From Alley Rumbles to Snake Pit Tumbles...

From Alley rumbles to Snake Pit tumbles...

Our tired bunch decide to remain in the lane rather than seek more suitable accommodations for their first night in town, reclining among the trash and rodents, unsure where to venture – so much is dissimilar to the time period they have just left. The evening air is chilly, but used to sleeping under the stars, it is a minor nuisance.

The buildings that surround them are red-clay brick, four stories or shorter, although in the distance they can discern shadows of some that are a little higher, perhaps five or six stories. A mongrel wanders close and sniffs, but is no more interested in them than they are him. It does snarl at Jahlo’s wolf, Benji, (who has kept to the background until now) but thinks better of its actions when the wolf snarls back, baring its fangs.

Jahlo absently rubs the dogs shoulders, yawning, wondering how he wound up snuggling with Benji, while the two ladies, Ooma and Tessalia, huddle together. “’Izz jus’ not fair, yah?” he mumbles, frowning.

A dim light penetrates the blackness as the gas light on the corner is lit. Wary, they ponder their thoughts long into the night, until, their watch complete, they coast into uneasy slumber.

As an uneventful night passes, they are awakened early by the sounds of shouting; the rhythmic clanging of construction assails their senses.

At the far end of the alleyway, where colossal green-trees tower over the tops of the buildings, they can see flashes of vivid colours and the commotion of persons busily jumping to obey the cacophony of instructions being bellowed; the crack of a whip snapping in the clear air causes them each to shudder, for diverse raison d'êtres. (<- that’s supposed to say different reasons...)

Behind them, the dusty street they left when entering the alley, streams with buggies and wagons filled with cargo buried under brightly coloured canvas tarps. Beefy-armed Orc’s sit atop the driver’s board steering the massive War horses, their hooves creating dust plumes as they trot along the hard-packed dirt-road. Riding ponies follow, under their handlers and trainers direction, prancing, wearing feathers, brilliantly coloured bells and harnesses; all emerging from the same direction, the left of the lane, and dipping down to the identical turn a few blocks later, to the right of the lane. The unaccustomed din fills the morning quiet.

Gazing down the trash-strewn alley in the opposite direction, they notice a few, dark-stained doors cut into the otherwise solid red-bricked walls. A wooden bucket with metal staves holds liquid of a dubious quality outside of one door; a dipper, hanging off a rusty nail pushed into the mortar between the bricks above the bucket, conveys the idea the liquid is for consumption. As they brush off the leaves, twigs, hay and other trifles of grime, sleepily shaking their uneasy snooze away, yawning and coming to their feet, with the air warming and the odours from the uncollected dung starting to attract flies; a woman’s scream draws their attention sharply.

They look to the far end of the alley where a couple of large, well-dressed woman, round the corner and stumble toward our group, who simply watch the ladies forward progress, admiring the jewellery they can see from even the hundred feet or so between them, heads canted.

Benji lifts his head and gives a low growl. "Quiet, yah?" he's told.

Following shortly, around the corner, come into view, one at a time, three ragged young ruffians, daggers drawn bearing down on the females. Echoing up the narrow hard-surfaced lane you can hear their threats and barbs; “C’mon lady!” “Hand over them gems!” “We’re no’ gunna hur’ ya.”

Benji leaps to his feet, hackles up, teeth barred, immediately followed by a loud, raucous fit of barking. Jahlo motions with his finger for his pet to interpose himself between the ladies and their pursuers, while calling to the women to come closer.

The ladies suddenly finding themselves cut off by another group of ruffians scream and spin around, stopping, frightened, clutching each other, with tears ruining their heavily made-up faces, looking from one group to the other, terrified and frozen in place as the ruffians advance.

It appears the day is going to be warm, maybe even hot by the late afternoon, and, as the sun’s rays poke into warm the dismal lane, our Heroes toss off their outer garments and bend their weapons to the ladies' aid.

A well placed shaft is launched before the third ruffian has knowledge there are others in the early morning lane. A stone-headed arrow burying deep in his chest, he gasps as he lunges forward, striking the ‘dog’ and gashing his ear.

Benji yelps and circles his prey as Tessalia brandishes her smoothly worn nubbly Quarterstaff at the nimble-footed scoundrel closest to her, who narrowly avoids being brained as the tip whiffs past his forehead. Tessalia places her footing, preparing to swing again as the bandit lunges forward, hacking his dirty blade along her shoulder.

Ooma shouts mightily, annoyed that these dudes arrived before she’s had a chance to wash up or comb her hair, darts and thrusts her blade into the belly of the third luckless would-be thief, slicing an elongated, clean incision intersecting his belly-button. “It’s too early to be fighting!” She grouses, planting her feet firmly and grinning her full-lipped smile, “Are we done yet?”

Laughing, Morgan swallows the last drops of his Meade, grateful that Ooma made sure everyone’s wineskin was topped off before they set out, stumbles to his feet, draws his shining rapier and swings it aimlessly at the group in front of him, muttering about, "needing another drink."

The ladies' eyes are wide; their mouths open in horror as they back against the wall, gripping each other so tight their fingers are ashen.

Benji growls and lurches himself at the crook who ripped his ear. The man, near death, manages a heroic effort to kick Benji sharply and deflect those fangs from sinking deep!

An arrow, nocked and let loose, flies true and dispatches the ‘dog’-hater’s soul to his maker as a stone flung, misses its mark and the other two thugs snarl and rush, threatening to avenge their friend’s demise.

One slices at Wik, stumbling and falling before his blade can find its mark. Ooma steps forward and slices his head clean off, causing the women to scream louder! Ooma calmly wipes her bloodied blade on a tattered scrap of cloth she carries in her belt for just such a purpose.

Jahlo leaps as the villain closest to the ladies turns to lunge at them, his actions result in him tripping to the ground, and his aim off as he hurls a stone from his sling missing the lucky bastard, leaving Morgan to swing his blade ineptly, slicing a short length of rope dropped in the alley days earlier.

Wik allows his bow to fall and draws his short sword, leaping and deftly striking the remaining ruffian and ripping a wide gash in his abdomen, his bowels spilling forth as he falls on his face in the dirty lane.

They no sooner dispatch the ruffians when the guards, who were to escort the ladies to view the circus setup, enter the alley, misinterpreting the actions of the ‘team’ and rushing to aid the ladies.

