Notice: This thread follows from msg #88 in Chapter 1 - Part 1 and continues in msg #149 Chapter 1 - Part 1.

---

Rhydd had company on his way to the Three Flags Sailing. Many of the bystanders had been local fishers, and at this hour of the evening, many fancied themselves a drink or many among colleagues of friends. The bickered among themselves, but paid Rhydd little mind.

The atmosphere here was much less subdued than Ethen’s inn. While the Luskan Arms had always been a refuge for weary travelers with little energy left for carousing, the Three Flags Sailing provided just the opportunity. The place was as rowdy and boisterous as ever, Rhydd could spot through the window. As he entered, he noticed the taproom wasn’t packed to the brim, but the fishers there made sure to make enough noise for it to seem like it. One bellowed before tossing back a stein of whatever it was everyone drank. Mead was common, as well as many types of fortified wines and hard liquors. The Northfolk tended to prefer their alcohol strong. A few of the patrons were engaged in a game of dice — thabort, by the looks of it — along a longtable.

The tavern was decorated like expected of one that would lie dockside, with nets draped on the walls, and a few adorning harpoons and sickles mounted on the walls. The preserved carcass of a huge octopus hung on display above the bar, it’s arms extending to the tavern’s joists.

Vegord stood idle behind the counter. The mustached, spectacled man nodded at Rhydd as he entered. As the fireplace was a fair bit smaller, the room was colder than the Luskan Arms had been, and most of the men still wore their coats inside. “Evenin’ to ya. Ain’t got no food if yer wonderin’. Drinks to go ‘round, tho’,” Vegord said. He seemed to be the only man currently on shift this evening. Not surprising, as that was the way he always seemed to prefer it.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:46, Sun 03 Apr 2022.

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 1):

Rhydd stood just inside the door of the Three Flaggs for a moment, using the time to push the hood of his cloak back off of his head and brush the loose snow off of his shoulders. He also glanced around, taking note of who was in the tavern. Insofar as he knew he had no serious enemies in Targos, but he knew from experience that some men became more aggressive when they were in their cups. Seeing no one that gave him pause -- at least not at first glance -- he strolled over to the counter behind which Vegord stood.

"Evenin'," he replied to the tavern-owner's greeting, nodding to the other man.

Rhydd was not a particularly heavy drinker, and unlike some others, he did not drink with the intent of getting drunk. And so it was that he said "I'll have a mead," instead of choosing something stronger.

While Vegord was filling a tankard, Rhydd turned to face the floor area of the common room, resting the small of his back against the counter.

"Any news since the last time I was in town?" he asked the tavern-owner.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:07, Sat 23 Jan 2021.

The tavern-owner shrugged as he went to pour Rhydd his beverage. "Nah. Ya know. Been snowin'." Vegord did not have the reputation of being the best to keep an ear out. "New speaker, I 'spose. Some troubles here and there, but what can ya expect. As long as people keep showin' up to buy drinks, I'm not one ta break out in bouts."

The bell rung behind Rhydd and Salim entered. He nodded to both the outdoors-man and the proprietor before placing a silver piece on the counter. "Mind if I take this one? Mead for me as well."

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 3):

"Imagine that!" Rhydd said, feigning surprise, when the tavern-owner passed along the news that it had been snowing. Unlike some bar-keepers whom the archer had met, Vegord tended to keep his thoughts to himself.

Rhydd was just to ask about the new Speaker when Salim came into the tavern and made his way over to the counter. Rhydd returned the other man's nod of greeting, and his eyebrows arched up in surprise when the man-at-arms put down enough coin to cover both of their drinks.

The archer did not know Salim very well -- they had worked up a passing acquaintance when both men were with the caravan, but the other had not become what Rhydd would think of as a friend. He knew that Salim was a fellow-Northlander -- the man's weathered face and take-it-as-it-comes acceptance of foul weather and the ill luck that always seemed to be just around the corner during the long winters of the Far North had told him as much. Southerners tended to start pissing and moaning as soon as the temperature dropped a few degrees or the wind picked up.

"Thanks. I'll get the next round," Rhydd replied to Salim's offer.

After a few moments of silence while Vegord filled Salim's tankard, Rhydd spoke up. "You did good out there when the wolves hit us -- you an' Mikel both. That could have gone a lot worse than it did."

Salim grabbed his mead and took a sip. "You give us too much credit. If you hadn't been there, there's more than a decent chance we would be laying dead out in the middle of nowhere, all of us. Me and Mikel would not have been enough." He paused for a moment. "I had heard of Targos' new speaker and what they did here. To actually witness it... I should have stepped in as well."

He pursed his lips and clapped Rhydd on the shoulder. "I won't bother you. I just felt like I owed you." He took his mug with him and headed for an empty spot on the bench near the back of the taproom.

"At least no-one's bein' burned alive at the stake," Vegord shrugged, commenting on the coversation. "Like 'em do in Easthaven."

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 5):

Salim's comment about the new Speaker caught Rhydd's attention, and the archer would have continued speaking to the caravan guard, but the other man took his leave and steeped away from the counter.

And so it was that Rhydd turned to Vegord. "The new Speaker and what they do here? What was he talking about -- especially if it causes you to speak of burning people at the stake?"

Vegord shrugged. "At Easthaven they burn 'em at the stake. Offerings to Auril, or somethin' like that. Here we hang 'em. We all had a say in it. I voted against, mind you. New speaker is Naerth. The fishers' like 'im. Keeps the coin flowin', somehow."

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 7):

Rhydd's expression was a study in contrasts -- his eyebrows arched up in suprise, and the corners of his mouth tilted down in a frown.

"So. . . that hanging that we saw on the way into town was some sort of a sacrifice, and not justice being meted out to a wrongdoer?"

The archer shook his head in disapproval. "I do not hold with sacrifices of either people or animals. 'Tis my opinion that they may serve to amuse the more hard-hearted of the gods, but nothing more. The gods are the gods, and they will do what they will, notwithstanding our efforts to sway them by ill-favored sacrifices."

Rhydd thought for a moment, then asked the tavern-owner "So, Vegord, tell me true -- have these sacrifices made a difference? Have things improved around Targos as of late?"

The bespectacled — but by no means scholarly — barkeeper stayed silent. "No," he finally answered. "They 'aven't."

An older, patchy man wobbled over to the bar. He seemed far too drunk for the wee hour of the night. Steadying himself on the corner, he wiped the corner of his mouth and held up another finger. "Ol' Herve... had what was coming! Herve... voted yes," he moved the finger toward Rhydd, trying to steady it. "Then he cries and cries, wah, wah! When his name gets picked from the list and Kelemvor comes to collect... He should've hung!" the old fisher said and shoved his finger into Rhydd's chest.

"How 'bout we stop the drinks, Vash? At least 'til ya've sobered up a bit," Vegord said to the man.

The drunken man lingered, his finger still in the air. "...fine." He went back and sat down with his cohort.

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 9):

Rhydd seriously considered seizing the finger that the drunkard used to poke him in the chest. It would have been easy to grab and bend it backwards until the bones broke. If the fellow had been sober, Rhydd would probably have done it.

~But it's shameful to pick on a drunken old man,~ the archer thought to himself. ~Hells, it could be that he was just trying to steady himself to keep from falling down.~

By then Vegord had spoken up and cut the man off any more drinks until he cooled down a little.

"Thanks," Rhydd said to the tavern owner. The outdoorsman palmed a silver piece and placed it atop the bar. "That'll cover Salim's second round, and another for the old fellow . . . Vash, I guess his name is -- assuming that he sobers up enough at some point to be able to handle any more drinks."

Rhydd took another sip of his mead, nursing it along.

"Doesn't sound like there's much news," he said after a moment. "Guess I'll finish this one and head back over to Ethen's place."

Snapping his fingers, Rhydd said "I almost forgot. What the hells is wrong with Ethen? If I had bumped into her out on the street instead of over in the Luskan Arms, I'm not sure that I would even have recognized her."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:11, Thu 28 Jan 2021.

"Ethen's fallen down on it ever since the Sunset. Hardly eatin'." Vegord answered. "Naerth practically runs the inn for her at this point, too. Dunno if it helps or not... if ya see her, send her my regards."

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 11):

"That's a shame," Rhydd said with a shake of his head. "I remember her as being such a cheerful, happy person. As I say, I hardly recognized her when I saw her a bit earlier."

"You'd think that someone with her personality . . . well, the way she was before . . . would be less likely to get down in the dumps. But I suppose that Auril's Bane -- or whate'er you want to call it -- has cast a pall o'er everyone in some measure, and everybody reacts to it differently."

The archer shook his head again and fell silent for a moment, taking another sip of his mead. "So,"he said after a short lapse, "tell me about this Naerth. I can't recall ever meeting him -- not that I know everyone in Targos, of course."

Vegord went to tap a new mead for another patron. "Naerth came 'ere recently, a year ago maybe. From Waterdeep, he says. He's got a good head for business, that became clear to the fishers pretty quick. Apparently got strong connections in the south."

"It wasn't really close when it was time to elect a new speaker. Many of the fishers see him as a man who's willin' to do what needs to be done. Somethin' that couldn't be said of the last speaker. Half-measures everywhere." He glanced to either side and hesitated. "A rumor's been passin' 'round... never mind, I shouldn't say anythin'."

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 13):

~So . . . this Naerth arrived about a year ago and soon moved into a position of power,~ Rhydd thought to himself

~The Sunset happened a couple of years ago, more or less -- so I don't see an obvious connection. Although it does seem a bit odd to me that someone would want to relocate from Waterdeep -- if the man is being truthful -- to Targos. That would seem like quite a come-down for most people.~

~Now I'm curious about this Naerth taking over the running of the Luskan Arms. Is he doing it because Ethen asked him to, to help her out? Or did he muscle his way in and take over a profitable going business -- the only inn in Targos? Is his taking over possibly the reason for Ethen's . . . issues? I need to ask her about it, and try to figure out a way to help her, if that is what happened.~

Without putting his thoughts into words, he simply shrugged at Vegord's characterization of the two Speakers -- the former one, and Naerth. "Sometimes caution is warranted, and sometimes ruthlessness is required. It depends upon the circumstances, I would say."

Given the unspoken thoughts that were roiling around in his head, the archer's ears perked up when Vegord mentioned that there was a rumor going around town, about Naerth. Rhydd lowered his head, putting it close to the tavern-owner. "So . . . tell me about this rumor. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone where I heard it."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:51, Fri 29 Jan 2021.

Vegord adjusted his spectacles with a sigh, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "It's not that no-one knows... it's more that no-one talks 'bout it. But these contacts of his... they might be Zhentarim." He stood back up. "It's just what I've heard. Probably ain't true."
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 07:23, Fri 29 Jan 2021.

In reply to DM Bears (msg # 15):

~The Zhentarim?~ Rhydd thought to himself, surprised at what Vegord's response had revealed. He knew that many viewed the Zhents as honest -- if hard-nosed -- merchants who were aggressively eager to extend their spheres of trade and influence.

But the archer's friends among the bands of Elven rangers -- who, perhaps understandably, had long memories and tended to take a long view of things -- had warned him against such wishful thinking, cautioning him that the Zhentarim had changed only their outer garb, so to speak, whilst remaining as darkly intentioned as ever at their core.

And thinking it over, Rhydd could now see how a man who most likely had ties to the Zhentarim might be interested in migrating to the Far North. With a disgruntled population suffering from dire hardships, it would likely offer fertile recruiting grounds for the Zhents. ~I wonder -- did the Zhents see a possible gain to be had from the Frostmaiden's doings -- meaning that they are unintended beneficiaries of Her trouble-making . . .  or have they found a way to entice Her to work with them to make common Cause?~

~These are dark tidings, if true. When next I see my Elven friends, I shall have to ask them whether they can put me in touch with any Harpers. Harpers can be officious busybodies and meddlers. But from all that I have heard, their hearts are in the right place, and they are very efficient at gathering information -- at knowing what is taking place deep within the shadows.~

Rhydd straightened up from his forward-leaning posture and drained the last of his mead. "Good day to you, Vegord. I am headed back to Ethen's place -- I will pass along your regards to her, as you request."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:12, Sat 30 Jan 2021.

The tavern keeper nodded. "Take care, Rhydd. These be harsh times..."

Rhydd made his way across the floor of the tavern, and after pulling up the hood of his cloak, headed out into the darkness and snow outside . . .
This message was last edited by the player at 18:15, Sat 30 Jan 2021.

Midnight came and passed. The seafolk were no less done with their evening out, and drinks continued to flow. Though the mood had started more somber than one would typically expect of a tavern with this type of patrons, it had steadily climbed and become rowdier over the hours. Laughs were had, and chumminess returned. Even Vegord's mood had brightened. One fisher rose from his seat and stood atop the table, spilling his mead about. Arched over and grinning a smile that missed a couple of teeth, he surveyed the crowd as he began tapping his foot, drawing their attention. "And we all haul~!"

