DM's note: Tympani's writing posted by me on her behalf.

---

The slate gray sky of Icewind Dale loomed in its glaring indifference down through the transparent dome to where Tympani Major lay, making every effort to ignore the fact of yet another day.  Sea-green eyes blinked in reply, closing and opening in autonomic response as moisture dried from delicate surfaces.  These were eyes that tried their best to see nothing.  These were eyes that could no longer retreat into the empty realms of sleep.

"Rrrrabarglah!"  A flight of blankets fluttered across the tiny hut with an irritable pinwheel of arms as a relentless restlessness drove the halfling from the dubious refuge of her bed.  For a moment, she considered striding as she was out into the cold - nothing but pink skin and freckles.  But common sense and the memory of the vicious bite of frigid Icewind Dale won out over her current combined mood of impulse and irritability.

So, when the halfling stomped out of her pearlescent pink dome she did so fully clothed and ready for the day - despite all impulses to the contrary.  Snow crunched under her bright red boots as the dome winked out behind her, and she made her way through the North Gate of Bryn Sander on her way to the Northlook.

"Hoy, Scrammy!  Free breakfast for your favorite halfling?"  Quickly stuffing all ill-humor and concerns down under the cushions of her mental couch, Tympani Major entered the inn with a bang of the door.  She mustered a *tappity*tap* and slide across the wooden floor of the room before leaping to perch her pert bottom on the edge of the bar, and favored the old sellsword with her most charming grin.

The burst of energy faded then, as quickly as it came.  Silent and moody once again, she kicked her legs, red boots swinging in time from the edge of the bar.  "It wasn't her, Scramsax," she said.  "In Caer-Konig.  Tall, that one."  And Tym laughed a sorry laugh that threatened to crash into a sob - but didn't.  "Wasn't her."
This message was last edited by the player at 18:21, Wed 20 Mar.

Scramsax turned from where he was wiping down the shelves behind the counter, withdrawing his cigar as he cast his perpetual smug grin Tympani's way. "Ah, you saw the sign! Free breakfast, week out! Free rooms and handies, too!" He chuckled and shook his head, grabbing a knife he had set in the table to cut open a freshly delivered sack of chicken. The kitchen boy wasn't particularly busy, but he kicked hard on the door nonetheless with Tympani's order and the scarce ingredients. This was a delivery from Good Mead and it was the last he was due for a while.

"Although, if you truly can't pay . . ." he said to her in more earnest, tapping the list of names he kept on display. Each person was associated with a sum they owed, and that sum was scratched out several times — most for good, a few to allow for increasing numbers. Rapidly increasing numbers. Most knew that Scramsax was as cutthroat as his clientele, and he made no exceptions. Ever. If you didn't pay in coin, you'd pay in fingers, teeth, or kneecaps at the proprietor's discretion. Scramsax's age was betrayed by the silver that streaked his rich red hair and beard, but his long years as a mercenary were still sufficiently recent and hinted a bite to the bark.

Tympani was joined by only one other customer, a ragtag hoodlum of some sort. A brigand, perhaps. He was eating whatever soup the kitchen had prepared, and Tympani was offered her more of the same, some bread to go along with it, and a drink. The menu was short these days. "Can't say I've seen any Elves of note roaming about either, I'm afraid," Scramsax said as he served her. He wasn't going to let her bail on the bill, but he could offer her some sympathy at the very least. Only problem was that he was terrible at it. "Maybe it's time to think about heading to Lonelywood? It wouldn't do you harm, methinks."

"I can pay."  The petulant words came without even the slightest of assessments of her financial state.  She hadn't worked in a while - all efforts being consumed by the search for Maer.  "I can," she reiterated, though, from her tone of voice, this was more to convince herself than anything else.  She sighed.

"And thank you for the sympathy, Scramsax."  Turning at the waist, the flame-headed halfling leaned back on one arm with her palm planted on the top of the bar.   "The only problem is that you're terrible at it."  She fixed the innkeep with an accusing glare.  But the glint of mischief in the halfling's green eyes quickly spread to her lips which just as quickly parted in a bright laughter over one trait of the master of the Northlook that they both knew to be true.  "But, seriously.  Thank you."  Tearing a small, puffy cloud of bread from the main of her serving, she dipped the halfling-mouth-sized piece into her soup, and then paused, contemplating thoughts in the near distance before popping it into her mouth.

"I suppose you're right," Tympani admitted.  "But, I have to say, the idea is ...  Well, it's sort of terrifying.  But it's been ... what?  A month?  More?  Dougan's Hole, Good Mead, Easthaven, and Caer-Konig."  She counted the towns of Icewind Dale's Ten Towns off on her small pink fingers.  The halfling sighed again, before popping a chunk of cheese into her mouth.  "Have you ever been in love, Scramsax?" she asked from a place down within the well of her despondency.