Breathing heavily from exertion and expended energy so early, our travellers are dismayed and, as one, fall into fighting positions, while Jahlo shouts to be heard, falling at the ladies' feet and begging for mercy. “We’ve just rescued you and now you would have us arrested?”

“Hey! You there, scum! Get back; drop your weapons!” The guards reach them and one extends his blade under the chin of Jahlo, “Shall I run him through My Lady?” as the others create a semi-circle, facing the band of Heroes.

Suddenly snapping from their panic the two ladies stand tall. “Release them! It’s true, they kept us from being robbed, and who knows what else while you,” her brown eyes harden as she turns her wrath on the luckless man, “who are supposed to be escorting us, were nowhere to be found! These brave souls saved us and deserve to be rewarded, while you,” she points her finger at the head of the guards, so denoted by the green stripe across his cap, “will go and get the authorities to clean up this mess.” She shudders, turning her attention to Jahlo, who is still quite concerned about the sharp-pointy-blade resting against his throat.

“Excuse me?” he tries. The soldier stares at him and then turns in disgust, his blade nicking the skin and drawing a drop of blood. “’ey there! Did you see that?” he turns to the ladies who are very sympathetic and fawn all over the decidedly handsome male, who is bleeding, handing him a handkerchief to wipe the blood.

Jahlo sidles between them, an arm going round their thick waists, “May we have the pleasure of knowing the names of such lovely damsels as yourself?”

Giggling, “I am Jane, and this is my sister Jennifer.”

“We only wanted to watch them erect the tents and see the parade of performers,” Jennifer pouts. “When those brutes demanded our purses!” She shudders.

“We ran, the guards our husbands sent with us, well, as you can see, were not doing their jobs; oh! I cannot tell you how grateful we are. To think we could have been murdered right here!”

“Yes, it’s a good thing we were unable to find a room for the night, and had to sleep out here in the lane, yah?” Jahlo agrees, lowering his eyes. “Now I’ve got a nick on my neck that’ll need mending, I can’t imagine how I’ll pay the physician.”

“Oh! You poor man! Oh Jane, we must help him.”

“Will this aid your troubles?” Jane asks, producing a silk purse and handing it to Jahlo.

“Well, now,” Jahlo smooth voice purrs as he slides the purse under his tunic, “you needn’t have done that.” The ladies giggle and preen.

“It is too bad our husbands are not here, I am sure they would want to thank you personally for your bravery! I know! Please join us in Father’s pavilion for Twilight Supper! Our husbands will be so grateful!” She untwines a gem crusted hair comb from her slightly dishevelled chignon and hands it to Jahlo, “Show this to the guard at the gate.”

“Why, thank you M’lady,” he bows deeply, while tucking the diamond and ruby comb into a pocket in his tunic, joining the silk purse.

The ladies make their way out of the alley under the care of their guards and our band sets to checking the loot upon the bodies. “They won’t be needing these any longer,” Wik grins, removing the luckless man’s shoes and discovering, folded up in a circus flyer, ten gold sovereigns! odds and ends of assorted stolen goods come from the would-be thieves: a single gold circle of gold with a centre of red-glass, or ruby?; a deck of cards; three daggers; a torn net and a clear glass-vial of blue liquid.

Discussing the division of loot results in animosity and grumbling as Wik, determined to hold onto the coins, vial and circle of gold, mutters that he dispatched two of the blighters and would have the third if Ooma hadn’t got in the way. Morgan ends the argument by announcing loudly that “I don’t care; Wik, you’re buying, let’s go. I’m way too thirsty to think about such things so early!”

“Wait, I’d like to examine that hair comb for a moment.”

Morgan smirks, “Why, think it’ll go with that new hair colour?”

Wik frowns and turns his attention to the comb. Upon examination they find a small coiled serpent engraved along the bridge of the comb. “Well.” They hearten, wondering what it means.

“It means we head to the tavern!” Morgan announces, turning and marching away.

And that settles it, our group heads toward the park emerging onto a wide avenue, with buildings lining one side and a great, massive green commons on the other. The trees soar, towering above the buildings casting large pools of shade, and an odd assortment of vegetation such as they’d never seen before.

The park is a buzz with workers dressed in pants, their already sweaty grayish-green bodies bare from the waist up. Our group watches for a bit, meandering among the construction.

Jahlo speaks to the workers, now that they are looking close they discover these are Half-Human-Orcs, the Orcs are all wearing odd lenses, like eyeglasses, but darker, over their eyes. “Ex’use me, but might you know of a tavern or place where a thirsty traveller might acquire a drink?”

The Orcs barely pause as they grunt, “Shove off!” Earning them a crack of the whip as the overseer tips his hat and blithely encourages you to return later; “We’ll be here for four days!” his jovial voice at odds with his deep crimson pants and short coat, knee-high black boots and a flat-cap completing his outfit. His bushy beard and coal-like eyes give him the appearance of a profiteer; not a very nice one at that.

Jhalo, and others in the group are appalled at the use of the whip, thinking it barbaric! They mutter as they turn away.

Continuing, Morgan approaches a passerby and enquires the location of the nearest tavern and is told there are two nearby and a nicer one on the far side of the park. They choose the closest, which is appropriately named, Red-Eyed Snake Pit, with a large coiled wooden snake sitting at the entrance, two red-glowing eyes keeping watch.

Entering, Morgan goes straight to the bar. “A brandy and chicory, please,” he requests and is served, paying the two coppers from his own pocket.

Ooma tilts her head, “Do we know you?” she asks the bartender, puzzled, thinking he looks identical to the Brewer in the Mysterious Tavern.

“Well, I’ve been here for many years, my whole life, it’s possible we’ve met,” the man nods.

“You don’t work at another tavern? Say one in the middle of the woods?” she pesters.

Eyeing her, his brows raised, “Tavern in the woods? No, only here, my whole life. Used to be just the Snake-Pit,” he reminisces, “but my granddad renamed it after returning from an expedition in which he and his companions tumbled into a pit filled with vipers; red-eyed vipers.

"They fought a fierce battle, to hear my granddad tell it; they were bit by the poisonous creatures. His comrades fell, stricken by the poisons; he alone escaped the venomous reptiles, slicing the head off of several and gouging the eyes out. He said there was something about the glow that wasn’t right."