"To the west and to the east~!" the other fishers joined him in shanty and flinging of drinks.

The lead reared his head. "And we all haul~!"

"For every man and every beast~!"

"AND WE ALL HAUL~!"

"For thereafter comes the feast~!"

"And the Bitch Queen stays the storm!" they all finished off collectively.

"To another Tenday!" The lead finished by thrusting his drink in the air and the crowd erupted into cheers as the door to the tavern slammed open. The half-orc mutt stood in the doorframe, turning most every head in the tavern.

---

A snippet of this that was too good not to share.
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:45, Tue 02 Feb 2021.

As she stood silently in the doorframe, observing the celebratory, joyous atmosphere of the three flags sailing tavern, Mojrah's body became overcome with disgust and disappointment, and the grimace on her face made that fact more than apparent. Moyrah then, rested the harpoon in the pit of her elbow, before adressing the patrons, very loudly. "GOOD FUCKING JOB LADS!" ...She started clapping dramatically... "YOU HAVE MANAGED TO SURVIVE! GOOD FUCKING JOB!".

The sound of the blunt end of Moyrah's harpoon hitting the wooden tavern floor, followed her footsteps, as she made her way to the tavern-keeper. "Tsk, Tsk, Tsk, As the lifeless body of one of our own is swaying back and forth, slowly becoming raven food, you are in here nose deep in your ale, singing and jumping on the tables from joy". Very thought of that scenario, sent chills up Moyrah's back. The memories of her father's corpse, hanging off of the rope, getting pecked at by the scavenger birds, began playing through her mind again and again, and again, and her inability to do anything about it at the time, both saddened and angered her simultaneously. A mug of ale was more than necessary to soothe her aching nerves. "Vegord, A mug of good old amber and foamy please", she turned her attention to the tavern keeper, slamming a coin on the counter.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:29, Tue 02 Feb 2021.

"I'll give ya a drink..." Vegord said. "If ya promise to not make a commotion. Leave yer harpoon at the door, too. The last thing Targos needs is more spilled blood..." He went to pour her some mead.

The drunken fishers were rapt at attention. Most had come to distract themself from their cold, brutal reality, and a distraction had just presented itself. As the fisher's clearly seethed, one had the reason within him to pass on some vital information the half-orc had missed due to not attending the execution. "Herve didn't-"

"SHUT UP, MUTT!" the man atop the table yelled over him, the insult directed at Moyrah accompanied by spit spraying from his mouth. Some others joined him in yelling, flinging every derogatory term they'd managed to scrape together over the course of Moyrah's existence in Targos. "FLAT NOSE! PORK-CHOPS! BOAR-FACE! BEAST-WOMAN!" Even an uninspired, squeaky-voiced 'whore' found its way in there, which even drew some disapproving stares from the fishers around him.

"Maybe we can convince Naerth to hang you next!" the man on the table continued, pointing at her. "Ya can join your pa! Good riddance, I'd say! To the both of ya!"

A stein came flying at Moyrah.

---

Give me a Dex save DC 8, please.

"You know Vegord good and god damn well that this harpoon hasn't left my side ever since my father's passing..." Moyrah said, caressing the runes haphazardly etched, in halfway along the shaft of the harpoon "...But for you, I will leave it outside.". Vegord's sentiment echoed the way Moyrah felt, she was tired of death too, and would gladly wash away the stench it has left on Targos if she could.

As the glass stein flew over her head, and shattered in million glass shards, Moyrah held hers firmly as she turned her back to Vegard to face the crowd "HERVE... WASN'T HANGED... HA HA HA" Moyrah began laughing loudly while slapping her left knee with an unoccupied hand. "That smart son of a knucklehead trout, HA HA HA" She continued to laugh. Elation she felt hearing about the failed execution, threw Moyrah into a laughing fit and made her completely gloss over the insults, which would have otherwise infuriate her.

"Half-breed, She-boar... I have heard it all..." She continued to list other monickers, bestowed upon her by the townsfolk "You all better save up your energy for the tomorrow's fishing. Who knows what awaits us now that we have failed to provide Auril with our weekly offering" Before heading outside to put aside her harpoon, Moyrah tossed another coin to Vegord "Another mug for the brave one, up there", she said  pointing at the man on the table.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:04, Tue 02 Feb 2021.

Vegord looked more than a little annoyed when his stein broke against the wall. "Perhaps this isn't yer place to be, Moyrah," he said upon her return, eyeing the crowd with concern. "Not t'night." Some of the other patrons had turned their backs, but some still stared at her with furrowed brows — including the one atop the table, who stood with his arms crossed over his protruding belly. He looked far from done.

"I don't want your charity, mutt! Especially if it's just a measly coin of silver." He once again revealed his missing teeth as a devious smile crept across his face. "Here's another proposal! You like barking, but we've yet to see you bite. I bet my season's earnings you you'd lose in straight up brawl!" He spread his wings, addressing the crowd as much as the half-orc herself. The man himself looked well beyond his good years, if he'd ever had any. "One on one. No harpoon, no tricks. Fists only."

"Perhaps you are right Vegord, May I have my second coin back?" Moyrah came to terms with what this night might bring, and she didn't want to spend any more time in a place where her presence was not welcome.

After putting the coin back into the brown leather coin pouch, which hanged off of her belt, Moyrah approached the table the man was standing on, while looking him straight in the eyes. Her pace, no matter how slow and calculated it may seem, beamed with bravado and confidence. "Listen to me well, you old, shriveled up shell of a man, if you ever managed to put your hands on me, I doubt you would be able to feed, not only, your wife and children, but yourself too, as both of them will be broken in ten places, beyond any point of healing. Do you understand? And, honestly, It's not like you deserve any less after talking about my father like that" Her voice hitting an antagonistic tone at the end of the sentence. "Lucky for you, If I spent my time fighting ale soaked dried prunes like you around Tagros, I wouldn't have time to focus on
the things that really matter. Bringing fish into this wretched town". Moyrah then turned her back to the drunken man, before adressing him once more as she swung the door of the tavern open "I wouldn't be the one to start a fight, but if you are hellbent on getting the living soul beat out of you, come, and I assure you that the few missing teeth would be the least of your problems by the time the night ends."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:06, Wed 03 Feb 2021.

"Oh, I didn't say you'd be fighting me. No, no. I am but a man, that'd hardly be fair, would it?" he grinned wider. "Here, we pit beast against beast." The plump man took a step to the side, indicating to somewhere in the crowd. The fishers all took a step aside, except one. A man who towered above the rest remained. Thorben, the Barge*, they called him. Equal parts broad and tall, it was a mystery how he had even managed to get through the tavern's front door. He had a visage that would make any commoner piss their leggings, with a deep scar on his face and neck that cut through his handlebar mustache on one side. The long, dark coat he had worn for seasons on end had frayed near the bottom and cultivated its own colony of barnacles, which had — along with his notoriety for being slow and his massive stature — contributed to his namesake. The building of a man tended to mostly talk in low rumbles, and the fishers often quipped he was actually speaking a dialect of yeti.

"Or are you too much of a coward to take a fight?" the man atop the table continued. "The half-breed wants to impress us with her vocabulary, but did I hear a 'yes' in there? Did I?!" He spun around, hands wide as he addressed the crowd, before turning back to face Moyrah. "Doesn't sound much like one who's part savage. Perhaps yer mother was no orc after all. Perhaps she was a goblin."

---

*For breakfast he eats five dozen eggs.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:04, Wed 03 Feb 2021.

"And I thought you have finally mustered enough courage to confront me. I must be the foolish one then". Without a doubt, the surprising reveal of a massive beast of a man, put a bit of fear into Moyrah's bones. She was no longer so confident about winning a fight, but still, it wouldn't be like her to back down. "Hey, Thorben, I had no idea that you found new people to boss you around, is Naerth Maxildanarr aware of this? Will you seriously allow people who have been calling you a half-yeti for so long, to egg you on. I thought you were smarter than that." Moyrah said, still lingering on the doorframe, awaiting for Thorben's response.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 19:09, Wed 03 Feb 2021.

The Barge grumbled, grinding his jaw before he spit into the spittoon with enough force to almost punch a hole in it. "Naerth?" he asked and glanced questioningly to some of his friends.

"She's tryin' to get ya!" one in the crowd said. "He's got nothing to do with this here!"

It prompted a low grunt from Thorben who furrowed his brow further, scowling at Moyrah. He tensed his fists, knuckles cracking. The men in the tavern had given way for a circle, and Thorben stood near the center. It was in the lower section of the tavern, by the hearth, and had been cleared of tables and chairs. The large man slowly started to remove his barnacle-stained coat.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:40, Wed 03 Feb 2021.

"Well follow your master's order and come outside, I promised Vegord I won't make a mess out of his tavern. Don't forget to carry your bosses outside as well, I am not sure those spineless sons of a trout can walk on their own" Moyrah was used to verbal violence, or an occasional piece of mud thrown at her, but to be physically attacked, this was new... Auril's endless grasp over the region has started to bring the worst out of the people without a doubt.

Moyrah went outside and grabbed her father's harpoon, kissing the runes on it before tossing it behind her, on the safer, opposite side of the street, along with her belongings which would have hindered her in the fist fight. As she rolled up her sleeves, Moyrah revealed the blood intertwining ribbons of red runic tattoos which, unbeknownst to to others, covered most of her forearms. She assumed a stance and awaited for her challengers.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:44, Wed 03 Feb 2021.

Vegord sighed. "This is all I'll say — don't do this, Moyrah. There's nothin' to gain. Even if ya win, what would change?" he said to her under his breath as she began for the door. It had gotten to the point where even Vegord was afraid of pushing back against the will of the fishers and their enmity toward Moyrah. To be lumped in with her could prove bad for business.

Most of the fishers considered her insane — to willingly step out into Auril's blistering, lethal cold was truly the act of a madman. During these times, Vegord had developed a new policy — to never throw any patrons to the porch, no matter how drunk or rowdy they were, if they did not have proper shelter to retreat to. Still, the Barge followed willingly, perhaps forgetting the ramifications, if he had ever truly grasped them. Could the men even manage to pull him inside if he was knocked unconscious? Surely, if they pooled their efforts.

But would they do the same for Moyrah?

The wind hit Moyrah like a flurry of daggers, not because of the strength, but because of how unbearably cold it was. The streets on the dockside were poorly lit, the only illumination coming from the windows of the Three Flags Sailing and the pale moon. The tavern's sign, a ship with three sails, creaked on its hinges as it swayed in the wind. The Barge grabbed the top of the doorframe and ducked underneath, shirtless. All he had were his boots, and his trousers pulled up past his waist. The other patrons followed behind him, having put their coats, scarves, gloves, and every other clothing-item they had brought. Now, robbed of their warmth and drinks, they turned far less talkative, surveying the battlefield of increased wager. If this could have ever been a low-risk sparring match, it certainly did not seem so now.

The Barge raised his fists.

---

Roll initiative! If you roll higher than Thorben I'll let you decide if you want to swing first or not.

The Barge Initaitive [8]

As long as you're using fists only, here's some additional rules for a fist fight. I originally took it a step further by utilizing Reactions and Attacks of Opportunity, but it got too complex, so we'll keep it simple for the time being.

1. Drop to half HP, and I'll make you roll a Constitution saving throw DC14 for every Attack. Fail and you get disadvantage on your attack. Drop to 1/4 and the DC climbs to 16.
   
2. If you crit, in addition to doing double damage, we'll do a Pathfinder thing and roll a 'confirm crit'. Roll higher an 18 or higher and your opponent is KO'd.

And as a reminder, you are proficient with you unarmed strikes, and unarmed attacks do 1 damage + your Strength mod.

"I gave you a promise Vegard. I don't want the ruining of your tavern to be another thing weighing on my mind tonight." Pause followed, lasting until her gaze met Thorben's "Thorben searching for his jaw in the snow being the first thing of course" Vegard's advice and sighs meant very little to Moyrah. She had nothing to lose. Her father was already dead, her mother didn't even bother to make her presence known. Nor she had any friends to mourn her, no lover to turn to once all of this is over to soothe her wounds. No prospect of finding one either. All she had left in the world were her harpoon, boat and spite, which was dying slowly, sinking into the snow, wounded and frostbitten. Untimely end of her life didn't seem like the worst option, taking all things into consideration.

~ Fuck Targos, They never wanted me, they never loved me, I don't owe them a copper coin... Slaving on my boat, every day of my miserable life to bring food on the table for everyone, and I am still not worthy. Fuck all of them!~ Moyrah thought to herself as she charged, punch readied, in Thorben's direction. "By the time I finish with you, your friends will have to gather your teeth across Targos" What happened next, surprised not only the bystanders, but Moyrah herself.

