@Geyde
@tutuu
@Zone_Q11
@Squirrel2412
@Ranta
@Atlas
@Amelia
@Leafia
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The sun is starting to set on the third of Gozran, and most people are coming in from the fields, when the strangers arrive at the outskirts of Granitehill. The man leading the group is a human in his fifties, dressed in a wool doublet dyed a deep scarlet with decorative silver trim and an embroidered vest buttoned over it. Though his clothing is clearly expensive, it’s covered in a layer of dust from the day’s travel, and the soles of his boots are quite muddy. He’s accompanied by two other individuals, both looking to him as the one leading the group: a middle-aged woman and a man in his twenties. The woman is dressed in similarly fine clothing, while the younger man is wearing a simpler wool coat, with a far less vivid coloration.
“Savil, arrange for a set of rooms,” says the older man.
The young man nods, looking around the village before running off to the tavern, which has a caravan parked outside. He returns a few minutes later, shoulders drooping. “It’s all full,” he says. “Apparently there are a lot of people from out of town, or something…”
The woman sighs. “I told you we should’ve stopped at the last town.”
“Well, it’s not like we have time to backtrack before it gets dark,” says the man. “We’ll simply have to see if there’s anyone here who can host us.”
He gestures at the young man, who takes off again, walking up to the nearest house, knocking at the door, and asking for shelter. As he does so, the older man casts his eyes impatiently around the village, watching the stragglers come in from the fields.
[If there’s anything you’d like to do before sunset, or if you’d like to speak to the strangers, now is a good time! Those of you who live in the village know that Agneta Allet does a healing channel in the church every sunset, in case anyone picked up injuries during the day’s work, and dinner and drinks are being served in the tavern (as well as at several people’s houses).]
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[sorry about the timing, Euros!]
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A hooded figure walked towards the village, two sheathed blades softly clinking on his belt. He wore a dark green tunic beneath a battered leather breastplate, and various grass stains gave his cloak the distinct impression of being lived in. He carried a sturdy leather backpack.
A simple mask the color of bark covered the lower half of his face, but the observant passerby may have noticed light green skin and golden eyes. Eyes that were, for the moment, studying at the tavern.
The strange figure approached the strangers’ figures- er, the newcomers. “Please pardon my intrusion,” he said, addressing the older man. “But I couldn’t help but notice that your company had approached the tavern. Would you happen to know whether they have lodging?”
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The older man looks you up and down, his eyes lingering for a moment on your mask; his frown deepens slightly. “They informed my valet that they were full,” he says. “…Although I suppose they may still have room in their stables.”
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Meanwhile, in the background, the younger man, Savil, is knocking on doors, so far to little effect.
“Have you tried the inn?” offers one of the Flintbeards. “It’s really not very expensive…”
“We could put you up in the barn with the sheep,” says a middle-aged farmer returning from the fields.
“We might be able to fit one of you,” says an elderly grandmother, “but three?”
Sten the Younger walks outside to see the fuss, takes in the scene for a few moments, and turns back around without even speaking to the valet, visibly annoyed.
If the stable comment was meant as an insult, the hooded man did not take it as such. He tapped his hood in thanks, then extended a hand in greeting. “I appreciate your counsel. What may I call you?”
“You may address me as Messire Kaver.”
You know that the title he’s using, “Messire”, is generally used for people of some social rank, but who are not titled nobility; he clearly thinks he’s important, or wants you to think he’s important.
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(Behind you, Savil has moved on to the temple, and is having a conversation in a low voice with Agneta Allet, the local cleric of Pharasma.)
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“Farewell, Messire Kaver. May Desna bless your travels.” The hooded man nodded, then turned back towards the tavern.
The man stopped near the tavern. He appeared to be studying the people going in and out, as well as the staff.
“Righteous gods watch over you,” he says in a somewhat begrudging tone.
(Behind you, it seems that the younger man is having some success negotiating for a room in the rectory with Agneta.)
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A roaring hearth is keeping the interior of the tavern’s main room warm. A mix of locals and travelers are sitting around the tavern’s low tables, engrossed in conversation. In one corner, a group of locals is playing a betting game revolving around a modified deck of cards; in another corner, a halfling child in a brightly-colored outfit adorned with bells is attempting to pluck out a tune on a three-stringed triangular instrument.
Inside, a halfling woman is setting down bowls of beetroot soup on the tables, smiling brightly at the customers; she doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet. A young man, human, is hauling wood into the main room, his face flushed red from the exertion.
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[those of you who are in the tavern: if you were waiting for a Good Time To Jump In And Describe Yourself, now is a great time]
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The hooded man continued to watch, looking carefully at the staff in an attempt to identify the proprietor.
He seemed content to wait.
After a few minutes, you hear a conversation that might be indicative.
Another young man comes in from the fields, jogging over to join the gamblers. “Deal me in!”
“Next round,” says one of his friends. “Say, did you hear, they’ve got a full house today! It hasn’t been this busy in ages.”
“A full house? Sure hope they fixed that leak in the roof. Hey Yamyra–”
The halfling woman who’s been serving soup gives them a look of amusement. “Yes, yes, we took care of that last fall, before the first snow. I take good care of my guests.”
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The hooded man nodded to himself, then slipped inside the tavern and walked towards Yamyra. He made no attempt to hide the two blades on his belt, but kept his gloved hands away from them. His eyes flitted from person to person, tracking the different patrons as they moved around him.
He stood near Yamyra. “Pardon me,” he said once he was in earshot. “I would like to speak to the owner of this establishment.”
(Wanderer would likely be here)
In his brief time at this village, the Wanderer has made it a practice to assist those beaten down by the day’s ventures. He finds himself in the same church that Agneta Allet does her channeling, both to aid and to stay connected with the grievances of the people. After all, he wishes to learn why he’s even here.
He speaks, to nobody in particular. “Does anything ail you?”
She doesn’t seem concerned about the weapons; it’s not uncommon for travelers to carry a weapon in case they’re attacked on the road. She gives you a bright smile. “That’s me! What can I do for you?”
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