"He claimed the snakes were huge, the size of a small child! but those eyes! When he held them (the eyes), he often recollected the tale. They seemed to burn in his hands, even after decades, they were still warm to hold. The few gems my granddad  returned with, he hoarded, selling one to spruce the place up, keeping the others on display in that there empty case.” He points to a wood-framed glass case at the end of the bar. “They were stolen a few years back.” The bartender shrugs, “The old man should have sold ‘em years ago. They attracted too much attention.”

Jahlo’s ears pick up, as do Morgan’s and Wik’s. “Here, now. He didn’t happen to leave a map or anything did he?”

“Nothing as far as I know. I haven’t been through all his papers though; might be something in his journals.”

“Pity,” Jahlo comments, his eyes lighting up as he spies two lovely, scantily-clad women sitting at the far end of the room. He sidles down to them and strikes up a conversation.

Ooma sighs, running her hand through her hair, “Do you have any public restrooms I might take advantage of?” The bartender points to a small hallway.

“Thank you.” She goes off to remove the dirt and debris that has been itching at her since they awoke, eager to eliminate the blood and grime drying on her fingers.

Morgan requests some food, and is brought a large bowl of stew and some fresh bread, which he tucks into heartily, along with a fresh mug of his special wake-up concoction. Wik requests a mug of ale and sits with Morgan, quietly contemplating what they should do next.

Jahlo sweet talks the ladies and convinces one of them to offer her services of massaging his neck easing the crick he complains of. She tiredly agrees and Jahlo, not wanting to seem unfriendly invites the other, who declines. He then extends his invitation to Tessalia, (Ooma having left the room), who, surprisingly agrees to this encounter and climbs the stairs behind them.

Once in the sparse room, containing an unadorned four-post bed, a dresser with an ewer and washbasin. The prostitute leads Jahlo to the lumpy mattress and sits behind him, her strong fingers kneading his neck muscles a little too strongly for Jahlo’s liking as he comments that, “H’y, maybe you could ease up with the pressure a little, yah?”

“I’m sorry,” the sleepy hooker yawns, her head drooping as she again massages his neck, her fingers closing around Jahlo’s tender throat.

“Hey there!” Jahlo leaps to his feet, “I’m not into that, yah!?” he gripes.

The hooker leans back on the bed, spreads her wares openly, crooking a finger to Tessalia, “Maybe we should start first?” She sleepily murmurs, her eyes closing as she waits for their response.

Tessalia glances to Jahlo, and back to the hooker, who is now snoring daintily, her evening placating the circus crowd finally catching up with her. Jahlo is fairly disgusted with her, but manages a smirk for Tessalia, who smiles back, accepting the implied invitation. The two do not return downstairs for quite some time...

Meanwhile, Ooma returns from the washroom, sits with Wik and Morgan, her appearance greatly improved; her hair tidy, her face is lightly made-up and she does not have a shadow across her chin. She drinks the mug of ale, set before her, thirstily.

Morgan decides to check up on his two ‘distracted’ companions, climbing the stairs, arriving at the top just as one of the heavy doors lining the hallway drops from its hinges and falls inward. He hears the curses of his companions and moves forward to investigate.

Unfortunately, as they are ready to leave the room, Jahlo and Tessalia find themselves locked in! The door simply will not budge!

Jahlo, cleverly uses a dagger’s edge to loosen the hinges. Unfortunately he forgets to prop the door, and while Tessalia peers over his shoulder, he removes the bottom hinge first, then the top, causing the door to thud-down and tip over, banging Jahlo’s shoulder and smacking Tessalia’s face, bloodying her nose and injuring her shoulder in its attempts to flatten them, continuing to bounce on the floor narrowly missing Tessalia’s toes.

Morgan looks in and shakes his head a wide-grin lighting his face, helping to move the heavy door aside, ignoring their dishevelled appearance, before they all troop back to the common room, Jahlo complaining to the barkeep they’d been locked in the room!

The bartender assures them the hooker should have opened the door with her key. “I’ll see to it at once,” he reassures them, offering them all drinks on the house, filling large mugs and passing the ale to them before heading upstairs.

A couple of circus workers residing in the corner, nursing their hangovers suddenly become vocal. One of the Half-Orcs stumbles toward Wik. “Don’t I know you?” he asks, sneering.

“I don’t believe so,” a worried Wik replies, pulling his cap down lower.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around; you look different though.”

Our group shifts uncomfortably, Jahlo stands and speaks, in Orc, to them, shocking them. A conversation takes place in which Jahlo increasingly convinces the Orc’s this is not the same fellow, the stupid, inept Elf, they believe him to be, to the point the one returns to his seat moments before the overseer stomps in, booming at them to get their good-for-nothing-asses back to work.

Our party takes offense at the overseer’s brusque attitude and a few words are exchanged, ending with the overseer stomping out his face as crimson as his outfit, after warning his hired hands to get to work or find new employment.

Discovering the location of a few dress shops from the remaining hooker, (Ooma is determined to show up looking presentable to the supper party) and a haberdashery for the gentlemen, they take their leave, heading first to the Apothecary, for some salves and dressings for their wounds. Jahlo whistles for Benji, who appears on cue and follows one pace behind his Master, the blood on his ear caking slightly.

Up the street they saunter, adroitly avoiding the lane where they’d fought as a large crowd gathers and rumours are rampant. Judiciously agreeing to find another road to take back up to the Apothecary, they manage to saunter nonchalantly passed and a good hundred yards along before a shout, “HEY YOU!” assails their ears.

“Just ignore it, keep moving,” Ooma encourages, which Wik heartily agrees with, stepping a little quicker. Footsteps, pounding up behind them, make them pause and hold their breath, hands moving to their weapons, Benji growling softly at his owner’s increased agitation.

The footsteps are directly behind them and a voice shouts again, “Halt!”

Our group turns their weapons half-exposed as a few soldiers and civilians rush passed, elbowing Tessalia, spinning a fellow just in front of them about, “Tha’s ‘im!” one of the civilians nods. “You’ll ‘ang for this, ‘eh? Denyin’ it won’t do you no good! We all saw yer las’ nigh’ arguin’ with them boys; threaten’ them inside the Red-Eye,” the greasy fellow smirks, taking a copper from the copper as he turns back and the guards arrest the fellow.

The crowds disperse to follow and our group breathes a sigh. It sits heavy with them that this fellow may swing for their actions, but reflect that they will be able to speak with the ladies and have them sort the confusion out before any real harm is done. They continue up the next road to the top and back toward the Apothecary, where they are surprised to find the authorities still rummaging through the lane.