The runic tatoos, covering her forearms began emitting faint amber light, as if someone had spilled molten steel in place of where the runes used to be. On each of her sides two translucent apparitions appeared, both amber in color, of an orc and a human, charging into combat, side by side, against the common enemy. At first glance, they seemed like two berserkers, dressed in garbs, stitched together out of various hides and scraps of leather, holding crude weapons in their hands. Occasional red, orange and amber sparks pulsated in and around their body, intense as those one might observe while forging weapons. Moyrah sensed that she might not be so alone after all.

---

12:00, Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 20 using 1d20+1. Innitiative

16:53, Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 21 using 1d20+2.  Intimidation roll.

Movement: Moyrah moved towards Thorben

Bonus action: Moyrah rages

Action: Attacking The Barge

17:23, Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 12 using 1d20+5.  Unarmed attack against The Barge.

Since 12 beats his AC (10), Moyrah deals 6 bludgeoning damage


This message was last edited by the player at 20:20, Thu 04 Feb 2021.

"Hey, no tricks!" a bystander yelled upon seeing the ghosts form.

Before Thorben could react, however, Moyrah had moved in behind her charging, ethereal ancestors, threatening to deliver a solid jab if he did not quickly get his guard up. Too sloppy, too slow. Moyrah's fist found an opening, delivering one weighty uppercut to his chin. He grunted and took a few steps back, staggered. Attempting to shake off the disorientation, he planted one heel solidly on the snow-laden cobblestone and reared a mountainous fist for a strike.

The Barge's advantage laid in his strength and size. Longer arms meant longer reach, and coupled with his bounding muscles one punch could likely level a tree. However, it also imposed a significant disadvantage — though his brawling accolades were nothing to scoff at, he was slower than Moyrah. And perhaps it was due to being shaken, but this attack was particular sluggish, making it duckable for essentially anyone, speedy or not.

---

Thorben, the Barge: Unarmed Strike against Moyrah [6] (Disadvantage due to being intimidated)

Moyrah's mind was so overtaken by combat, that she didn't even have the time, nor the capacity to process the shouts of, what were now to her, irrelevant bystanders, or the spirits that were summoned to aid in her fight. She didn't understand what caused their arrival, or how to influence them, all she felt was that they, unlike most of the souls around her, don't mean no harm. One thing was for certain, Moyrah will not let Thorben's mistakes go unpunished, as she went in for another punch. "It's still not too late to give up Thorben"

---

Action: Attacking The Barge

21:05, Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 17 using 1d20+5.  Second unarmed attack against The Barge.


Since 17 beats his AC (10), Moyrah deals 6 bludgeoning damage


This message was last edited by the player at 21:14, Thu 04 Feb 2021.

Something must have rattled the Barge. Perhaps it was the freezing cold stiffening his joints, the surging phantoms, or Moyrah's cutting words, but something made him terribly slow — slower than Moyrah would have ever expected. It left him full of openings. She planted a firm fist onto his cheek, sending him off balance and spitting blood. He gritted red teeth and growled at Moyrah before deciding to change his strategy. Instead of drawing a fist he charged at her, arms spread, to tackle her to the ground.

---

Thorben Grapple (Athletics) [17].
Contest it with an Athletics or Acrobatics check. Though I doubt it's much of a choice for Moyrah :)
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:59, Sun 07 Feb 2021.

Truth be told, Moyrah didn't expect to land two hits into Thorben's chin without receiving at least one back, neither did she anticipate that this massive hulk of a man, would try to grapple and charge at her from such a short distance. Instinctively, a dodge to the side, seemed like the most sensible action, and as Moyrah's body flied to the side, she almost landed on one of the fishers encircling the two combatants. The two apparitions vanished in a cloud of flickering dust, as Moyrah jumped out of Thorben's trajectory, before reappearing at her side. Thankfully, Moyrah quickly regained her posture, and seeing the state Thorben is in, went in for, what will hopefully, be the last punch she will need to pull out tonight.

---

Moyrah the Mutt rolled 18 using 1d20+5.  Athlethics roll 1
Moyrah the Mutt rolled 7 using 1d20+5.  Athlethics roll 2.

Action: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 20 using 1d20+5.  Unarmed attack against The Barge.

Since 20 beats his AC (10), Moyrah deals 6 bludgeoning damage


This message was last edited by the player at 19:44, Sat 06 Feb 2021.

Narrowly avoiding his broad wingspan, Moyrah ducked in for a punch to his side. It was another hit that landed solidly and it drew a sharp, pained grunt from Thorben, who spun around to face Moyrah again. This time he was quicker than Moyrah and hit her square in the gut, knocking the air out of her and very nearly shattering one — or several — ribs.

---

Thorben Constitution saving throw (DC 14) to counter fatigue [25] — SUCCESS.
Thorben Unarmed Attack against Moyrah [18] — HIT for [6] bludgeoning damage.
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:58, Sun 07 Feb 2021.

Eventually, Moyrah knew, a hit was about to successfully land her way. "Ouuh" She whimpered under the very little breath she had left. The force that hit her was something Moyrah couldn't imagine, let alone expect and prepare for. But there is no time for pondering in a fistfight, and the advantage that Moyrah has accumulated could mean nothing if she doesn't regain control, quickly.

---

Action: Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 9 using 1d20+5.  Unarmed attack against The Barge.
Since 9 doesn't beat his AC, the hit misses


This message was last edited by the player at 17:22, Sun 07 Feb 2021.

The Barge narrowly avoided the strike and went in for another one, opting for the strategy that had netted him a hit. Through bloodsoaked teeth he once more tried an underhanded punch at Moyrah's ribs, but his opponent had realized the tells and his fist hit only air.

"Come on, Barge!" an observer shouted, pumping his fist in cheer. "Just hit her! How hard can it be?!"

The Barge's lungs heaved icy air. The sweat he had worked up froze to his skin, and it served as additional leverage to weigh him down. As he regained his posture from the missed punch he was trembling. Even if he still had adrenaline pumping through his blood, he was surely feeling the cold.

As was Moyrah.

---

Right now, in the dead of night, it's a bit more than -30 degrees Celsius (-22 Fahrenheit) outside. Heckin' cold. Give me a DC 15 Constitution Saving throw to steel through it. On a fail, the next hit against you has Advantage. Same for Thorben.

Thorben Constitution saving throw (DC 14) to counter fatigue [25] — SUCCESS.
Thorben Constitution saving throw (DC 15) to counter cold [21] — SUCCESS.
Thorben Unarmed Attack against Moyrah [12] — MISS.

Was it the cold, the fatigue, pondering, or the mixture of the factors that caused the last punch to miss, Moyrah didn't know, but she knew that the end of this fight needs to come as soon as possible. The cruel never-ending winter didn't care much about the petty squabbles of insignificant mortals. By this time of the night, Moyrah would have  been spending her night, sitting next to a fire, descaling fish that she caught that day with her ulu knife, and not outside, fistfighting, encircled by the townsfolk. Each new breath that she inhaled felt like swallowing a handful of needles. She ducked under the Barge's arm and tried going for the gut this time, hopefully finding more luck this time.

---

Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 10 using 1d20+5.  constitution throw against cold.

Action: Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 6 using 1d20+5.  unarmed attack against the Barge.
Since 6 doesn't beat his AC, the hit misses


This message was last edited by the player at 17:23, Sun 07 Feb 2021.

Thorben swayed away from the attack, and before Moyrah could react he was swinging an arm directly to her head. The hit was as square as it could have been, rattling the half-orcs cranium. Her jaw narrowly avoided dislocation, but that one she would certainly be feeling tomorrow.

The crowd yelled encouragingly.

---

Thorben Constitution saving throw (DC 14) to counter fatigue [11] — FAIL.
Thorben Constitution saving throw (DC 15) to counter cold [19] — SUCCESS.
Thorben Unarmed Attack against Moyrah [16] (Advantage and Disadvantage cancel out) — HIT for [7] bludgeoning damage.

Disclosing Thorben's HP: 8/26
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:48, Mon 08 Feb 2021.

The shifting of the fistfight's momentum, outside of her favor, didn't do much for Moyrah's confidence, and the cheering crowd only added to the uneasiness that she felt. Despite the current predicament that she found herself in, the fiery spite which fuelled Moyrah's willingness to fight, was only further intensified under the pressure. With the spirits of her forefathers reappearing firmly by her side, she once again became sure that nothing, or no one, will stand in her way anymore.

In hopes of catching her opponent by surprise, Moyrah decided to switch up her strategy a bit. Snow creaked and crunched, under the weight of her left foot, as she propelled herself forward, lunging towards Thorben, looking to land a curved punch straight into the opponent's ribcage.

---

Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 23 using 1d20+5.  constitution throw against cold. [success]

Action: Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 13 using 1d20+5.  Unarmed attack against The Barge. [success]

Moyrah deals 6 bludgeoning damage


This message was last edited by the player at 05:38, Tue 09 Feb 2021.

Thorben cared little of the spirits of Moyrah's forefathers and stood his ground, unflinching, taking the punch head on. It was like hitting a brick wall. Still, he felt the pain, Moyrah could tell, as he gritted his teeth and sucked in air. This was the point where anyone reasonable would give up. And surprisingly, despite being the antithesis of reason, Thorben fell to one knee, steadying himself on a fist planted firmly on the cobblestone. "Hah ... hah ... I yield." he said between his huffs and heaves.

---

Thorben Constitution saving throw (DC 14) to counter fatigue [6] — CRITICAL FAILURE. Thorben has disadvantage on his next attack.
Thorben Constitution saving throw (DC 15) to counter cold [6] — CRITICAL FAILURE. Moyrah has advantage on her next attack against Thorben.

Thorben admits defeat.

Thorben's HP: 2/26
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:37, Tue 09 Feb 2021.

Once the fight came to an end, and the adrenaline rush which carried her through thick and thin was no more, Moyrah came to a realisation that there was no more use in trying to resist the bodily urges for warmth and comfort. The piercingly cold wind was ruthless, and at this time of the night can be quite dangerous, if Moyrah didn't head home soon, the hits that she suffered would be the least of her concerns when she wakes up tommorow. Weary, she inhaled and exhaled loudly, with her hands up, still in the combative stance, as the ember lights which emitted out of her forearms gradually dimmed until only red ink remained. Spirits, along with the lights, disappeared gods know where, no explanation provided.

"I bet my season's earnings you you'd lose in straight up brawl!" Moyrah mockingly quoted one of the onlookers, while heading towards the harpoon which waited patiently for her on the snow-covered cobblestone. "Next time Thorben, don't let your friends get you into shite which you can't handle" She advised her opponent, before, spitting in the direction of the toothless man, which mocked her earlier in the tavern.

Even though she wasn't fully convinced by this very night, it became glaringly obvious, that only crumbs of the community she once called her own remained. Not many townsfolk managed to withstand the winter with the sane head on their shoulders, or with any warmth left in their heart. Moyrah vowed to herself that no longer will wounds she withstands, be they spiritual or physical in nature, succeed in defining her, only the battles that she picks, chooses and wins, will manage to do so. One day, when the sun roams across the blue endless skies freely once more, Targos will write sagas about her deeds.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:42, Wed 10 Feb 2021.

Thorben was visibly shivering and about to topple over. He scrambled to keep himself upright, dizzy, beaten, and bloodied. Two punches straight to his head from Moyrah could have been enough to give him a serious concussion, one that was just now starting to take root.

The fishermen stood eerily silent. Moyrah had not just beat any random fisherman, she had beaten Thorben. The Barge himself. The man who was as unshakable as Kelvin's Cairn itself. The toothless man, too, was uncharacteristically silent for a time, not believing what he was seeing. He was visibly fuming when Moyrah slung his wager back at him. "Y-y-you must have cheated... she must have cheated!" he finally sputtered, searching for backing in the crowd. "Everyone saw it, right? Her tattoos! It's magicks, I tell ya!"

He got no responses. Some of the crowd had parted to make room for a set of newcomers, ones who had not been there from the start of the fight. And they were certainly not fishermen, judging from their apparel. The hunter, trapper, or whatever his profession was, the who had come in for a single drink earlier that evening was among them. The scrawny man who had almost gotten his finger snapped off glanced at Rhydd, but did not pay him much attention otherwise. Despite the cold sobering most of this lot up, it might very well be that he was still too drunk to recognize him, or had been to drunk to be able to inscribe him to memory.

"ARE YA DONE?!" Vegord bellowed from the doorframe. The slightly overweight and balding man was far from the boisterous type, but when his patrons had all fled the warmth of his tavern to watch what constituted to him a largely pointless fight he felt the need to raise his voice. He pointed sternly inside. "Get in. Now! Before all you storming troutbrains freeze to death!" He then pointed at Moyrah. "That goes for you too!"

