with keen eye would identify him as a half elf.

"After you, lass," the elf replied, pausing a moment before accepting his shandy. He looked around a moment and muttered, "Tsk ... no cocktail napkins..." before heading over to this Khalid.

He was surprised at the stuttering manner of the half-elf. "You alright, mate?" he asked, slipping languidly down into an armchair by the fire and crossing his heels on the hearth. "No need being all concerned. Even if there weren't so many Limping Wrist walkin about, this here big fella," indicating the Uthgardt with a hooked thumb, "looks like he'd want all the fightin attention to himself." He sipped his drink, and swung his eyes lazily towards Rak-Norag. "That about more-or-less, Northman?"

Sip.

Rak-Norag leans his staff against the wall and sits, listening to what Khalid has to say. He tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, to keep a derisive sneer from his lips. The half-elf seems scared and weak, and he has learned not to trust such men. But free ale is no mean thing, so he finishes his and calls for another.

He then listens to the chatty wood elf, not quite sure what everything he says means. His eyes narrow for a moment, as if he is sizing up this talkative elf. He does seem to gather the meaning of the last part, about fighting, though, and for the first time since he entered the inn, the hint of a smile comes to his somewhat stark countenance as his eyes scan the room.

"Not much to fight here," he says dismissively. It seems to be more of a commentary on any possible opponents in the barroom than a statement of peaceful intentions.

He looks around the table, unsure if all the others heard him earlier. "I am Rak-Norag," he repeats. "Who are you all?"

Entertained by the big man's confident attitude, the elf felt he had to respond in kind. He sprang up onto the chair, one foot on the back of the armchair, the other on the seat, balancing it on its back legs with one arm akimbo, the other holding his drink high.

"I am Brychan Llywarch, Northman! He of the Daleland gladiatorial pits, and the serpent-striking sword. Quick of wrist, and quicker of tongue. Conquests in public!" he winked and grinned, "... and in private." He gave a flourishing bow, still standing on the tilted chair, before sliding down back into his languid posture with legs crossed on the hearth.

"Maybe you've heard of me."

Sip.

---

OOC:
11:35, Today: Brychan Llywarch rolled 25 using 1d20+5.  Acrobatics, oh boy, here it goes..
EXCELLENT START I'D SAY. Lol.

In reply to Brychan Llywarch (msg # 11):

"I-i am alright", Khalid said looking at the sorcerer. "St-stuttering is an affliction I have been suffering since I was a child". With a pained grimace he raises his hand to wipe away the sweat from the forehead. The sun tanned skin up close looks blanched, sickly.

The trays of food arrives at the table and Khalid quietly thanks the maids.
Khalid patiently waits for everyone to introduce themselves, awaiting a moment to discuss his request.

"V-very nice, Brychan", Khalid smiles and nods.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:49, Tue 24 Nov 2020.

Rak-Norag's dismissive attitude of the nervous half-elf softens slightly. He had known of children who suffered from various afflictions. They usually did not last long amongst the Uthgardt, which was a sad and unfortunate thing.

He raises an eyebrow at the impromptu acrobatic performance. Another rare hint of a smile comes to his face. "You are entertaining, Brychan Llywarch." The odd-sounding (to him) name does not exactly roll off his tongue, but it seems a sincere compliment even if spoken in a somewhat flat tone.

He takes a swig of ale and looks about. "What food do they have here?" He was looking forward to not having to catch and prepare his own dinner. He wondered if that was a sign of the softness of "civilization" creeping over him. But free was free, and he was not exactly rolling in coin at the moment.

In reply to Brychan Llywarch (msg # 13):

What looks like drunken, female dwarf approaches Brychan clapping her hands. "Aye, boy that was wonderful. 'ere be some coin for yer trouble". She throws a coin of 20 silver at the sorcerer and drunkenly stumbles away back to the bar.


@Barbarian
You notice a menu on the table, it reads.
Today's menu consist of:

Boiled Eggs and Cashew Bread, Tankard of Cider (7 cp)
Braised Goose and Soft Cheese, Glass of Rum (2 sp)
Smoked Pork and Dried Turnip, Tankard of Stout (10 cp)
Dried Whitefish and Carrot, Tankard of Beer (11 cp)
Braised Pheasant with Garlic and Millet Bread, Glass of Brandy (1 sp)
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:15, Tue 24 Nov 2020.

Temperance takes an unoccupied chair, giving Brychan some space for his theatrics, and regards the rest of the group. Both her hands and her tail rest in her lap.

"It's good to meet you Khalid, everyone. I am Temperance, of the church of Ilmater. Are you expecting more people?" she asks. As she speaks, she produces a set of thin red cords from up one of her sleeves and starts to thread and twine them around her hands; their movements are fluid and well-practised, to the point where she's not even looking at them.