They explain to an overzealous guard and his companions that they are on business for the ladies Jane and Jennifer, whom, after conferring with his superior, and being shown the hair comb, grudgingly allows them to continue on their way.

Cheekily, Jahlo asks if he might learn the name of the town. “Why, Triton,” they are told, “Lord Triton is the Ladies' Jane and Jennifer’s father.” He eyes them with even more suspicion.

Thanking him, our group feels they’d best remove themselves to the Apothecary.

Upon entering, Morgan deciding to remain in the street, they hear the familiar voice of the Apothecarist and soon his/her familiar rotund figure materialises from behind the curtains.

“Oh! Why it’s you! Welcome; Hello... OH MY! What happened to you?”

Wik, taking a deep breath refrains from shouting, although his voice is thick with sarcasm, “The dyes you gave me...” he starts and the Alchemist interrupts.

“The dyes? Well no wonder they didn’t work. You used the hair dye on your skin and the skin dye in your hair. Oh my my my!” s/he mutters. “Not good at all. This is a permanent dye, you know that, right? Dear me dear me...”

Wik, upon learning he may have skin the colour of the spice called Turmeric, and hair the shade of Pomegranate juice, forever, is slightly dismayed. “There’s nothing I can do?”

“Dear me, dear me. Let me think.” The person waddles into the back, returning a few minutes later, searching through drawers and labels until s/he mixes a paste, infusing it with a rich, deep-green oil she fills a jar. Holding Wik’s arm s/he rubs a small amount into his skin, “Try this for ten-days, it should fade the colour faster. But as for your hair,” s/he allows a small smile, “I’m afraid only shaving your scalp will work.”

Wik is about to say more when the alchemist spots the gash in Tessalia’s arm, the blackening eyes and crooked, bloodied nose, “My dear,” s/he shuffles over, “What happened? Let me fix that for you.” Placing her hand upon Tessalia’s face, and remaining still for a few moments, Tessalia is pleased to discover her face no longer feels like she’s run into a few too many cupboards.

“Thank you.”

“Tut-tut,” s/he frowns looking at the group, “How did this happen?”

Upon explanation, s/he is satisfied and even offers her suggestions to attend the dress shop, newly re-named, Madame Quirry’s Dress Shoppe, “she’s very reasonable.”

S/he is pleased to discover her new, albeit strange friends will be attending the Twilight Supper in the pavilion of Lord Triton, “A most honourable person; his sons-by-law are a little waspish, but they do seem to get along. His daughters are very special ladies; charitable to a fault! They started the homeless shelter and soup kitchen for the needy. They are always ready to take up a cause. Jane and Jennifer. There’s a third daughter who, is not so generous, but I suppose you shall meet them all this evening. Now off with... what is THAT!?”

Jahlo smiles, “My pet wolf, Benji.”

S/he softens immediately, “You’ve been injured! Why didn’t anyone say anything.” Scolding them she reaches for the pet, who allows her/him to stroke his fur and cup his torn ear, mending it as her/his lips moved slightly. “There, all better.”

Jahlo watches, and mutters, “Sure, heal my dog before me, yah?”

“Oh, hush, your injuries are not painful,” as s/he touches him, and he feels the healing power surge within him. “Now, may I give your pet a treat?” She heads toward the back, “And where is my Eye-of-Newt?”

Jahlo follows, “I haven’t had time to seek out the product, I do apologise, but I assure you I will return with it as soon as I locate it, yah?”

S/he hands the wolf a bone as long and thick as a man’s leg! “Good puppy,” s/he says patting Benji’s head. “I am trusting you to do that,” s/he nods to Jahlo.

“Wh...whaaa what IS that!” Jahlo’s expression shows disbelief.

“A bone. I did ask.”

“He can’t go carrying that around town, he’ll knock people over with it!”

“Okay, fine, give it to me and I’ll make it smaller.” Jahlo ensues on a game of tug-o-war the heavier wolf relinquishing his prize only out of love for his owner. The Alchemist shakes her/his head, taking the bone from Jahlo and easily snaps it into four, approximately equal parts while Jahlo stares in astonishment.

“How...how did you do that?”

“Some secrets aren’t meant to be revealed,” s/he shoves him gently out of the back room, handing the wolf a much reduced version of the large bone.

Having received medical attention all round, our group returns to the street, almost surprised to find it unchanged, and Morgan leaning against the wall, waiting for them.

They head to the dress shop first. “It will take us much longer to pick out our outfits and have them altered,” Tessalia confides, thinking if she recalls any spells which could assist them in obtaining the ornate clothing they will require, at a low-cost they can afford.

Our fine group ambles off down the street. The men grumble, but Jahlo’s step is high, “What’s to complain about,” he defends his high spirits, “We get to watch the ladies change, I for one plan to make myself available to assist.”

Ooma’s eyes roll and she shakes her head, “Why did we bring him along?” she teases.

"Well," Tessalia smiles, "he's quite adept at loosening stays."

o0o

dressing room fumbles...?

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress...

khrys...

*~*~*~*

No One Thinks to Seek the Raison d'être...

Where have the people gone...?

The near-soulless forms of the weary workers fill the Tavern as dusk approaches. My Lady, rested, welcomes them back – bowls of stew, thick slices of coarse bread, chilled tankards of Meade.

Her finger to her lips as she motions the other adventurers to quietly move about the sleeping trio. Questioning, they eye the apparition of My Lady, who smiles. "They must have imbibed in some of Ted's new Meade."

The servers are back, along with the bartender, who cheerfully serves your drinks and anxiously watches the time. As the sun’s rays begin to darken, the crowd disperses, off to the facilities: “Bloody marvel, they is!” one searcher, Gwenth, exclaims to the next in line, who nods her head vigorously.

“Amazing contraptions! Imagine, a WC indoors!”

Quickly, wasting no time as dusk closes in, everyone locates their space, lays down and soon only rhythmic, raspy breathing, (and other, odious gases being released), fills the large Great Room.

As we near morning, spending most of the night in peaceful rest, a shimmer and the crackle of lightning vibrates, causing visible ripples in the sound-barrier, but only the sound of a blade being sharpened is heard by the few who hear anything at all.