"Nay," Scramsax was quick to conclude despite the complexity of such a question. "I didn't let myself. Thought I didn't want to. There were a couple of times someone nearly convinced me otherwise, but I was stubborn and stupid. Now I'm stubborn, stupid, and alone." He shrugged, smothering his cigar in an ashtray on the counter. It was what it was. He'd been through his own endeavors, but he very well knew it was small time stuff. Tympani's grief was plain to behold, and he couldn't begin to understand the extent of it. "'To have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all', isn't that something they say?" The words likely rung hollow to those whom they would benefit the most, but Scramsax at least held it to be true. They probably weren't right in the moment, but then again he was a terrible shoulder to cry on.

It was then that the door to the inn swung open, inviting in the terrible winds that howled this morning. In strode three faces familiar to Scramsax, those being Rhydd's, Stormheart's, and the squire who had visited his establishment several days ago for an interrogation. The Goliath woman he didn't know. He nodded Rhydd's way while still speaking to Tympani. "That's a mug I've not seen in a while," he commented. "Ranger. Him and the Goliath both. Leave the snow by the door!" he shouted to them before they could find their seats. He didn't want to mop the floorboards more times than he had to. "What can I get you?"

"Master Scramsax," rumbled the Human, speaking on a voice that sounded deeper than one might have expected from one of average size.

He stepped inside, then moved sideways to clear the door, and set about scraping off the snow that covered the thick cold-weather clothing that he wore. Perhaps a bit surprisingly, given the weather outside, he neither moved nor sounded as if he were near-frozen.

"Thank all the good gods -- but most especially, Lady Mallory -- for those boots that she crafted for me."

Rhydd had almost spoken of "magicked boots", but he caught himself in time and refrained from doing so. After all, magicked boots that could keep a body warm in the sort of weather that was howling outside were . . . well, Rhydd supposed that he valued his bow a bit more -- for after all, where would an archer be without his bow -- but certainly the boots were a close second, most especially when the weather was being as contrary as it was just now.

And if word got around amongst the wrong sorts -- like the ill-favored fellow who was hunched down over in a dark corner, for example . . . better not to praise Mallory's gift too loudly or proudly, Rhydd had decided.

Catching sight of the red-haired Halfling over by the bar, the outdoorsman nodded, affably enough, in her direction. His gaze was pulled down to her boots -- so brightly red was their coloring -- and the corners of his mouth curved upwards in a ghost of a smile.

"Rhydd Maldhon," he said, introducing himself, thus saving Scramsax the trouble.

"I am leaving," Farwalker stated before she bothered to dust off her snow. She adjusted her shawl, then plucked the Ioun Stone from orbit and handed it to Stormheart. It wasn't customary for Goliaths to regift something offered in respect unless death was involved, but if he was staying along with the group she guessed he would find himself in more danger than she would. And these weren't the times for customs. She also doubted the Trolls would have cared. "You must attune it." He would learn of its properties when he had.

Without any further words of parting, she reopened the door and headed back out. She did after all leave a rather large Peryton outside that would undoubtedly have drawn undue attention.

---

Farwalker is giving Stormheart an Ioun Stone of Protection.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 14:32, Mon 25 Mar.

"What's love got to do, got to do with it.
What's love, but a second hand emotion ... "

"That's sad, Scramsax."  Small and sorrowful, the words to the song had dropped like tears from a cheek that stain the breast of a doublet only to dry then, and disappear forever.  "So sad," repeated the halfling.  Though whether she had been speaking of the innkeeper's loveless life, or of some condition of her own was unclear, and seemed unlikely to gain further explanation.

Her head made a slow turn at the opening of the door.  Both the movement and the expression on the halfling's face were still wreathed in the lethargy of her emotional self-indulgence.  She watched with disinterest as the newcomers cleared snow from their footwear.

"Ranger?"  Perking up, the flame-headed halfling sprang to her feet atop the bar, placing her roughly three-foot height much closer to the ceiling than any other person in the room save perhaps the Goliath.  "You're a ranger!"  Both the words as well as a small pink indicatory finger pinned the vocation upon the man that had just introduced himself as Rhydd Maldhon.  Banished in an instant seemed the doldrums and the dumpy mood that had wreathed the halfling only moments ago.

*TUNK*tap*  Her red boots clacked as she leapt from the bar to hit the wooden seat of a nearby chair.  *PU-THUMP*tack*tack*tackity*tak*  She hit the floor next, and danced in a tight circle before striking a pose with arms flung wide.  "I'm Tympani.  Tympani Major."

"And you're a ranger.  Ranger's wander.  And I'm wondering, in your wandering, if you've seen an elf.  Not just any elf.  I've seen elves.  She wears furs.  White furs.  Over a shining chain shirt.  Dark hair.  With feathers.  In her hair.  About this tall."  With a single pink hand, the halfling that had just named herself Tympani Major reached up to indicate a height that could lay claim to being little more than somewhere taller than herself.  "Goes by the name of Maerthryl.  Have you seen her?"

The running stream of babbling exposition comes then to an abrupt halt.

