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."