Wik brushes off the sound, his hand rubbing at his ear as if an annoying gnat is buzzing. “I should have used the gnats,” a bodiless voice utters. Floating near the sleeping Wik, she zaps him with a light bit of frost.

“I take it I have your attention?” she mutters as he lifts his head.

The flashing sparkles that have been distracting him for the better part of the day shiver and take form. Wik’s eyes widen as he watches the three individual blobs, morphing together bearing a silhouette similar to the Lich, Cytwris, who guided him, and opened the path to, the Tavern in the first place.

Croaky, rusty sounds float to Wik. “Do you have it yet?”

Belligerently Wik snaps at the powerful Lich, "Of course not you idiot!"

Cytwris responds with a low level jolt of frosty cold, chilling Wik, “I’m in no mood for jokes Elf.” The Lich points her finger toward Wik again, and a thin ray of frost speeds toward him stopping at his nose. “Remember our agreement,” her thin voice demands before Cytwris disappears with a SNAP of electricity as the shimmer loses viscosity, returning to insubstantial silvered dust-motes floating toward the upper floor.

Wik watches her go, stretches arrogantly, moves to a leather covered bench in front of the fire and lies down.

Wik's eyes are not yet closed when he notices several small, dark forms scurrying from the cellar door. Common rats. Disease ridden, lice covered, rats! They are dashing from the cellar doorway.

Ooma and Jahlo, peaceful looks on their faces as they entertain intriguing dreams, suddenly rouse as a rat runs across Ooma's abdomen, digging its long claws into her soft leather armour, before leaping to Jahlo's chest, and continuing its headlong run off and down the hall!

Screeches and shrieks are filling the air as the rats dart over those sleeping on the low pallets in the common slumber room, rudely-awakening adventurers in a frenetic alarm that soon manifests into a screaming horror as shadows flutter from the cellar, swooping and increasing the mass panic.

Wik and Ooma recognise these winged creatures, and their high-pitched call, as bats. Harmless, except for the occasional rabid one.

Wik, Ooma and Jahlo immediately begin to attempt to dispatch these creatures, swinging axes and blades at them. Jahlo, abhorrent to killing living animals, casts a spell that calms the ones in his reach. They are not charmed, merely calmed, and continue scurrying about the formerly spotless Tavern.

The Adventurers in the Common Slumber Room are acting like frightened children, squealing and running from the winged, swooping bats and kicking at the alarmed rats.

Our focus travels to the copse, as My Lady stands in the window of the upper floor, looking down. "Lovely! Now we only have need of a Cleric; we must be sure to avoid those higher in the clergy."

Entering at different points of the coppice, almost as if on direct lines with the points of a compass, East and West, two hearty strangers face the Mysterious Tavern. Moving suspiciously, they step toward the building, each wary of the other.

They pause and hail, raising their arms in a peace gesture.

The larger Barbarian looks down at the delicate Sorceress, "Hail there! Are you too, on a journey?"

"I am, I've come to the Tavern for a meal and a rest." They proceed with small talk for a few seconds, introducing themselves.

"I am Tessalia, the Sorcerer."

"Pleased to meet such a delicate flower as you, I am Roland, the Barbarian." His broad smile eases the trepidation Tessalia has been feeling.

Suddenly the Barbarian, Roland, cants his head and moves toward the doors. "Sounds like a ruckus going on in there. Might be a good idea for you to wait out here while I check this out."

Tessalia frowns, thinking to herself, "I am a Sorceress, I can probably take care of myself better than this hulking brute!" Still, before she can say anything, Roland has pulled open the doors and entered the building, the door closing behind him leaving her to debate the acumen of remaining outside - for now.

Pre-dawn light fills the eastern facing room, as, un-noticed, an adventurer enters.

Roland sees, when he slips through the double-wide entry, black fruit-bats, swooping; diving from the vaulted beam ceiling, causing more confusion than actual damage, and rats, swarms of them, their fear evident as they race around, snarling and nipping at anything moving; like they are trying to escape a sinking ship.

To the back of the large white-plaster walled room, can be seen the kitchen entry and further along, the common slumber room. The formerly slumbering guests are hollering, dancing about; kicking at the vermin. General mayhem.

By the enormous brick fireplace, the embers burned low, a sturdy door stands open and more of the critters are erupting from there, ignoring the west half of the Tavern and running into the eastern side.

The candles in the chandelier overhead have not been lit yet, and so swing as dark, menacing shadows emulating bats. Five pillars stand, dotted about the Great Room, sturdy and round, holding up the upper floors. A few of the bats are circling the high, peaked ceiling and some of the rats scuttle up the curve of the open staircase.

The door bangs shut behind Roland and he jumps into the fray enthusiastically, swinging at the creatures, dispatching one from its head, earning a reprimand from our Druid, Jahlo, who is freakin' out with everyone slashing and killing the rats and the bats.

“Hey, ho! What’s everyone doin’! Without reason you’re killing these harmless creatures!” No one pays him any mind, and Ooma nearly knocks him down as she swings her axe mightily popping the head off another rat!

We watch as the carnage continues while, Jahlo, ducking and frowning, manages to cast his spells and gather a further number of the frightened rodents slow, calming their frenzied motions, but still run around seeking food or shelter or escape, no one is sure, and curiously, no one thinks to seek the raison d'être...

Roland, the Barbarian, spies the open cellar door with the varmints scuttling through, and leaps in an attempt to shut it. He is baffled when Wik leaps and blocks his path. The two stare frostily at each other for a moment, before bats plunge toward them. They both swing and knock a Chiroptera to the ground, breaking it's skeletal frame.

The battle persists, frustratingly, as the Heroes are bitten and scratched repeatedly. Jahlo, in his attempt to keep the creatures safe, manages to get bitten into unconsciousness.

In the meantime, the wide entry door opens and a curious sorceress enters, immediately weaving a spell as the rats surge toward her. She manages to blind a goodly number of them before the rest flee to the kitchen.

The battle wages in the kitchen and a great number of the rats and bats retreat to find the stairs and scamper away to the less inhabited upper floor.

With some mighty swings and fearful lunges, the party finally manages to dispatch the remaining rats, and bats, two of which (the bats) lay twitching on the floor until Wik, gathering them to him, spends some time in prayer and offers them, as a gift, to his Gawd.