Rhydd took in the situation in a single glance. His best guess as to what would get this many people out of doors, in this weather, at this time of night, was a fight -- well, that and the fact that many of the people in the crowd were probably way more drunk than was good for them.

But this had not been just any fight -- the man who had been vanquished, from the looks of things, was the Barge. Rhydd had no idea what the fellow's real name was, but the archer knew him to be slow of wit, and overpoweringly strong. ~~I know for a fact that I wouldn't want to fight the man -- not with my fists. If 'twere me, I'd have to insist on a fight with weapons, so that I could put an arrow in his eye.~~

He turned to the female Half-Orc who had bested the Barge. Although he had seen her around town from time to time, he did not know her name any more than he did the Barge's. But he did know that anyone who could take the Barge down with her bare hands was a mighty warrior in her own right.

"Impressive," he said, giving the Half-Orc a searching look. "You bested the Barge, an' I'll be damned if I can see a mark on you."

"It's too damned cold out here," he added, the corners of his mouth curving up into a thin-lipped smile.

"Vegord's right about that. Let's go inside. I'll buy you as many drinks as you want by way of celebration, and you can meet some people who -- whether they know it or not -- would do well to recruit the warrior who forced the Barge to bend a knee."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:52, Thu 11 Feb 2021.

Farwalker rolled her eyes at the thought of a simple brawl being the test of a warrior. Sadly, it wasn’t all that obvious of a motion given that she was very tall, it was dark, and she didn’t really have irises. Or a pupil. “It takes much more than a drunken brawl in the snow to be named a warrior.” Her tone was disapproving, showing that there was likely to be something deeper to the word for Farwalker. Then she shrugged, any irritation she felt or showed flowing away with the motion, her gaze shifting from Rhydd to the half-orc. “I apologise if that slights your Victory, in any way.” Something in the way she spoke made victory sound far more important than usual. As if she’d layered six words and their dozens of connotations into one “But my talkative and enthusiastic... coworker is likely correct. I am not certain how long the lot of you can handle these temperatures.”

So saying, she made her way forward and into the tavern. It was strangely nostalgic, walking up to a fight in the snow. Or the aftermath of one. She might have missed it, once.

"But this time Vegord..." Moyrah begged, shivering, with runed harpoon held tightly in her embrace "p...p.please, just please, let me bring the harpoon in. I don't feel safe leaving it outside, within arm's r..r...reach of any p.passerby" The desperation and sadness in Moyrah's voice was a revelation to anyone who knew her long enough. Was it the trembling jaw, or the lack of energy that caused her to look this vulnerable and raw, no one can be sure, but the emotional attachment of hers to the weapon, was visible to a naked eye of anyone who could see or hear her at that moment. "If you are worried that I will cause another ruck..k.kus, you can s..s.store it behind the counter" she said, outstretching the weapon holding hand in Vegord's direction.

The lack of words of encouragement from fellow fishermen of Targos, was something to Moyrah was used to, since they have never even tried hiding the animosity they felt towards her, ever since she came into this damned world. To her surprise, the pleasant demeanour of a man who looked vaguely familiar, managed to put a smile on her face. Out of the newly arrived group, the Goliath woman, and the trapper, at a glance, left a pleasant first impression. Moyrah hasn't seen much of the world past the confines of the city's walls, and witnessing people of Farwalker's physical characteristics, who don't fit the mould of what people deem acceptable around Targos, was refreshing and even encouraging in an unfamiliar way.

Moyrah could swear to all of the gods, that she had already seen the trapper's face before in passing, at least. A Targos native.... he wasn't, but he may be a frequent visitor. "T..thank you, he managed to get in a lucky punch into my ribs, I was worried that he might have b.b..broken some" she extended her hand, covered in intertwining red runic markings, which stand out against her greenish skin."I am Moyrah by the way, or Moyrah, the mutt, as the locals like to call me" She felt unexpectedly empowered by her monicker for a change,going through a spiritual declaration of independence of sorts.



"Don't mind if I take you up on that offer, after this chaos, I could seriously use a mug of ale.... Or two." She said, tapping Rhydd on the shoulder. "Your partner is absolutely right, I am far from a warrior... I am nothing but a measly fisherwoman, and you may have already noticed, if you have stayed here long enough that is, how fruitful the catches have been.."She then turned to the Goliath," Apology accepted, but trust me, if anyone is able to understand..d the cause behind the tonight's chaos, it would b.b..be you... But we can go into more details once we settle insid.d.de."

Once she has found herself in the warm interior of the Three flags sailing tavern, she adressed the group of newcommers. "So what brings you lot to Targos, Are you in passing or looking to settle here long term?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:51, Thu 11 Feb 2021.

He puffed his cheeks, finger still pointed sternly at the half-orc, but the protest died on his lips. "Fine. But stab anyone with it and I swear to Tyr you'll have another bout on your hands. And you won't be fighting Thorben." Vegord said it in a way that implied it would be far worse for Moyrah. He stood in the door frame, shepherding everyone in. "Dastardly brats... It'll take hours before the place warms back up again..." Every minute the door was left open was another opportunity for more warmth to escape.

Now arrived, Mallory could tell from here that whether it was four or five docks over was up for contention. The Three Flags Sailing touched on what would be the fifth dock landing, but did not lay entirely past it. Perhaps it was a matter of angle too. Furthermore, the rotted refuse from spilled barrels had been only partly correct — if you were willing to count a deceased mongrel sticking partially out from the shade, preserved by the cold much to the ship rats' delight. The barrel beside it had tipped over, so the animal could have been scavenging and died midway through.
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:39, Fri 12 Feb 2021.

"Vegord, let's have a couple of tankards of your best ale for the Half-Orc and me," Rhydd called out, figuring that having something to do would get the tavern-owner's mind off of the big harpoon that the fisherwoman was carrying.

The archer turned so that he was facing the room, with his back to the bar and his elbows resting on it. Then he set about answering the Half-Orc. The more that he thought about it, he was certain that he had seen her around town on some of his trips into Targos for supplies. But he had never caught her name, and it seemed polite to get that sort of thing out of the way -- not that Rhydd generally cared about being polite or abiding by the standards that lots of busybodies wanted to try and set for him.

But he did have his own standards, and he liked what he had seen of the Half-Orc thus far. The fact that she had gotten into a fight with a bully like the Barge and then had the backbone to see it through were both marks in her favor, insofar as the outdoorsman was concerned.

"Name's Rhydd  Maldhon," he told her, speaking without taking his eyes off of the crowd in the tavern. "I come into town along and along, so you may have seen me before -- now that I think on it, I'm sure that I've seen you."

"The reason that we're in town is 'cause our guide got lost in a blizzard an' we ended up here instead of Bryn Shander, which was where the caravan was s'posed to go."

"As to why we're here in the Three Flags, I'll let this lot explain it," he said, waving his hand at those who had accompanied him.

"They heard everything first-hand, an' I didn't. Plus, I just brought them here -- four docks along . . ." here he paused and gave Mallory a side-eyed glance, "an' I haven't decided whether I'm going to be joining in the hunt, or not."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:36, Fri 12 Feb 2021.

The confident stride out into the cold night air had lasted exactly for as long as it took Mallory to regret striding out in to the cold night air.  Which was, to say, almost immediately.  Only two docks down the line and she'd already devolved into a huffing, teeth-chattering hunch with her hood and cat alike pulled close in a rather fruitless effort to keep warm.  Even the rather grim display of a bloody brawl set out in front of the Three Flags Sailing wasn't enough to dissuade her from hurrying inside for the sake of being anywhere warmer as soon as possible.

"Miserable stretch of gods-blighted tundra and glaciers... why Uncle Hukkush would ever bother with this awful region, I'll never know.  Not enough money in the world..." While Rhydd was busy being productive, Mallory was busy griping under her breath in half-spoken curses as she tried to work the feeling back into her fingers.  Amazing how quickly the warmth had been sapped out of her by the wind alone!  Astre promptly abandoned his master as well - no sooner were they inside than he fluttered his way up into the rafters to perch overhead the crowd, both for the sake of an easy vantage point and to get at whatever risen heat was trapped higher up.

"As to why we're here in the Three Flags, I'll let this lot explain it.  They heard everything first-hand, an' I didn't. Plus, I just brought them here -- four docks along..."

Though intimidated as she may have been of Rhydd, that hanging remark earned a snide look out of Mallory.  She didn't press on the matter one way or another though; she could distract herself from feeling cold by focusing on work.  "Yes, hello, I'm Mallory Bonheur of Neverwinter." she started to reach a hand out to offer a shake Moyrah's way, only to hesitate when she realized the Half-Orc's knuckles were quite bloodied from her scuffle.  All the same, the noblewoman put on a smile and put out her hand in greeting.  It did occur to her, however, a beat too late that she recognized a few faces in the tavern... she'd made a fair bit of a spectacle at the gallows, and not everyone was likely to be happy to see her popping up again so soon.

"We've been contracted by the town Speaker to look into some troubles plaguing the fishing community here.  Talk of missing workers and scant catches, not enough food to go around.  We're hoping to investigate and perhaps get to the bottom of whatever is causing misfortune on the waters.  Naturally we've come in search of anyone who might have insight to offer.  Anything you've seen or heard of, any strange happenings indicative of a creature or a phenomenon responsible?"

---

Astre Perception - keeping eyes, ears, and nose open for anything suspicious
Mallory Bonheur rolled 20 using 1d20+5

Ineptitude of southerners to withstand the conditions of the winter, didn't cease to entertain Moyrah. Their restlessness, squirminess and inability to adjust were humorous to say the least  One thing can't be taken away from them though. They were, still optimistic, living, breathing, with hungry minds and, unlike the most of the folk north of the spine, unravaged by the severe conditions of Auril's neverending winter. Who else would come in here and bother with solving locals' plights.

"Is this about the monster?" Moyrah leaned in towards the newcommers, remembering that she has promised Vegord not to cause any more chaos tonight "Personally, I think it's a crock of shit! I am out on that same lake everyday and how come nothing has hapenned to me? They are just a wretched lot who tends to make up excuses for their inability to catch fish!" Leaning of the head towards the drunk fishermen put an end to her whispering.

Leaning back, she took a sip and continued. "You know... Truth be told, the conditions that we are working in, have become worse and worse as more time goes by. As you have probably seen, most of the ice has taken over the lake, the docks are all frozen over, and sometimes the trip itself, towards the unfrozen part of it, is arduous by itself. And once you are out and fishing, you need to watch out for these pieces of  ice, floating on the lake's surface, which can easily pierce a hole in your boat. Working on the lake has never been this dangerous, but we depend on it. What can we do?" Another sip followed.

"Sadly, I think these icebergs might have caused most of the disappearances. Lake is as still as the ice which covers it. There are no currents to wash the bodies and wreckage ashore. Any evidence of death is unfortunately for you, probably laying down, frozen on the bottom of the lake. But if Naerth is willing to put the money behind the problem, there could be something more to it. If he is willing to contract you to look into this, in the times when food and money are so scarce, he might have a good enough reason to do so, Have you talked to Heilar? He swears by the name of all gods, dead and alive, to have seen this beast, but not many people, if any, trust him.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:30, Sat 13 Feb 2021.

Some of the fishermen went over to Thorben to help him steady himself. It required two of the most able-bodied among them to heft the Barge up by his shoulders, and even then they had trouble as he limped along to lick his wounds.

Vegord narrowed his eyes as Farwalker walked in. She was even taller than the Barge — by a good margin — and during this particular evening Vegord saw a potential disturbance in everything out of the ordinary. Although he said nothing and let her pass, his gaze clearly communicated that if there was any further commotion he'd lay swift destruction on everyone unfortunate enough to occupy his establishment at the present time. Auril might have laid claim to Icewind Dale, but here, in the Three Flags Sailing, Vegord still ruled — and his wrath would undoubtedly be even more tempestuous than that of the Frostmaiden's.

Though they did not speak up — Moyrah's feat had done a stellar job of snuffing out their ruffian, confident attitudes — many of the fishers stared on with curiosity at the newly entered Goliath. Some had also decided to cut the evening short and head home for the day, but the ones who had remained had scurried off to their own secluded area of the tavern, letting the victor and her fresh cohort plenty of room at the table. The toothless man — the one who had instigated the entire feud — was not among the ones who had gone home. Having retreated to his own corner, he sipped from his tankard and ground his teeth as he stared daggers at Moyrah. He had just surrendered his season's earnings — a not insignificant amount of gold that could spell his death if he did not manage to make up for it. Whether he would pay up or not remained to be seen.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:34, Sat 13 Feb 2021.

Farwalker once again had the issue of locating a chair worthy of containing her rather prodigious weight. Such was the life of being a muscular giant of a woman. The first chair she tried made an uncomfortable creaking sound when she tested it, so she moved onto another, which seemed a bit more sturdy. It looked newer at least. Probably hadn’t been used to hit anyone yet. “I am known as Farwalker.” She didn’t know them quite well enough to give them her clan name, though she liked Mallory well enough so far. Perhaps later.