"Ummmm ... She's leaving," said the halfling, indicating the Goliath with a point of her finger.

Awfully busy morning, it seemed. He often had patrons in the evening, but rarely did anyone need a room these days. Poor times for tourism. "Eh," Scramsax cocked his head and pulled a frown as he grabbed a mug to clean while he considered Tympani's verdict. He was the architect of his own fate, so he didn't consider it particularly sad. But maybe he should visit Helka in her chandlery again and invite her to join him for a meal . . .
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:19, Mon 25 Mar.

~If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it's probably a Ranger,~ Rhydd thought to himself.

~Nay, that's not quite right. But 'twas something like that.~

Rhydd could also remember having heard a bard some time, somewhere asking the audience what was in a name, and going on about roses. He could recall that had been part and parcel of a presentation by a traveling troupe about a pair of doomed lovers. He had not cared for the ending, he could recall.

In this instance, although Rhydd had not formally joined any of the bands of Rangers who operated in the vicinity, he sometimes joined them in their efforts to put things right. And he spent lots of time roaming the outdoors, and could take care of himself out in the Wild, if push came to shove. And so it was that most folks reckoned him to be a Ranger, and he had at some point simply ceased to correct them. After all, he *did* walk like a Ranger and quack like a duck.

He eyed the flame-haired Halfling as she leapt up onto the Northlook's bar and danced a little stutter-step, then "Thumpety-Thump!" jumped down into a chair-seat, and ended with dancing a little jig on the floorboards and announcing her name with her head held high and far-flung arms.

"Well . . . that's a good way to keep warm, I'd wager," the archer commented dryly, allowing a small smile to creep into his expression.

"Well-met, Mistress Tympani."

"And like you, I have also seen Elves. But to answer your question -- nay, not Maerthryl, I fear."

---

OOC: Tympani, I shall mention that I write Rhydd's inner (unspoken) thoughts in seagreen, as opposed to green for his spoken words. Also, his unspoken thoughts are bracketed with tildes (~), as opposed to the usual quotation marks (") for his spoken words. To my way of thinking, that makes things a bit easier to follow in a PbP forum such as RPoL. :)

Also, Rhydd's point about not "officially" being a Ranger is really just a D&D nuance -- he is a Fighter with an archer's Build, in game-terms. I was curious as to how such a build would stack up against a more traditional Ranger's Build. But, in truth, he does indeed walk and quack like a Ranger. :)
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 17:37, Mon 25 Mar.

"Oh.  Well."  The disappointment was palpable, and the halfling heaved a heavy sigh.  "Well, that's not much different from the answer I've had from anyone else over the past few ... whatever the time's been in this frozen hell-hole of Icewind Dale."  But, just as bitterness seems about to brim over and run to tears, the halfling turned to the other two:  The Goliath, now half out the door, and the one who had the look of a squire.  "You're ... with him.  Right?"  She sighed again.  "So you wouldn't know either."

"Has any of you ever been to Lonelywood?"  The question seemed yet another zig in the zag of moods and topics that had run through the halfling in what had surely been but moments.  Her mouth pulled into a line of worry, and her eyes cast down to the worn boards of the inn floor as she viewed various prospects of dread in imagination before her.  "I may have to go there," she said.  "And I'm not sure that I want to."

Stormheart was about to reply to the demand to keep the snow out but was distracted by the Farwalker. He turned to face her as she spoke. "Ahh, but I will miss you, my friend. It has been good to travel with another Goliath for a while."

He frowned slightly and hesitated at the 'gift'. "Are you...certain? I..." He restrained a sigh and gave her a nod. "Thank you. I will try to bear it with honor and think of you." He touched his forehead with two fingertips and then held them out towards her as she walked away. "Safe journey, my friend!" He shook off the snow and headed inside, shutting the door behind him and Khulekani.

There was...a very excited halfling inside apparently, barraging Rhydd with questions and descriptions. Then she looked at him. He wasn't sure whether to shake his head no indicating he hadn't see this person or to nod his head yes to indicate he was with Rhydd. After a second, he did neither and simply said, "I have not seen such a person, no." He gave a shrug of his massive shoulders. "And yes I have been to Lonelywood before, though it has been some time."

It seemed Tympani had gotten her answers, but Farwalker still lingered in the door as she was directly addressed. "Good luck with your search," she said. And she truly meant it. Out of anything, this little Halfling stranger had nearly convinced Farwalker to abandon her own goals in favor of the search of this person who was probably dead, and all in the span of mere moments. But still she closed the door behind her and headed on her way.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:46, Tue 26 Mar.

Farwalker was apparently not given to long good-byes -- by the time Rhydd turned to speak to her, she had gifted Stormheart with the Ion Stone and left the building.

With a shrug, the outdoorsman turned back to face Tympani. In point of fact, he did not favor long good-byes himself.

"You mentioned Lonelywood. I am not sure whether you meant the town or the forest."

"It so happens that I have been to both, and know them well. Do you suspect that the person you are seeking may have gone there?"