The party assesses damage, and Jahlo, awake now, although weak, chooses to rest and allow his health to increase. The remainder of the party, in need of some mending, resignedly agree. Wik goes off and prays to his Gawd again, while the others chat with the much calmer migrant-adventurers (the ones who disappear every few days...) – eating and drinking; fortifying themselves for the journey ahead.

After an hour, to which Jahlo reports feeling better; the rest of the group has tended to their wounds and filled both their bellies, and refreshed their minds, are eager to continue this quest. Ooma and Wik have explained their reasons for being here and have ascertained that the newcomers would enjoy a good adventure and request to join them, inquiring about the quest.

Mt Lady wavers before them, praising their efforts at dispatching the rats and bats. “The ones in the upper floors will not be a bother, for now.” When asked of the quest, My Lady gets all flustered and embarrassed.

She stumbles as her words trip over themselves.

“I’ve asked these kind souls to help me find the FIRESTONE. It is the key to my release. Without it I am trapped here, as are you. I have recently found that there are scrolls that elucidate the incantation required and the ingredients needed to perform the act. And only during this past evening did the picture of the FIRESTONE appear in my mind for only a moment – it has been so long since I’ve seen it. A stone, so red and so clear, hand cut to the brilliance to rival blue-diamonds or even the richest of rubies. I am sorry, I must go... please help me. Please find the stone, and the parchments... please...”

Ooma asks if they can help dispose of the dead rats.

“No, no, that’s okay. We waste nothing here.”

A full minute goes by before Jahlo pipes up feebly, “So the mutton sandwiches I was making earlier... I don’t suppose there’s much mutton found inside the Tavern.” My Lady smiles weakly before she wisps away again.

A lengthy discussion ensures. Ignoring the dubious lineage of the meat, they gorge on the seemingly never ending food. As they talk, mulling over their choices sitting, in relative relaxation, they hear the massive growl of a large creature.

As they look toward the sound, an enormous yellow-furred dog, a large, rolling pink tongue encased with pure white canines; bearing yellow eyes that seem to pierce through your soul, appears; before they can even take a breath, the dog disappears, leaving some worried explorers with half-drawn weapons and half standing.

“What the freakin’ Sam Hill was that?!” they breathe heavily, sinking back to their seats, returning to their discussion.

Deciding to descend the cellar stairs in their search for the FIRESTONE that evening, they go to the locked cellar door. The lock is now visible and, to Wik's trained fingers, a pushover, and they soon hear the whoosh of the door opening, the dank air of the cellar rising to meet them.

Peering into the stairwell, the landing, and the turn of the wooden stairs forms a dark passage only a few feet wide. The walls are stone, and smooth.

Listening carefully before proceeding, some of the group report hearing more of those "blasted rats!" others, "the high-pitched chirrup of chiropterans."

One informs hearing, just faintly, murmurings, but cannot decipher how many persons speak or, indeed if they ARE persons.

Lighting torches from the now snapping fire, Ooma, The Dwarven Warrior Princess, takes the rear guard while Roland, the Barbarian, takes the lead. As they step down the stairs cautiously, they pause on the landing. A faint outline of a doorway becomes visible and, as they look closely, it appears to be a shop front! An Apothecary! Stepping forward, they test the door handle to find it unlocked, and it opens smoothly.

Striding inside, cautiously, the small group is stunned to observe a full-on Apothecary! All manner of ingredients and potions line the shelves, or wait, in barrels and glass containers, for dispensing into smaller vials or bottles. Skulls and crossbones sit upon most of the labels.

As the door begins to swing shut behind them, a bell tinkles alerting the store's proprietor to the newcomers. Wik, not taking chances, slides his foot into the door, keeping it open as they all turn towards the voice that presently materialises from the back room.

"Oh my, customers! Welcome welcome. It's been so very long since I've had anyone in. What can I do for you?" A broad-faced, rather squat person jovially asks as his wide body manoeuvres around the glass displays walking toward the adventurers.

The travellers take a second look, they aren't sure if this be a male or female? She has a chin with the requisite beard, but he has breasts larger than most women! At his/her comment of not having customers for awhile, the party mutters, "it's not much bloody wonder, with your shop in the basement of a Tavern!"

"The basement of a Tavern? A tavern Cellar? Are you daft? Or," as s/he peers closer at them, "have you perhaps taken too much Laudanum or Cocaine?"

Jahlo persists. "Are you telling me that your establishment is NOT in the cellar of a Tavern? I assure you it is!"

"And I assure you it's not." The person stands as tall as they are able. "How would I get any customers in the basement of a Tavern? I assure you my establishment is on the main road through the village!” s/he replies with force. “Again I must ask, what drugs have you ingested?"

"Are you telling me that if I walk out those doors right now I will find myself on the main road of a village?" Jahlo asks incredulously.

The proprietor looks at him, and the rest of the group, "Yes." He answers puzzled by their confusion. "You just entered; surely you must have seen the road, the shops on either side of it, the commons at the far end?" He peers into their faces. "I don't... can't think of how you think that isn't a road out there," he shakes his head muttering, "I mean, turn around! Look!"

A sense of apprehension grasps their hearts as they turn. "Oh crap!" Ooma expels.

"I know I sound daft, but would you indulge me a moment. May I take your hand and will you walk me outside that door?" Jahlo asks, willing to suspend his disbelief for a moment.

"If you wish." The owner is wanting these strange people out of his shop, and the sooner the better.

Wik, standing at the door comments, that, "I am in no hurry to re-enter the village. There are those that may recognise me."

Ooma suggests some hair and skin colorants, which the proprietor readily agrees s/he has.

Jahlo strikes a bargain whereby, if the owner will take him out the door, and allow them the products on consignment, he will retrieve the 'eye-of-newt' that the Pharmacist is having trouble obtaining.

With trepidation Ooma and Jahlo grasp the s/he's hand and they venture out the door. Roland and Tessalia follow hesitantly. The owner encourages them to look around, to see the front of her/his shop. They gasp.

S/he leaves them as s/he goes back inside, preparing a basket of products for them, mumbling to his/her self that, “I’ll probably never see them again, and that might be a good thing. Still, if the lad does recover some eye-of-newt, those old cronies upon the hill will stop pestering me for some! That will be worth the loss of these items! Now, what shall I place in their bundle?”

Outside on the side of the road, the adventurers see a few people, horses, and a buggy being pulled by a fancy looking black horse that was being followed by...

They grasped each other's arms in fear... What is that... that – that THING!? it appears crafted of metal! Riding along on cart-wheels with no means, they could see, of locomotion.