“It sounds as if we must speak to this Heilar, then. Where might he be located?” Everything else was pretty much dealt with already. It was nice, having such talkative compatriots. It meant less work for her. “There may be some truth to his words. Strange things can come out in the night.”

Rhydd had not thought about icebergs as being a likely culprit behind the disappearances of the missing fisherfolk -- he spent little time out on the water, especially when compared with the men and women who made their living out on the lake. But what Moyrah said about icebergs reasonably being to blame for at least some of the disappearances made perfect sense.

But then she mentioned that someone had supposedly seen the lake-monster . . . someone named Heilar, it seemed. The Goliath -- who had just now given her name as "Farwalker" -- put Rhydd's thoughts into words by announcing that the group needed to speak with this Heilar.

The outdoorsman turned to Mistress Mallory. "Ready to traipse around out in the cold some more?" he asked.

"My hunch is that if you are feelin' the cold -- an' it sure as hells looked like it on the way over here -- the problem is most likely your base layer."

"Otherwise known as your underwear," he added with a straight face.

"I can help you pick out something more comfortable, if you like."

"Like me, Heliar lives in the south-eastern part of Targos, close to the wooden wall, where the fish drying racks are. If you haven't seen that part of the city on your way to Three flags sailing, you must have smelled the smokiness of drying fish, it's unmissable. Ten minutes are more than enough to make your way to that part of the town from here." Moyrah took another sip.

"I have to warn you though, he doesn't like company that much. Ever since he lost his hand in an an incident with a boat from the neighbouring town of Termalaine, his demeanour has shifted drastically. From that moment on he has been living a more secluded life, evading most of the townsfolk, dedicating what remains of his miserable life to looking over the drying racks. And, in all honesty, I don't blame him, I try to avoid contact with the rest of the town myself, unless it's a matter of an utmost importance. You may have arrived in time to witness one of the biggest farces this town has to offer."

Empty glass mug brought out an expression of disappointment out of Moyrah, which dispersed as soon as she continued her conversation with the newcomers. "The hangings, bloody hangings... I can't believe that we continue to be willing to sacrifice more workforce, in these conditions. For what? To satisfy imaginary whims of an insatiable hag. What happened today? I refuse to attend such ceremonies but I have heard from rest of the patrons, around the tavern, that Herve managed to escape his fate? Do you know more about it?"
This message was last edited by the player at 19:10, Sun 14 Feb 2021.

"That's one way to get into a woman's clothing." Farwalker didn't have a mug to gesture dramatically with, so she did it with her hand, making something of an untying motion. Probably. She wasn't the greatest mime. "As for Herve, I suppose we do know a bit more. Perhaps it can be a tale told on the way towards your handless, fishing compatriot. Maybe it'll distract Mallory from the cold." Farwalker grinned widely, teeth glinting in the light of the tavern. "And from Rhydd going undwear shopping with her. Though, I do think you could pull off something tight and leather." Her tone was light and teasing, and very obviously amused at the idea.

Mallroy had initially been worried that whomever they could ask for information would be difficult to get talking.  All that 'surly sailor bluster' and such; she was accustomed to from all the time she'd spent working alongside shipping freighters back in Neverwinter.  The sheer amount attitude and ego they could present themselves with was a feat in and of itself, let alone when it seemed to amplify exponentially in the presence of other sailors.  That the Moyrah was so quick to chat was a relief, albeit one that had the noblewoman hurriedly patting herself down for a logbook and a slip of charcoal to take notes with.

"Ready to traipse around out in the cold some more?"

A question Mallory dreaded.  She made no effort to hide her grimace at the prospect of immediately heading back out into the winter evening when she hadn't even fully re-warmed yet.  "Ah... well, perhaps we should ask around a bit more.  Due diligence and all that.  While I certainly have no doubt of Miss Moyrah's lead, we would be remiss to not gain further insight from the locals." While a perfectly valid point when it came to canvasing for an investigation, there was no missing the very obvious ulterior motive of staying the hell out of the wind for even a few moments longer.

Then came the underwear comments.  At first Mallory's dark eyes widened at the gall of it, though both Rhydd and Farwalker's follow-up remarks narrowed her gaze to a flat, unamused expression.  He'd overplayed his hand and made it too obvious he knew exactly what he was saying.  "Yes, yes, have your fun trying to make the silly city girl blush.  I've been dragged this far north amid mixed company for months and, wouldn't you know it, you're the very first country roughs who thought it'd be fun to have a go at my gossamer-delicate sensibilities!  You're each so clever.  Quick, fetch me a chaise so I may faint." Wholly unimpressed and absolutely dripping with sarcasm likely wasn't the reply they expected, but it was the one they got.

Moyrah, meanwhile, had emptied her mug and thankfully raised a more pressing topic.  Given how small Targos was, Mallory was honestly surprised word hadn't already spread about since most of the town seemed to have been present at the gallows in the first place.  "What happened today? I refuse to attend such ceremonies but I have heard from rest of the patrons, around the tavern, that Herve managed to escape his fate? Do you know more about it?"

"I would certainly say so.  Miss Farwalker and I intervened in that barbaric display to spare Mister Herve's neck.  It was what brought the Speaker's attention on us in the first place." the noblewoman explained curtly.  "That abominable experience is part of why we're helping out; if we can alleviate some of Targos' woes, there won't be any need for such heinous sacrifices to continue.  Not that there was ever a need in the first place."

---

Mallory perception check through Astre[20]: Astre remained watchful but could not spot anything immediately suspicious. These were ordinary fishermen smelling of fish, busy distracting themselves from their ordinary lives.

Everyone except for one. A shorter, bald man arose from the table, leaving behind an empty tankard. He pulled up his hood as he headed for the door and Astre could spot a brief puff of Arcane blue as the frigid outdoor air whisked against his breath. Before the door closed behind him he seemed to get just a teeny inch taller and more broad-shouldered, and a strand of black hair caught in the wind from underneath his hood.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:47, Mon 15 Feb 2021.

"Wow... well that is a first.. If you were only here a bit earlier." Moyrah's smile made how pleasantly impressed she was with the duo's feat more than obvious. "Ever since the previous speaker enforced that disgusting rule, people have been dying needlessly on every tenth day, no one has managed to put an end to it, even for one hanging. But don't think he is the only one to blame in this. Citizens of Targos voted for it, the man you saved was among them actually." Moyrah then leaned in once again, trying to keep her voice down "Even though I am fond of Thorben in general, as he is one of the several people who treat me with respect in this town, his reluctance to abolish the sacrifices doesn't allow me to support him fully. Which is why I was so surprised that you managed to halt Herve's hanging."



"Don't get your hopes up lass, the agreement between ten towns is what is holding the iced over remnants of ten towns together. Each city makes their own sacrifices, in various forms, to appease the Frostmaiden. Now that we have missed our tenday offering, who knows what the repercussions will be. Both from the frostmaiden and rest of the towns. It's truly a savage world we live in. Disappointment quickly replaced the feeling of elation in Moyrah's heart, as soon as the topic went in a different direction.



"I am not sure that would be a wise decision. Most of the fishermen are asleep by now, and they are angsty enough already, pissing them off would just alienate them further. It would be best to seek more information tomorrow, Heilar isn't going anywhere either way. You could even visit Herve and see if he may have something to say regarding the monster, he owes you a favor doesn't he?" After a brief pause she continued "If you ever decide on going out to a lake, you can accompany me on a fishing trip for a small reimbursement, but unfortunately my boat only has space for four, and there is five of us here if I am not mistaken... Not counting the pets"
This message was last edited by the player at 14:56, Mon 15 Feb 2021.

Mallory's expression darkened momentarily for no clear reason as her focus seemed to shift elsewhere, like she'd just heard something in the distance that nobody else did.  A light scowl passed her features, but it was only for the briefest of moments before her focus came back to the conversation at hand with barely a passing instance of distraction.

Astre, meanwhile, was on the hunt.  The suspicious traits of that strange man who'd just left the tavern caught his attention and he scampered across the rafters in silent pursuit.  A quick mental ping down to his master below was all the coordination he needed as he hopped up into the air and promptly vanished in a swirl of mist - poof! - out of existence.

A second later, just as the door closed behind the suspicious man, Astre reappeared up in the sky - poof! - back into reality.  A smooth flap of his broad, snowy wings was all it took to keep him aloft as he silently circled overhead to follow the figure out into the night.

---

With a bit of telepathic coordination, Mallory pops Astre back into his Pocket Dimension and then re-summons him outside so he can spy on the exiting figure.  Let me know if there's any necessary Stealth or Perception checks required, DM.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:40, Mon 15 Feb 2021.

Rhydd had hoped to get a little light-hearted banter going -- it seemed to him that Farwalker had reacted to his jibe in that frame of mind, but Mistress Mallory decidedly had not. ~~Too stuck-up to have a sense of humor -- or if she has one, 'tis buried so deep as to not amount to much. Ah, well -- so be it.~~

Not bothering with a reply to the female magicker's retort, Rhydd took a sip of his ale and turned to the Half-Orc.

"It sounds as if getting crippled has soured this Heilar's outlook on life. I can understand that -- losing a hand limits what a man can do to earn a living around here."

"It also sounds like your advice is to wait and talk to him in the morning rather than walking over and pounding on his door in the dead of night -- which makes good sense to me."

"I know the general area of town that you spoke of, but not this man's house. So -- can we meet you here tomorrow morning, and walk over there with you? Or, if you prefer, we can meet over at the Luskan Arms. I'll stand you to a good breakfast in return for your time."

"I'll be interested to hear how you think we should deal with Heilar in order to find out what he knows -- or thinks he knows -- about the mishaps out on the lake, instead of just getting the door slammed in our faces. Mayhap you can give that some thought and let us know what you think on our way over to his place tomorrow."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:06, Mon 15 Feb 2021.

Arkemos had entered the Three Flags with the others, huddled in his clothes for warmth. He had taken a seat as close to the fireplace as he could while also being able to listen in on the conversation but chose not to speak yet.

When Moyrah mentioned sacrifices being conducted in each of the ten-towns, Arkemos visibly scowled, realizing his travel options were now far more dangerous than even before.

As the talk went on he considered that Moyrah might have the right of it, and it was but the icebergs or any other weather related anamoly that led to the disappearances, but the idea of the beast was still tantalizing. Not to mention they needed to close all leads.

"I concur, we should speak to Heilar, and the morning would be best," he said, nodding at Moyrah and Rhydd, while giving Mallory a bit of an apologetic glance. "Still, there is nothing stopping us from asking about local events from the regulars here."

Before Mallory had the opportunity to portal Astre out of the tavern, Xhar had flown off from Arkemos's shoulder and joined the Tressym atop the beams a few paces away. He gave the Tressym a pretentious side glance, making a show of scouring the interior as well.

He failed to spot the mysterious man, but took off and glided towards the door upon Astre's disappearance. OPEN! he scream-pinged into Arkemos's mind as the door shut on his beak. Before his subject could react, however, he was fortunate enough that another patron exited soon after the hooded man, and the raven cawed as he impeded on the fisherman's exit, hopping in front of him and out into the cold.

---

Xhar's Perception check [4]

Finally, the hooded figure which entered the tavern with the rest of the newcomers adressed Moyrah, and she was elated to hear that he has a good head on his shoulders. What made Moyrah even more elated was that the dark feathered bird, which sat firmly on top of his shoulder flew out of the tavern, soon enough. She couldn't stand having them in her presence, not after the sight she was exposed to after her father's hanging, and she would prefer to keep it that way. "If you don't mind , could you keep that wretched bird away from me..." Moyrah's grimace made her sentiments incredibly obvious. "...and if you are searching for a reason why, that can be a conversation for another night and another mug of ale. You...You seem familiar, i believe I have seen you around Targos in past several days." If Xhar returns to Arkemos's shoulder, Moyrah will make sure to move on the side of the table furthest from the bird.

After she tried settling her concerns by a brief exchange with the mysterious, hooded man, Moyrah turned to Rhydd to continue their conversation. "Luskan arms sounds good, I am pretty sure my rowing boat won't be enough to fit all of us, Naerth could help by lending a boat, if he is that concerned about getting to what lies behind the disappearances. I think it would be easy to get Heilar to open up, not many people here think of him as a sound-minded lad, and he knows it. Offering him a pair of ears which will treat his opinion with respect, may be the way to do it." Being an outsider in her hometown herself, relating to Heliar's position didn't come hard. She knew how much she enjoyed meeting and talking to the newcomers and she was sure that their well intentions won't fall on deaf ears when it comes to Heilar.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:10, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

Despite the conversations happening around her that she was quite well involved in, given that folk were speaking directly to her, Mallory didn't seem to yield the least bit of attention.  She'd fallen entirely unresponsive, actually.  Indeed, one might have had to worry she really had fainted with our without the requested chaise lounge; the noblewoman's expression was distant and her eyes rested half-lidded.  A closer look beneath the stylish hooded shawl she wore would reveal that her dark eyes had gone glassy and shone with a strange, supernatural glow like quick-moving storm clouds lit by lightning.

