It has been twenty long years since the Raven King stole the sun.  He had long been thought trapped, held within a dwarf-wrought cage deep within the depths of the craggy Mt. Kimdarum.  The Raven King had been nearly forgotten over the ages since he was defeated by the Bright King and the coalition of Dwarves and Men.  But it would seem that defeat would not last.And so it has been twenty years of darkness, twenty years of starlight and hoarfrost.  Twenty years of the Raven King's forces marching the land, burning villages and slaughtering any who cross their path.  The dead walk again under a black feathered banner, and they seem to be searching for something...

Many who still live have never seen the sun, and even the youngest generations believe it to be a myth.  But there are those that remember light and warmth, those that remember safety and comfort.  There are those who search for the missing sun, or try to gather armies with which to fight the Raven King.  Your purposes are your own, but destiny seems to have a certain plan for you.

We now join our band of travelers, many meeting for the first time.  Only a few days have passed since they had seen the lights in the sky from wherever their vantage point lay.  The stars still speak of coming change, but offer no other insights.  For now, those that chart the stars must wait to see what comes.  And what better way to wait for coming change than in the safety of a town?

The moon has set in Clayshire, but the smell of clay is ever present.  It permeates through every door and window, overwhelming the senses with its rich, natural smell.  Some of you have traveled a long way to arrive here, driven by fate or need.  Others have been here for some time, becoming locals themselves.  Whatever your reasons may be, you find yourselves in the local tavern.  The Hero and Spear is quiet, as many of the normal patrons are exhausted from a long day's labor.  Korag, the half-orc bartender, offers ale or a meal of dry chicken and stale bread for coin, and a willingness to listen to your tales for free.  A few patrons laugh loudly at a table, apparently deep into their cups.  Another stranger sits in a shadowy corner, quiet and unassuming.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:59, Mon 09 Aug 2021.

Trog had gotten the majority of the clay dust off himself and was now seated in his favourite spot next to the fire he tended. The start of the day had been like many others, he remembered some dream for a fleeting second as the cockerel raised him  from his slumber.

A pot of porridge had greeted him on his return from the wood shack with a cast iron firewood keeper under each arm. He had deposited them by the fire and had taken up the pot as well as the jug of bacon grease to pour across the top. It was simple but hearty fare and would keep him to late afternoon he hoped. Once he had broken his fast he joined the other day labours and had made his way down to the clay pits in the hope of work. Standing in line he waited for the information of whether there was work today, what it would be, the pay and if he would be chosen from the others.

"Luck" it seemed was on his side as he was one of the first chosen from the crowd. His day consisted of the usual, lift this, push this and drop it here. Though the "day" did go quickly, he even managed to get a couple of extra hours out of the foreman as the clay carts had gotten behind so Trog pushed the ones left over up the incline.

With a few coins in his pocket Trog had returned to the tavern to find nearly everyone had already finished and return home. He handed over the coins to Korag and in time received his mutton and ale.



-

Korag gives Trog a wink- a gesture he still has yet to grasp- and a few loaves of bread that were hard as the troll's hide, in addition to the food and drink ordered.  He has always been kind to you, partially because you help keep people calm in the tavern with just your presence, but also because he appreciates having another oddity around.  Being a half-orc, he is often the outcast standing alone.  But not as of late.

The door opens with a loud noise, and from without comes a gush of cold wind. As if part of the wind, Syndelia slides into the room, purposefully making some noise as she comes in; the locals get unneverved when she appears quietly. Her black hair and leather loincloth dance minutely in the cold breeze, the fireplace's red light shines on pale skin covered in swirling blue tattoos.

"Mind your head, Bigboy," she says without turning, in a melodius Elven voice. Then she walks up to a free table, sits on a chair and puts her feet on the table, bits of dried mud falling from her tattered, old tall boots.

"Ale and some grub, Korag," she calls, propping her bow and quiver against the wall. There is a brief blur of movement, and a second later she is cleaning her fingernails with a long, curved knife.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:43, Tue 10 Aug 2021.