They step back against the building, even the Barbarian with a distrustful apprehension in his eyes. The sorceress, Tessalia observes the gleaming monster with a mix of curiosity and anxiety. Wik stares open-mouthed through the opening. Jahlo presses back against Ooma, her hands clenching his shoulders as the monster passes.

"Did you see that?" the Barbarian articulates, softly, "Those people were still – alive inside that – that machine!" He shudders.

The Alchemist hustles to the door, a small cotton sack in her/his hands. S/he passes the sack to Wik as s/he pushes him out the door, eager to have them out of his/her shop, "Have a pleasant journey." S/he sighs as the door closes, leaning against the wood-framed glass. "I will never understand some people."

Our group looks back at the much different store front than the one they walked into only moments earlier in dismay. Up and down the street, brick bottomed, wooden topped structures line the cobblestone paved carriage lane; glass fronts allowed them to view the displays, or, at least, if they'd walked along they could have perused the shops, instead, confused, and with Wik quite concerned with being recognised, they slip into the nearest alleyway, where, smelly, slimy sewage assured them of at least privacy.

Brick walls enclose the 100-foot long maybe 10-foot wide space lined with dust bins where a few sewer rats are scrabbling about the leftovers. They shudder; they had enough of rats for one day. At the far end a dog and cat chase around, and the evening sunlight glints to reveal a commons.

Our group, suddenly feels quite tired. Ooma eagerly assists the blonde-haired, Wik with the ghastly red, looking more orange, hair colour, while Wik begins to apply the skin colorant without first reading the label...

Evening is settling over the village and our travellers choose to rest in the alley for the night...

The innocuous alleyway, with nothing more than stink and oblivion to recommend it...

The sun sinks, delving the alley in blackness, as Ooma asks Wik, "So, how long before we wash this stuff off?"

0o0

water; water, everywhere and not a drop for bathing...

Fledgling Dungeon Master,

khrys...

 *~*~*~*~*

The TARDIS Shows Its Stripes...

Surprises await...

The dawn bursts forth and the industrious Ages of Heroes grab their breakfasts of thin, sweetened gruel, some cheese, and fresh whole grain bread still steaming from its time in the brick ovens, before rushing off, their eager faces hopeful that, today, today! they will locate the FireStone and end the curse placed on My Lady.

By the time our final three adventurers drag themselves from their pallets, the room is silent, save for the mantle clock striking seven. The Lady hides a yawn behind her hand as she wearily weaves the fabrics of thought, time and space, welcoming the sleepy-heads with a fresh breakfast unaware her form is so pale.

Asking where the others, who filled the sleeping quarters the evening before, were, “They’ve left to their chores and daily activities,” they are told.

“So we can leave?” Ooma, surprised, questions, her brows drawn together.

“You ...can,” the Lady says, underlining the word “can” indicating they probably could not. “Eat, be comfortable.” The Lady feels quite badly that their stay will already be extended – the Stone must be found.

Encouraged, the three begin to question and the Lady honestly, although tiredly, answers their questions as they indulge in the repast before them.

“Upstairs? I don’t want people going upstairs because I fear for their safety, so I quote exorbitant prices to dissuade them.”

“I am under a spell; cursed and doomed to remain halfway between the Ethereal Plane and this one. An inept attempt to free the original victims placed them in the Necro world.” - ‘Well, it is mostly true,’ My Lady reasons with herself.

She repeats her plea to these three: a sturdy, beardless Dwarf Princess Fighter named Ooma. A curious, cheeky likeable Half-Elf Druid named Jahlo Quin, a Cockney fellow, or he’s been in the Cockney areas before and picked up the accent, and Wik, a sullen, selfish Elf Rogue who sees the Tavern as a wonderful place to lay low for awhile, avoiding the authorities who would like to speak to him about some questionable activities he is suspected of being involved with.

Accepting My Lady’s Quest, they begin exploration while Wik remains seated at the long, polished mahogany bar, enjoying the food and drink before him, watching the other two as they wander to the ornately carpeted hallway off the Main room and pause before the door at the end asking My Lady to peer inside and tell what she sees.

She spies a beautiful Grecian garden, overflowing with pleasant aromas and warm sunshine while vines creep along whitewashed walls. The plants are in full flower and the colours are like a rainbow on steroids. My Lady reports this to the two, but they are unable to enter.

They retreat and stop before another door. Easily opening the thick access, Jalho walks into the room, luckily he is wearing a rope tied to his waist...

The door closes firmly. My Lady has entered with him. She is pushing her energies as she vacillates between vapour and mist.

Jahlo, glances around the fairly well-lighted space. The room resembles a organised library with books and papers purposefully placed, and, curiously, no dust or cobwebs. A desk with many drawers and a chair, waiting, behind the desk. The room has bookcases climbing every wall. A high ceiling with trusses supporting the overhead rooms is dark. Jahlo chats with My Lady before he picks up some tomes and, after a few checks, settles to reading, unaware...

As the door slams behind him, Ooma uses her knuckles to knock and places her ear against the door. She faintly hears grinding, whirring and clanking but can’t place if she’s heard them before.

Pounding on the door does not elicit a response, holding the other end of the rope, Ooma proceeds back to the main room, (the glow of candlelight from the two large candle-liers hanging from the trusses about twenty feet above her, faintly illuminating the centre of the maybe 25x25 foot room), to obtain Wik’s assistance, (which he staunchly refuses to offer) while there she feels a sudden tug on the rope that hauls her off balance!

Falling and rising, before she crashes into one of five tall pillars holding the second floor up, and attempts to wrap the rough rope around the polished-smooth-through-the-ages-timber pole, instead entangles herself and tumbles to the floor watching in dismay as the rope races noisily, like a tin-can snake over a rail track to the den, where the door opens slightly, the rope is drawn in, and the door SLAMS! shut. Jahlo fails to hear anything amiss.

The party divided...

Ooma races to the door and bangs on it, shouting and trying to hear anything beyond the two-inch thick wooden obstruction. Wik steadfastly refuses his help. “What is in it for me?”

Much effort to open the door ensues and Ooma manages to beat the door open an inch – before Jahlo tugs and flings the door fully open...

Expecting to see Ooma and the hall, Jahlo is shocked as it is a sparkling kitchen he views...?