Mentally, Mallory wasn't even in the room.  Astre's noisy-and-nonstop telepathic demands for her attention had her promptly cast her wits away; while her body remained where it was, her mind was once more outside in the cold bluster.  Not that she could make much sense of what her feline companion was being so antsy about as he got himself worked up in the anxiousness of trying to split his attention between getting her assistance and keeping an eye on what he was following.

---

Astre's 15 Passive Perception remains as is, while Mallory's so-called "help" supplants his Investigation roll with her own Nat 1.
Mallory Bonheur rolled 6 using 1d20+5

Astre's Stealth, meanwhile, is a Nat 20.  ^^;
Mallory Bonheur rolled 24 using 1d20+4

There were loads of different tracks in the snow outside. A myriad of footprints, and the mysterious figure which had brought Astre to call upon Mallory's attention was nowhere to be seen. His scent, too, was hard to catch as it was whisked away by the freezing breeze. The only smell he managed to pick up was the one from the unsteady fisherman who had just exited. He reeked of fish and alcohol, and Astre scrunched his snout.

Xhar did what Astre and Mallory had not collectively thought of — once outside he immediately took to the sky. Perhaps the Tressym would have risked being spotted with its snowy fur against the night sky, but Xhar had the benefit of a feather coating that was pitch black. He had seen who they were following, but did not know for what reason. All he knew was that they were of some import, or it would not have prompted the Tressym's attention. And since it had done so, Xhar was intent on getting to it first. The decision of what to do with them once he'd caught up would come later. Outside, fool. he mentally transmitted to Arkemos. Someone.

He saw the figure round a corner into an alleyway, slipping into the darkness amid snow-covered carts and stacks of logs protected only partly by an insufficient overhang. The man was heading northwest, towards the town square. Xhar dove down, swooping past Astre as he did to make sure the Tressym was left in his tailwind.

---

Xhar's Stealth check [17]
Xhar's Investigation check [16]

Xhar bails you out of this one, and the wild chase is off! I have provided a map in the Maps and Visuals thread to more easily understand the layout of the town.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but Arkemos and Xhar is capable of exactly the same thing Mallory and Astre is capable of — and more.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:16, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

Not one to be left behind so easily, Astre took a swift dive after Xhar to catch up.  A pair of fliers, perhaps, but with rather different anatomy overall; there were spots where the Tressym would careen down along snow-covered rootfops and, rather than have to pull up to avoid a crash as a bird would, simply landed in a full speed sprint across the eaves.  Nimble, silent dashes and leaps that shifted gracefully into flight once more as the dedicated Tressym maintained his pursuit of the mysterious man.

---

Any more necessary rolls to keep up the chase?  As it stands, Mallory can only maintain her connection to Astre while he's within 100' of her.  So he's probably on his own by this point/distance.

Assuming Arkemos is a "Pact of the Chain" Warlock, his Familiar should be equal to Astre in terms of abilities by default.  The difference comes in what sort of Eldritch Invocations he might have to boost up his Familiar's power beyond the norm, such as "Voice of the Chain Master" or "Investment of the Chain Master".  Astre, meanwhile, has his various specialties because he's a Tressym, such as heightened senses and a wider array of visions.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:20, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

It was only a few quick paces to the market square and the set of stone stairs, carved from the cliff side, that served as a shortcut to the upper parts of Targos. Though the mysterious man was quick and determined in gait, neither Astre nor Xhar had any trouble catching up to him as he exited the rows of buildings, his coat bobbing behind him with each brisk step.

While Astre stuck to the slanted rooftops, Xhar elected to soar higher in the air where he would be unimpeded by the town's architecture. The raven was fast, and had the benefit of a lighter and more streamlined form he could leverage to slip through the air, but he had to occasionally flap his wings to maintain altitude. Before he could make a dive for the mysterious man, an erratic gust caught his wingspan, briefly halting his speed and allowing Astre to overtake him.

So he cawed as loudly as he could muster. If he couldn't win, neither could Astre.

There was a chance the mysterious man would merely think it a natural sound of the night. After all, a raven was not unusual, and perhaps any commoner would simply continue on their way. But not this man. He turned around and spotted both Xhar hovering in the air against the moonlight and Astre arriving at the very last rooftop that overlooked the town square. He peered at them in turn, long wisps of black and grey hair brushing against a hardened, leathery face. Most peculiarly, his eyes shimmered a crystalline blue and his pupils let off a faint, ethereal mist that carried with the wind.

He then — in a quick flurry — spun around and disappeared, leaving behind only a glittering blend of magical blue specks and white snow swirling in his wake.

---

Mallory's and Astre's telepathic connection is severed, as they are now more than 100 feet apart. The same goes for Xhar and Arkemos.
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:20, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

The sharp caw that alerted the man earned a surprised, though entirely annoyed, glower from Astre.  A perfectly good pursuit ruined by a spiteful hanger-on!  The Tressym gave a low, angry snarl in the back of his throat but otherwise returned his focus to the scene below as he fluttered down to the spot the man had vanished from and sniffed about cautiously.  Eyes aglow and senses piqued; he scoped out the surrounding area for any sign of his quarry.  If the man could've just teleported at any time then there was no reason he'd have bothered walking anywhere on foot... which meant it was more likely a short-range jump meant to evade and confuse pursuit.

Astre's checking around once more to try and see if the man is still in the area, in case he used a spell like "Misty Step" to just hop a short distance away.  If he doesn't find any trace of the man, he'll investigate the spot where he vanished from in order to memorize the scent, then return to Mallory.

Mallory Bonheur rolled 1 using 1d20
Mallory Bonheur rolled 12 using 1d20

If Perception: 17
If Investigation: 1
If Survival: 2

Xhar perched on the scaffolding where Herve had almost hanged. He squinted at Astre, displaying little sense of remorse. Neither did he wish to help in the search. After witnessing Astre scramble for a while in search of the man, he took off and flew back to the tavern.

Astre ultimately found no trace of the man. There were plenty of corners, nooks, and alleys he could have disappeared to, too many to search quickly. If he had teleported he had given himself ample time to slip away unseen, and he'd likely be more careful this time. The snow in these parts had mostly been well paved up against the buildings and cliffs, leaving behind only a powdery, dry layer on the pavement for the wind to scatter, so there were no knee-height footprints that could easily be discovered and tracked. Astre had to acknowledge the man was gone.

The circle of bare cobblestone he had left behind a had subtle smell of a fresh arcane energy, as some motes still clung to the dispersed snow. They would soon disappear, but everyone's magic had a distinct smell. This man's hinted of something akin to lavender. It would be no trouble for Astre to discern it if he'd get the opportunity. Astre also picked up the smell of oil and bark, presumably from the man's skin or coat, not at all like the smell of dried and salted cod the fishermen here in Targos carried around.

---

One decent Perception roll that I apply to picking up the mysterious man's scent. I could have used it for discovering him, but by DM fiat I am cutting this segment short as there's not much for the others to do while this is going on.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:16, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

Strange scents to be certain... not at all the sort Astre had known ever since he and Mallory traveled so far up north into the snowy regions.  The inquisitive Tressym put the smell to memory, cast one more furtive look about the area, and then snorted in dismay before he took to the sky.  A spoiled hunt always put him in a foul mood.

---

Back at the Three Flags Sailing, Mallory's lapse into a stupor came and went rather quickly, leaving her somewhat discombobulated as she looked about the room for unseen elements.  One might almost think whatever she'd drunk at the previous tavern was finally hitting her, though clarity and focus slowly returned to her otherwise distracted expression.  Unknown to the others, Astre had returned within mental reach and began filling her head with his own experiences... including a good deal of complaining about Xhar's interference.  Another soft - poof! - of silvery mist in the rafters overhead returned Astre to the crouching spot he'd been nestled in before he left; as good as if he'd never gone in the first place.

"That's... no, slow down.  That doesn't make any sense.  Why would he...?" the dazed noblewoman pressed a palm over her brow as she spoke seemingly to nobody at all.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:24, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

For a minute or so, Mallory seemed absent, distant and as if she didn't pay much attention to the conversation at hand. Moyrah shrugged it off as possible symptoms of tiredness from a long travel through the realm of icewind dale, but her sudden dazed return to conciousness, followed by nonsensical mumbling betrayed that something is off. " Is everything fine lass? Do you need a glass of water or something stronger? What makes no sense? "Moyrah started waving her hand in front of Mallory with a confused expression on her face.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:06, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

The concerned insistence from Moyrah went unnoticed for a moment before Mallory rather abruptly snapped back to lucidity with those expressive, dark eyes of hers blinking owlishly.  She jerked away from the hand in her face on reflex, but steadied herself just as quickly.

"Ah... yes, I think I could use a stiff drink, actually.  Wait, no.  Not while I'm working.  No.  Maybe just a small one." she shook her head to try and jostle her thoughts into order.  The trouble with Tressym, really - they were just as smart as any Human yet as demanding as any cat, so having one yelling information directly into one's mind made for a disconcerting experience.  "I apologize for the strangeness.  I'm a Diviner; sometimes the visions that come to me are a bit much to handle.  Sudden knowledge without context is... difficult."

With or without a drink to steady her nerves, Mallory raised a gloved hand in a passing wave beside her and caused a dull shimmer to tremble through the air, like a heat mirage in full defiance of the cold.  Swirling trails of light and color manifested as, within moments, there stood a pair of men side by side as presented in illusory recreation.  The stocky, bald man who'd left a full tankard where he'd sat prior and the taller, dark-haired Mystery Man he'd become when he left.  "Do you recognize these men at all?  This one was just here and left the tavern moments ago without touching his drink."  she asked, then turned to look about and speak to the broader crowd of fishermen who still lingered.  "Do any of you gentlemen recognize either of these men?  Seen about here or near the Town Square, smelling of wood, oil, and lavender?"

---

Minor Illusion, for everything else that Prestidigitation can't quite handle.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:43, Wed 17 Feb 2021.

"Then we wait until..." She snorted with amusement, "Morning." Not like time really passed here the way it did elsewhere. Eternal night messed with the internal clock just a bit. At least the stars were beautiful, when they weren't covered by the weather.

She would have continued her teasing of Mallory, but she seemed a bit distracted, so she just leaned back slightly so that she could take off her pack again. No use sitting on a stool with it on. "I haven't been back in more than a decade. If I recognised anyone, I would be quite surprised."

"What?" one of the remaining fishermen said as he turned to look at Mallory's conjurations. "Lavender?" He seemed mighty confused. They all did. "Wait, that's . . . what was his name," one more pipsqueaked sailor said as he squinted and pointed to the miniature recreation of the short and bald man. "Anyone remember?" The other fishermen all shrugged. Either they were clueless, or they had no intention of helping anyone associating themselves with Moyrah.

"That magic, it ain't about to burn my tavern down, I hope." a voice came from behind the barkeep. Vegord had spoken up from where he stood cleaning the dirty mugs as he prepared to close for the night. He pushed his spectacles further up his pear-shaped face with the butt of his palm, scowling sharply at Mallory. "Tall one I've never seen. I talked to the bald one. Told him I hadn't seen him around here before, and that it's strange with new arrivals in these times." Vegord intensified his stare, if that was at all possible, to leave something unspoken. 'That goes for you lot as well'. "Said he came from Bremen. Didn't give me his name, now that I think 'bout it. Strange fella'."

---

Moyrah's Perception [13] and Insight [14] checks on the mysterious man: It was very likely the bald man had been in the crowd. Now that she thought about it, she was sure of it. Other than that, the face was entirely unfamiliar to her — which was telling in and of itself.

Rhydds's Perception [20] and Insight [16] checks on the mysterious man: To Rhydd, the tall man looked familiar. He hadn't seen him recently, here in Targos, but long ago. Where could it have been? Easthaven? Caer Dineval? He had a complexion that hinted of a Reghed bloodline. Now that he thought of it, the man must have been in employ of Torg's as a bodyguard — a Dwarven trading caravan that went defunct some years ago. Their methods had been less than over the table, so to speak, and Rhydd was fairly certain they'd done their share of black market bounty hunting on the side.
This message was last updated by the GM at 14:45, Sun 03 Apr 2022.

"Hunh," Rhydd grunted when Mistress Mallory made a small gesture with her hand and two glimmering phantasms suddenly appeared.

The outdoorsman peered at the apparitions for a moment, then glanced at the female mage, to whom he nodded. "That is a good trick," he said, before turning his attention back to the phantasms.