A large figure pauses at the door and seems to be trying to contort his body to get in. There are several loud thuds as something hard hits the door frame along with some muttering in a deep voice. It takes a little bit of time but he does manage to enter. He stands up and stretches his body. "Why are the entrances so small," He grumbles. he blushes a little when he notices the people staring at him.

He looks around until he sees where Syndelia is seated and goes to sit down next to her. He stops when he sees the chairs available, 'Will those support me? It looks like it will break.' He carefully sits down on a chair.

He then realizes that he overlooked a very large troll. He looks over to it and asks, "Syndelia, do you see that troll over there? Are they common here?
This message was last edited by the player at 15:18, Tue 10 Aug 2021.

The chair creaks, but it appears to be sturdily made.  That being said, there is a troll sitting on the floor, so it may not hold Paran for long.

Korag comes to the table with two tankards of ale, and looks Paran up and down.  Firbolgs were quite rare, though there did happen to be another in town.  Freda, the firbolg, was not in the tavern tonight.  Looking around, Syndelia can, however, see a few ne'er-do-wells who work for Dralda, though they seem to be focused on their own food.

The door opening for Syndelia and Paran does allow in a cold breeze, especially given the time it takes Paran to nagivate the frame.  Once it shuts, however, the troll by the hearth feeds another log into the fire.  It isn't long before the room is toasty again.

---

OOC: What is the relationship between Trog and Syndelia?
OOC: What is Syndelia's 'usual', that Korag always keeps on hand?

Jerec had arrived in Clayshire earlier during the day, such as it was, and spent most of it purchasing the supplies he required. Given his age, a man in his forties though with an appearance of one older still, he could recall the warmth of the sun as it had beat down on him in his youth, a gift they had all taken for granted. Despite twenty years of darkness he would never get used to the unnatural night that had engulfed the world.

As Barakus tended to the supplies and their mounts in the stables, Jerec had entered The Hero and Spear and purchased meals of chicken and stale bread for them, along with some lemon water for himself. He preferred to keep his mind clear and thus never drank.
Taking a seat at a shadowed corner table he waited for Barakus, sitting with his back to the wall, his staff propped up next to the table within easy reach and his travel-bag slung on the side of his chair alongside his hooded cloak. His sword though was still sheathed in his belt by his side.

Stroking his beard thoughtfully Jerec listened to the subdued voices and the occasional laughter; it felt good to be around a large number of people after so long cloistered in his tower. And yet the despondency he saw on the faces of so many dismayed him, as it had earlier during his visit about the towns marketplace. It was as if the unnatural darkness had sucked the will to resist from the people, giving the Raven King almost total victory with hardly a sword being raised.

Jerec noticed the troll dressed as a laborer, a rare sight but the darkness and the cold had pushed many towards the warmth of what free towns yet remained in human lands. Old enmities were forgotten as the latter were only too happy to accept what help they could get; man was not made to labor consistently in cold year round.

The door opened but it wasn't Barakus who entered, but two new faces, one being a Firbolg and another which Jerec suddenly realized was a bit familiar. As he gazed at the woman he tried to recall her name and suddenly it came to him; it was Syndelia, the bandit woman he had come across so years ago. He did not call out to her, choosing to watch and wait for now.

It would seem that both the shadowed corners of the tavern have been taken; one by a hooded stranger, hunched over his plate and many ales, the other by an older gentleman with a magnificent beard and wisdom in his eyes.  Two plates sit before the latter, though only one man sits at the table.

---

OOC: Tell me about Barakus.  Is he your valet?  Mentee?

"Not common, no," Syndelia replies to Paran, to all effects her client. She wipes her face with a hand, to hide the fact she's been trying hard not to laugh at Paran's efforts at getting through the door. "As far as I know, the locals give him food for working on the clay pits. He's more effective, and cheaper, than human labor."

---

And that's the extent to which Syndelia knows Trog, I suppose. As for her favorite dish, she's partial to venison with aromatic herbs and honey; a bit fancy for her means.

---

"Don't stare, Korag, that's not polite," she tells the innkeep, taking a long gulp from her ale. "Bigboy here is my client, and yours, now. Those bastards over there, though - those are the ones you should kick out of your dive," she says, nodding her head towards Dralda's thugs.

She takes another long gulp and signals for another tankard, pointedly pretending not to have seen Jarec.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:36, Tue 10 Aug 2021.

Since his arrival in Clayshire, Ehrendril had been in a state of heightened agitation, even taking into account his usually fretful disposition. The heavens were horrendous in their omnipresence, inscrutable in their meaning; it was a continual test of his willpower to resist the urge to stare upwards and hope to find some new guidance. The whole thing, rather incongruously, put him in mind of the courtships he had engaged with in his adolescence, the constant interpretation and obsession over minutia of expression and inflection, and the terrible yearning to know and fear of coming to know a painful truth.

So absorbed, it was something of a miracle his feet led him to the inn without much input from his conscious mind, rather than barging into a private dwelling. The sudden exposure to lighting stung his eyes somewhat, and shocked him into a more present state, noting the presence of his guide, Syndelia, at a table with a firbolg that he didn't recognise. The troll beside the fireplace drew something of a start from Ehrendril, given that such creatures would have been killed on sight by his people. But then, his kin also considered humans and other non-elven beings almost on the same level as beasts of burden, a belief that he had had to rapidly abandon upon his exile.

Having long since abandoned any hope at finding wine at a place so provincial, Ehrendril ordered an ale and made his way through the table with the mug clutched between both hands, stopping some feet away from his Syndelia before inclining his head and shoulders in a shallow bow, the least formal greeting he could withstand.

"Miss Syndelia", he intoned, clearly unwilling to take a seat without being invited to do so.

It takes some time, but one of Dralda's thugs finally takes notice of Syndelia.  A particularly ugly dwarf, she gulps down the rest of her meal before attempting to slink away out the door.  Likely to inform her boss that the ambush in the wilderness had failed.

Around the same time, Korag comes by with a plate of food unlike the dry chicken and stale bread that everyone else was eating.  It was heavily spiced and drizzled with honey.  Syndelia had brought the place a good reputation through her work.  Moments later, as she waits for the food to cool somewhat, a face from the past appears beside her, an elf often caught staring at the skies.

Syndelia's eyes follow the dwarf as he makes his way to the door. She briefly considers intercepting him, but the Hero and Spear isn't the place to be starting trouble. There are very few places in which she can have a bite and a drink in peace. Don't kill dwarves where you eat.

And talk about eating...

Ehrendril's words arrive just as she's digging into a delicious cut of venison. She snorts, and wipes meat juices and honey from her mouth with the back of a hand.

"Scholar!" she exclaims after a big swallow, her tone ironic, "You are still alive! I'm surprised your stars haven't driven you mad yet, or straight into the lair of a bear," she says, remembering how clumsy and absent-minded the Star Elf had been, last time she had escorted him through the Grimlock Woods. She lowers one leg from its resting place on top of the table to kick a stool in Ehrendril's direction, before crossing it again over the other.

"Another satisfied customer. Bi- I mean, Paran, the starry-eyed gentleman here is Ehrendril, a stargazer of some sort. Ehrendril, meet Paran of the Firebolg, a great warrior from the far north."

Introductions made, Syndelia returns her attention to the roast.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:13, Wed 11 Aug 2021.

It would appear Syndelia knew every newcomer in Clayshire Jerec thought wryly as he saw her greet the elf who had just entered. Somehow he wasn't surprised in the least. Hearing her call him scholar did perk up Jerec's ears, and he suddenly wondered at this fortuitous turn of events; meeting and gathering with elven spellweavers was part of the plan of his mentor after all, a plan Jerec had inherited after the old man had passed away.

Watching the ugly dwarf slink away made Jerec realize not all who might know Syndelia had good intentions. Barakus, his guide and guard entered just as the dwarf left, and the young man quickly spotted Jerec, making a beeline for his table, staring askance at the Firbolg, the Troll and the Elf as he did so.

"The young lady over there, I have met her before on a journey I made some years back," Jerec said to Barakus as he dug into his food. "Quite the turn of events so see here again, and in such company," he added while running a hand through his beard absently.

Jerec had intended his stay in Clayshire to be brief before returning to his tower and begin preparations for a much longer journey, but the fellowship gathering at the tavern was making him wonder at the hand fate might be playing in his plans, for good or for ill.