"The taller one . . ." he said, his voice trailing off as he struggled to remember. After a short while he snapped his fingers and muttered, "Ah, yes -- I have it now."

Turning to face Mistress Mallory, he said "It took me a moment, for the memories go back a few years. But the tall apparition . . . I remember him as being a guard and enforcer in the employ of Torg's Trading Coster."

"They are no longer in business any more -- at least not openly. But back in the day, Torg's was an outfit run by Dwarves who favored the shadowy side of the lane. I never knew this fellow's . . ." here Rhydd nodded his head towards the taller apparition, "name, but remembering what I do about Torg's, I would put my money on his being the sort who is not squeamish about getting his hands dirty."

The archer took a sip of his ale, then added, "One more thing. It is not revealed by the apparitions, but I remember thinking that the fellow's coloring hinted at Reghed blood-lines, for what that is worth."

After a short pause he added for the benefit of the two mages, "The Reghedmen -- sometimes known as the 'Men of the Tundra' are several tribes of Human barbarians who live out in the frozen wastes. Hard conditions breed hardy men -- and women."

"That is probably another reason to think that this is a hard man, one who will not shy away from doing what needs doing, to his way of thinking."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:19, Fri 19 Feb 2021.

If Mallory's sudden shifts in behaivor weren't enough to startle Moyrah, the illusory projections succeeded in doing so. She didn't cross paths with many diviners in Targos, but how helpful her new compatriot's abilities are turning out to be, Moyrah was glad to have one on her side.

"Well I don't remember seeing either one of them around these parts. I am pretty sure they are not from Targos. He spent the whole night in this inn though. I am sure I bumped into him, accidentally, earlier in the night, during the fight" She was thankfully interrupted by Rhydd who greatly helped out by sharing his knowledge of the mysterious figures.
"...But why are you interested in this man all out of a sudden lassie? Why didn't you approach him while he was still here?"
This message was last edited by the player at 21:47, Thu 18 Feb 2021.

"Merely a trick of the light and passive arcane manipulation, nothing more.  It's perfectly harmless." Mallory assured the wary owner as she passed her hand about through the illusory images harmlessly, where they gently swirled and regathered back into their assigned humanoid depiction like passing mists.

"That is a good trick." She was a bit surprised to hear a genuine acknowledgement from Rhydd, but it puffed Mallory's shoulders all the same with an accomplished air.  "Indeed; wonderfully useful in so many ways.  Admittedly I did cause a fair bit of mischief with it as a child, but who among us wasn't a troublemaker when we were small?"

The following descriptions of the men in question, one way or another, were put to memory as the noblewoman took it all in.  Her expression furrowed in thought as she tried to make sense of what she'd learned not only from the present moment, but from Astre's reports prior.  His spying back at the Luskan Arms had revealed some questionable intent by folk in town and to have this fellow lurking about in disguise just made it all the worse.  She had no clear accusations to levy against him, of course; his presence alone was merely suspicious and worthy of a cautious eye.

"I see... something I'll keep in mind, I think.  Thank you, Mister Maldhon, Miss Moyrah." she mulled over the matter with a narrowed gaze even as the phantom images she conjured faded away into nothingness.

"...But why are you interested in this man all out of a sudden lassie? Why didn't you approach him while he was still here?"

A moment's hesitation came of trying to figure out what was worth revealing before the noblewoman replied.  "I'm afraid the visions I gain doesn't always yield immediate context; I have to parse out the meaning myself.  I had no reason to bear interest prior." she explained cryptically.  "But those two men are one in the same.  The bald facade was merely a disguise he shed as soon as he left the tavern.  I don't know for what purpose yet, but I imagine that man was gathering information.  If he may be involved in shady dealings, as Mister Maldhon theorized, then I doubt he's up to any good."

Mallory held her tongue on the finer details; it wouldn't do to go spreading rumors of shapeshifters - be it spell or Monster - in a town already beset with so much strife.  That would just be spreading turmoil without purpose.  Though with that and the new information about the disguised mystery man, notions of inter-business sabotage rose quite readily to mind as a potential reason for the fishing boat's failures of late.  She looked about to the other sailors and fishermen who dotted the room and raised her voice in a manner that made it clear she was accustomed to some measure of public speaking.  "Well, so long as I have all of your attention; I'm certain you lot overheard what we were speaking of with Miss Moyrah here.  You're hard-working folk with a vested interest in thriving out here.  Surely you've experienced or witnessed the troubles on the waters of late and can offer some insight?  Anyone?  Don't be shy, now."

---

Persuasion w/Advantage from Help
Mallory Bonheur rolled 20 using 1d20+3
Mallory Bonheur rolled 21 using 1d20+3
This message was last edited by the player at 23:51, Thu 18 Feb 2021.

The atmosphere around Targos, harsh and unwelcoming as it is, hasn't been to Moyrah's liking already, but the presence of a shapeshifter, snooping around in their midst, took away any last remnants of safety that were left in Moyrah. ~What else could happen? Lake monster invading Targos? I should have just stayed home. Something isn't right.~

"But what he was looking for here... in the Three flags sailing tavern, why would he be here? What would he be looking for from drunken sailors singing shanties whole night. I suspect that he may be interested in the same thing that you are investigating." Moyrah was at loss of ideas what could have piqued the mysterious figure's interest here out of all places, wouldn't he be in Luskan arms, where more detrimental information could be overheard. All she knew was that masses were not safe anymore, this person could be anywhere.

"It's difficult to say without knowing more about him.  For the moment there's no clear indication he's anything more than a nosy sort who likes to wear a mask, but it's worth keeping him in mind as a suspicious character." Mallory offered with a shrug.  She already had theories that whirled about in her head as to what the man might've been up to.  The notion that he'd been present at the would-be execution earlier meant that he was likely keeping an eye on events around town, or perhaps the activities of the townsfolk themselves.  That she and Farwalker had interrupted the "sacrifice", such as it was, might've raised more an issue than she first realized if that somehow factored in...

"It's best not to think to hard about things we don't know." Especially without any of the facts to go along with suppositions. As Mallory turned to address the crowd, Farwalker placed a hand on the woman's shoulder and muttered under her breath as she made to stand up. It was a little awkward reaching over and standing, but it wasn't like she wasn't tall enough to deal with the situation. "Seek the true tone to form our will." It was just a little bit of help, bet every little bit helped. Usually.

"The more we know, the easier it will be to assist you." Farwalker added her own voice to Mallory's suggestion of the fisherpeople giving them any information they had. "We have no desire to see anyone hanged, and hopefully we can find a way to keep that from happening again."

They cared very little as Mallory spoke and were mostly content with continuing their chatter. Oh, they'd heard her alright, judging by their dismissive side glances. They just chose not to care. But when the Goliath stood, lumbering tall and eerily, they quieted. The only sound was an awkward scrape from a shuffled chair. Whether or not Farwalker intended to be intimidating, she had that effect. While most Goliaths had the reputation of savage brutes, there was something else about Farwalker. An aura of off-putting otherworldliness that could shake one's spirit more than a simple display of muscle.

"Ahem . . ." one man cleared his throat. "If you're talkin' of the lake monster, there was this boat Wirt dragged in that must'a hit a flake or sumthin'. . ." he scratched the back of his head, clearly somewhat unsure of what to think of this particular matter.

"It did not hit a flake, I tell ya!" the pipsqueaked fisherman who had spoken earlier said. "Somethin' had taken a bite of it! Teeth marks. Completely unusable. Lucky it didn't sink, I was."

Beside him, a third fisherman scoffed and rolled his eyes. Arkemos could see that it was the one who had taunted him back in the town square. A boisterous type. "Load o' bull-crap! Ain't no sea beast!" He smacked the smaller man on the head. "Quit seein' things that ain't there! You hit some ice! Same with Boots and Stognur!"

There were clearly dissenting opinions among them, and more sprung forth as they continued arguing among themselves. Many leaned toward there being no water aberration, but what could they do if it was true? None of these men were fighters — well, of course, none besides Thorben who sat silently in the corner, padding his bruises with a piece of wet cloth. But for the rest of them, the moment they'd let themselves start to believe the legend — let it prevent them from venturing out to the lake — they'd lose their livelihood. Better to live in denial for as long as possible, until the evidence became truly insurmountable.

~~The boats that sank hit icebergs, or they didn't. There is a great lake monster out there biting chunks out of boats, or there isn't,~~ Rhydd thought to himself as he listened to the fishermen give voice to their opinions.

~~ No one knows . . . well, unless there are bandits who are behind all the mischief, and then I suppose *they* would know . . . but the only way anyone in *this* room is going to find out is to go out on the lake and see what there is to be seen.~~

The outdoorsman cleared his throat. "Well, it seems to me that we aren't going to solve that mystery here, tonight. Should we give it a rest until tomorrow morning?"

Lowering his voice so that only his companions could hear, Rhydd added "Unless Heilar might be in danger,  due to what he knows. It has been said that dead men tell no tales. Nor do ones who have simply disappeared."

The archer glanced at Arkemos and Mallory. "Can your magicks give us any guidance on this point -- whether there is an immediate threat to the man that needs to be addressed this eve?"

"I am pretty exhausted and bruised up myself, It was most definitely an eventful night... Not sure if I will be able to sleep tonight in peace after hearing all of this, but rest is something I desperately need." Moyrah stood up, clinging tightly the coat with one hand, in a way, which would stop any warmth from escaping the layers of her garments, readying mentally to face the elements beyond the walls of the tavern. With the other hand she grasped her harpoon, leaning on it almost as it was a walking stick, before firing a grateful glance to the barkeep.

She didn't feel at ease, trying to piece all of the things which happened tonight, together. The new arrivals, shapeshifters, foreign apparitions, lake monster... bite marks?... Standing dangerously at the edge of her ability to process her surroundings, Moyrah felt the need to rest, before the very nature of the events overwhelm her. But with the means of securing her livelyhood potentially threatened, what would her net step be like~I am just a fisher, is this what fate has in store for me? But what if these bite marks are real? Will I be able to fish at all?~

"So... Luskan Arms it is? Tommorow morning? Or if you prefer, we can go around Targos to visit the sailors and compare the bitemarks, to search for any resemblance between the marks? " Leaning in towards the group, mid-sentence she lowered her voice. Putting out plans out in the open, didn't seem like a safe option.

As the snapping and shouting grew steadier over the varied replies, Mallory had the distinct feeling that a gaggle of old sailing buddies probably ended up in such an argument every chance they got.  Still, it was useful in its own sense.  It confirmed that nobody really had much of an idea what was the cause and there were conflicting accusations; the uncertainty in blame was telling in and of itself.  Still, she offered a sidelong look over to the others and helplessly shrugged.  Odds were the fishermen would continue their bickering even after the group left...

Rhydd's question of Heilar's safety was met with a shake of Mallory's hooded head.  "In times like these, relying on your own gut feelings and common sense tends to be more useful.  If you truly worry this Heilar fellow might be in danger somehow, then we should seek him out posthaste.  Otherwise, it would indeed be better to wait until morning to not bother his rest and to be able to examine the damaged boats by daylight." she leaned in to speak close with the group more for the sake of ensuring they could hear her over all the din rather than any real desire for secrecy.

Either way, they'd be leaving the tavern and returning out into the frigid elements beyond.  Mallory had to brace herself for that literal cold hard fact, though she caught Moyrah's uncomfortable shifting in preparation as well.  The young noblewoman offered a hand out, palm upturned, where the air within her grasp steadily swirled and shimmered with the influence of magic at her fingertips.  "I can help reinforce your clothing from the cold a bit.  It's not much help against this bitter night, but still..." she knew better than to cast magic on people without permission.  Though if the offer was accepted, Moyrah would get to enjoy the odd sensation of her coat suddenly growing perpetually toasty and warm to a comfortable temperature that would endure for a solid hour.

---

Prestidigitation for the win!

"You are welcome to escort me then. If you would like to visit Heilar, I would gladly show you where he lives, but alienating one of the few eyewitnesses we know off, wouldn't be the best thing to do. Most of you are new here... Fishermen aren't the most welcoming bunch, there is no guarantee you will have a second chance to gather information if you anger him. If you are that worried about him, you can send one of your familiars to keep a watch on him, just in case." Even though Moyrah hasn't been officially been a part of the group of newly minted investigators, seeing the good that they have managed to achieve, not so long after arriving to town, helped instil Moyrah's investment into their cause, and she decided to make sure that their mission will reach the most positive epilogue, one way or another.



"Sure lass, your help is more than welcome... didn't know you had even more tricks in your arsenal."

Rhydd shrugged when Mallory suggested that his own common sense would be of more use than her magicks when deciding if Heilar was in any immediate danger.

"I got no idea. Maybe, maybe not. I don't know how our Mystery Man thinks, an' I don't know what orders he may be operatin' under."

He smiled a thin smile and nodded towards the Goliath. "An' like Farwalker, here, said back yonder at the inn about overthinkin' things, 'No information, no point.' I'd have better odds gettin' it right if I just flipped a coin."

"An' given Moyrah's concern about pissin' off Heilar by poundin' on his door in the middle of the night, I'm inclined to head back to the inn for a good night's rest."
This message was last edited by the player at 18:41, Sat 20 Feb 2021.

Farwalker hummed thoughtfully and considered the fishermen's words. After thanking them, of course. Once she was settled back down on her stool, with only a minor amount of creaking, she drummed her fingers idly on the bar, staring at nothing in particular. Or at someone. It was really hard to tell with her eyes the way they were. "Do not forget, Mallory, that at best you will have nothing but twilight to see by." She eventually added. She'd let them have their theories and worries. Farwalker would get where she needed to be.

"But that means little, when I am near. If you wish to see the night in all it's beauty, all you need do is ask." She stood back up then, finished with her mulling. "So, shall we head back to the inn, or elsewhere?"

The departure of Moyrah's new acquaintances coincided with Vegord's closing hours. Not long after, he let the rest of his patronage know that he'd be shutting his doors and that it was time they finished up their tankards and grabbed their coats. Thorben unsteadily rose to his feet, cloth pressed to his chin, and went to the rack of scarves with his head bowed. Vegord whispered something to him, and the large man briefly glanced back at Moyrah, then returned a nod to Vegord. The toothless man did not have the wits to lay low like Thorben, and sneered at Moyrah on his way out. While usually the loudest voice in the Three Flags, for the remainder of the evening he had sat in his corner and sulked without saying a single word. Out of the two who had challenged her, he was the more defeated man.

When it was Moyrah's turn to leave, Vegord stopped her before she reached the door. "Tonight changed nothing, Moyrah. You know this. It ain't going to get any easier. They ain't going to back down," he said in a low voice. Then he paused, sighing heavily. "It pains me to say it, but perhaps it's for the best if you don't return. . . ."

"Was there ever a chance for me to change anything?" Moyrah replied to Vegord, already knowing the answer. "If you lost the last living person dear to you, as I did, and live to hear others drag their name through the dirt, I wonder what you would do?" This time, she expected an answer in return. "Perhaps, it's best for me not to return to Targos once I leave it..." Moyrah's throat stiffened the moment that the thought, which has been hiding within the depths of her mind for so long, left her mouth. "...But either way, no matter what the fates have in store for me, just know... that you will forever stay in my mind, as one of the few people who treated me with respect around here, and for that I am thankful." She tapped Vegord on his shoulder, hoping that others won't see it, as she headed out of the Tavern.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:57, Tue 23 Feb 2021.

Moyrah did not need to worry about being seen tapping Vegord's shoulder, she realized — the two of them were the only ones left. Vegord took her hand, holding it still for a moment. The innkeeper was a head or so shorter than Moyrah, so he looked up to meet her eyes, but when he did, there was genuine compassion in them. Even if he did only have profit at the forefront of his mind. "The folks here respected your father. Orvar had a good heart. I'm glad he managed to pass it on. I do wish the others wouldn't be so stubborn and knuckleheaded . . . they might have seen it. Take care, Moyrah. These be harsh times."

Feeling at ease due to the absence of her agitators, Moyrah in safety said her final farewell to Vegord... "I will Vegord, Take care of yourself too." ... before hitting the road towards her home. In all honesty, she couldn't wait to get back to the comfort and warmth of her bed, and fish stew, if it didn't rot away already in the pot.

On her way home, Moyrah realized how trully exhausted she was, from tonight, from Targos, from trying to change the whole town's opinion of her, it has dawned on her finally, that even she isn't strong enough to fix all of the problems she was facing. Now, as her own declaration of independence has become official, and blurted out in sudden whirlwind of sadness, it seems as if there wasn't much left to do but to act on it. The silver-lining has finally presented itself though. The group of newcomers, which fates had sent her way, have shown so far that they have well-intentions, and more importantly that they don't intend on staying in Targos much longer. Perhaps they could be the way out of this cursed town, and judging by first impression, they don't seem to mind Moyrah's presence.

After the suspicious murmuring in the tavern, right before she left, Moyrah made sure to be increasingly careful on her way home. Damned people don't react well to losses, and she will not allow her to be victim of another one, anymore.

---

15:16, Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 16 using 1d20+3.  Perception on the way home.

The night was as quiet as they come. Once away from the tavern and the shuffling of the dispersing fishermen's boots only the soft whistle of the cold wind persisted. While at times it was hard to see, the half-orc was certain there weren't any shadows lingering nearby, stalking her. If anyone had any gripes with the results of today's match they weren't acting on it. Yet.

Moyrah walked southward along the dockside. There wasn't much of note in this part of town — racks on racks of salted fish hanging out to dry in the winds. Except they were far from as saturated as they used to be. While most of the fishermen refused to accept it as fact, the rumor of the sea beast had brought the yield even further down, and Targos had just barely enough food to get by to begin with.

The houses here were no more than sheds and cottages. Typically, no-one came to this part of town. Moyrah passed Heilar's, a small, beaten down repurposed boathouse that could hardly hold the heat. After losing his hand he'd made due with what he could, and in addition to gutting and hanging up the fish he'd pivoted to acquiring hooks, nets and fishing rods to sell to the townsfolk, but even that scarcely hung about on the exterior and the quality of the wares was shabby at best. Compared to Triglio's, the town's general store, it wasn't worth sparing the first glance. Naerth kept a close watch on trade now, and there was essentially no chance for someone like Heilar to succeed.

And just beyond, banished to the very edge of Targos, laid the small shack Moyrah and her father had called their home.

The gentle hum of cold wind, flying past her face, might be what Moyrah needed after such a rumbustious night. Thankfully for her, her solitude was finally, seemingly, guaranteed, and a short walk towards her home will finally help her gather her thoughts and relax for a bit. She can feel her body aching from the fight, but the benefits of standing up to her oppressors finally, more than made up for it.

The very position of her shack, compared to rest of the town, mirrored the relationship she had with the locals in a perfect manner. In a perverse way, she even enjoyed the privacy and isolation the position granted her, as who knows what kind of person she would have developed into, if Moyrah and her father spent their life in Targos having to share their backyard with someone, if it can even be called that way. ~Would Orvar even be proud of me after tonight~ Moyrah wondered to herself, approaching her home steadily.

Her father has, for most of the time, preferred a more diplomatic approach while dealing with the locals, and has thus drawn less negative attention to himself. Most of the interaction the two had with rest of the townsfolk, went no further than an occasional wave during fishing, and handing over the fish at the end of a working day. If it wasn't for the occasional travelers, which would stop by their shack from time to time to get their tattoos painted on by Orvar, Moyrah would have, most certainly, grow up without any perspective on interpersonal relationships and communication. Her father's more friendly demeanour towards their surroundings, hasn't however carried much weight when the time came for his execution on the town square, if anything, the sacrifice even brought out a smile, or few.

Now with Orvar dead and gone, it seems as if Moyrah's system of controlling and conforming has went to the grave too. Is it the lack of Orvar's guidance or the rawness of her emotional state, only time will tell, but if tonight was any indication of her state, not much was necessary to provoke a reaction out of her. Shame it costed her, her relationship with Vegord, but if she went back in time, she wouldn't change anything.

In front of Moyrah's shack was a small makeshift wooden smoker, which in happier times, when Icewind Dale wasn't at Auril's mercy, would usually have a fish or two inside of it, skewered, getting smoked slowly at low temperature. The smell of trout fat, evaporating instantaneously upon contact with the embers bellow, is a smell which transported Moyrah vividly to the innocence and happy-go-lucky period of her childhood. Nowadays, with the way living in Targos has been like, a half full pot of unseasoned fish stew on the table, would be a cause for celebration, and thankfully, Moyrah should be having some frozen above the extinguished hearth inside of her house....
This message was last edited by the player at 22:49, Wed 24 Feb 2021.

The interior of the house can best be described as, a claustrophobic's worst nightmare, as if it wasn't obvious by looking at it from the outside. The space is dominated by two beds, at the sides of a rock lined, large hearth, used for both cooking and warmth, which occupied the central position inside of the room. As Moyrah has spent most of the night outside of her home, only few extinguished coals remained on the bottom of the hearth, and relighting the fire will take quite some time, but then again it's much better than trying to fall asleep in an icy room. Thankfully the effects of miss Mallory's spell will make the wait more pleasant at least. ~Even though she builds this prim and proper facade, which can be cold and off-putting at times, a warm and kind soul is hiding underneath~ Moyrah thought to herself.

Hoping to get the fire going before the spell warns off, Moyrah looked at one of the blank parchments laying around on one of the beds, and started crumpling it and soaking it in oil in order to begin working on the fire. Once the first indication of a flame started flickering, the darkness that slowly retreated from the interior, gave away much more information about Moyrah's life than one might be able to observe at first glance. Out of the two beds, one on the left was filled with various parchments, some blank some half filled with various symbols... There was also a small bowl filled, with what was now frozen, red pigment, with a long thin needle trapped inside of it. And as the flames grew brighter and brighter, the runic inscriptions, etched into the wall, seemingly in a hurry, became more and more apparent. They matched both, the symbols inscribed on some of the parchments, and the tattoos on Moyrah's arms which end abruptly at the forearm. The process of copying them is still apparently in progress, and whats important to note, ones which were on the parchment were much much fresher and almost close to be done. Having a more mobile back up will serve Moyrah well, since skipping the town was the definite decision. Once the flames became sufficently strong, Moyrah placed the pot of frozen fish stew on top, anxiously waiting for the meal's arrival.

Morning rose and the fishermen got about with their business. The rumors of the sea monster had many stay in bed, but some still took their chances out in the lake, and if they were to get out there in before noon they had to wake up early to drag their boats out across the ice. Some had them stored away here in the old, run-down boathouses. If the buildings were good for nothing else, most of them had still had a roof and were able to protect the boats from potential snowfall. Many opted to just tie a cover on top instead and leave them outside.

Heilar himself was one of the early risers, though he had no intention of dragging his boat out. Instead he talked with a couple of the fishermen, providing them with some new ropes after they'd apparently torn their last ones.

Loud bangs sounded on Moyrah's door. "Open up! I don't give a single shit if I'm wakin' ya!" Moyrah recognized the voice. It was the toothless man, Gam, who had been responsible for the ruckus at the inn the prior evening.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:44, Fri 05 Mar 2021.

Mallory's illusion of warmth has done just what was needed to help tuck Moyrah away into what felt an eternal slumber. Shame her tranquility had to be interrupted by loud banging and hollering. And as if the interruption wasn't enough, it was coming from the toothless sack of shit, who wagered against her during the last night's fight, among other things. No matter who the party on the other side of the door was, Moyrah would have instinctively grabbed the spear laying next to her bed just in case, but now she had even more reason to do so.

The hand which gripped the harpoon tightly, leaned on the doorframe, so as to stay hidden from the prying eyes beyond the walls of Moyrah's shack. Creaky sound of the old mold scabbed wooden doors sliding followed as Moyrah opened the door just enough so that only one of her eye and cheek are visible, still unsure about what Gam was even looking for here. "What do you want?"

Gam was incessant, and continued his knocking as Moyrah got up and walked to the entrance. BANG! BANG! BANG! "Open the blasted door!" When it finally opened he peered in through the narrow crack. It was enough for Moyrah to see his red, tired eyes. He had stayed up the entire night, perhaps drinking — that much was obvious to any fool.

Instead of saying anything he tossed in a pouch of coins that clattered onto the floor. "That's what I have. Take it." He turned around to some of the fishermen who was preparing their boat by the dock. They were staring up at Moyrah's front entrance. "What in the hells are you lookin' at?" he barked at them and waved for them to turn around. "Mind your own blasted business!"

---

I forgot to mention, but I want you to make an . . . Insight check?  Related to the etchings on the wall.

Immediately after Gam tossed the coinpouch beneath her, Moyrah kneeled down, confused, to inspect it. Upon realizing that it was filled with savings which he wagered the night beore, the last crumbs of compassion she had for this town, urged her to toss the pouch back, but after remembering Gam's words, filled with hate and anger, about her and her father, the remnants of the empathy, lingering desperately at the bottom of her soul, evaporated almost instantaneously. She slammed the door quickly behind her and hid the pouch underneath the mattress of the bed she slept on, Moyrah then grabbed her coat and boots, and headed for a meeting she arranged with Rhydd the night before at the Luskan Arms.

---

Today: Moyrah the Mutt rolled 13 using 1d20+1.  Insight check for etchings.

Should I adjust my character sheet to add more money. Also can I switch to the other thread as Moyrah headed there?

This message was last updated by the player at 19:04, Sat 06 Mar 2021.