Ooma, the door, still closed, shouts, expecting to hear Jahlo, which she does, but the sound is coming from an opening behind the bar in the Main Hall?

Wik, his curiosity finally stirred, arises and goes to the eight-foot low arched opening. Standing in the arched five-foot wide doorway he peers in, surprised to see Jahlo. He relays this to a fairly shocked Ooma, who pushes passed him and enters the spotless kitchen.

As they stand there staring at each other, questions clearly pondering their faces, heavy footsteps are heard coming towards them through the Main Hall. Skill checks fail to reveal the owner of the steps, and, as they draw closer, Wik is rudely shoved against the door-frame, the steps continue up to the large harvest table and pause.

Our surprised visitors see the bottom of a barrel begin to appear, and a burly arm is visible for a brief moment, before disappearing and the footsteps retreat along their original route, shoving Wik against the carved wood frame again.

Wik, thinking quickly, follows the sound and notices a door opening, to the side of the fireplace, and, before it can close, he leaps swiftly to the door, his fingers nearly pinched and props it open using one of the chairs scattered around the main hall.

A discussion ensues and the sullen, mistrustful Rogue is hit with a Persuasion Nudge, so strong it encourages him to be less resistant to suggestions that benefit the entire group as opposed to selfisness. (Not mindless following, just less argumentatively.) With this, and suggestion that the Rogue could have 75% of the Druid’s take of the ‘incalculable wealth’, the Rogue is convinced that cooperation may be to his benefit.

Deciding they’d rather wait for a morning before entering the cellar stairs, they instead make sandwiches, fill their pockets with dried fruit, nuts, dried cheese bits and hard tack biscuits, and tap the new barrel of Meade in the kitchen.

Ooma and Jahlo settled by the fire, cosy on low cushions, drinking the new Meade, while Wik remains at the bar, drinking the old Meade.

Wik is occasionally seeing glittery-light flashes resembling a sudden shifting of silver through the air – there one fraction-of-a-second and gone the next. He keeps this information to himself. Ooma uses the WC and while washing her hands, she discovers a rather innocuous note which, when Jahlo reveals an odd note he found in the study, she shows hers to the group. They don’t seem to mean anything specific, so the notes are placed away again.

The Heroes proceed to be lulled by the crackling fire, the yeasty aroma and the sweet brew; their eyes grow heavy and they sink into a restful slumber; Jahlo’s head slips until his ear resides against Ooma’s ample and cushiony breasts, the brass studs of her armour pressing into his cheek; Ooma is curled slightly toward Jahlo, her head back, her snoring barely audible – for a dwarf – the mug hangs from her fingertips, just above the floor.

Wik’s head sinks to the bar-top, his arms folding to pillow his cranium, his balance precarious, his bottom resting on the bar stool, his feet curled round the rungs.

A silence settles around the Tavern.

Too silent...

0o0

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Fledgling Dungeon Master,

khrys...

*~*~*~*~*

Simple Starts; Hidden Clues...

Reality Check...

As you open the door, you are greeted almost immediately by a filmy phantom her warm smile, her gentle talk, ease your worry.

“Join us inside the Tavern, won’t you? It’s late now, in the morning we can talk, if you’d like?” Your hostess continues, “I offer you a bed, a meal and good company.”

In the morning, individuals can overhear the hostess speaking to the crowd as her voice prevails upon all present:

“The quest is simple. The answer lies somewhere in the Tavern. It is hidden well and has remained unfound for a millennia. There are no clues save that it exists and when found will return to its opaque structure and you will be able to touch it. If any of us wish to leave, we must locate the clues and find the stone and the parchment. May your luck be abundant today.”

A silence descends. She fills glasses with meade and others with wine; places crusty bread on a tin plate and some hard cheeses and sweetmeats on another.

Her fair head rises and her glistening violet-eyes seem to bore into you. “Will you accept this challenge? or will you start wandering the, as yet, uncharted Tavern... which may have the capabilities on the inside, of the TARDIS... Except I do not believe the whole building has ever left its lot in the woods, on the edge of the Obsidian Blackwood Forest...

0o0

"The biggest adventure we've had so far has been the door appears to be one way - Some of us have been here a very long time, and, while stew is tasty, and somehow the meade is cool, we've noticed that none of the travellers who've found the path in, have had the urge to leave..."

"Oh, well, drink up! There are pallets over here by the inglenook, or, if you prefer more privacy, there's some rooms upstairs. Very expensive them rooms is, though, they do come with a private bath and WC. There is a common privy with a water chamber beside the staircase, one for ladies and one for gents and one for undecideds...."

The room is warm, the fire blazes in the large stone hearth, surrounded by an open-railed stairwell on three sides, as the stairs rise to the second story. When you enter your eyes are drawn to the massive stone structure but as your eyes adjust to the dimmer interior lighting, you see tables and chairs in a dark, but plain wood scattered about. A long bar takes up nearly the whole back of the big public house. The place isn’t packed, but there are quite a few adventurers, of many species, languishing at tables or on stools near the fire. Their talk is comfortable, no one seems to be in a foul mood; a game of cards is being played at a table near the front window, and another by the fire.

A waif is sweeping the wooden floor on the other side of the room, away from the door, and a wide, jovial man, short in stature, with a heavy beard, is busy keeping everyone’s mugs filled.

A Furry creature resides on a pallet, her colour pale, but her breathing easy.

Shaking her head, the Lady steps forward and nudges the newcomer and sees that she is indeed in trouble. "Make ready a pallet," she calls to the barmaid. The room falls silent as the visitors witness, first-hand, and for the first time, the Lady's skill; as she lays her hands on the soft white fur her eyes close and she murmurs softly.

A slight wavering of the air, and the two disappear reappearing at the opposite end of the room, next to the fire.

The others in the room stare, curiously, as the furry creature is tended by their hostess, who wraps the Arctic Fox's paws in soft cloth soaked in a tincture.

"She will need to rest; we shall hear more of her tale when she has regained her strength," the mystical owner tells the others, returning to the bar, "We will need to set a patrol to keep an eye on your horses. These Dragonkin may be still following and we don't know the situation between this one and them." A small smile curves her mouth.

Seeing the severity of the wound up close, Morgan takes another pull from his ale and says, "It better be a fine tale indeed if it be bringing trouble this way." Two sheets to the wind and working on unfurling a third, the man wrangles a handful of gentlemen and another mug of ale before claiming first watch.

A healer (most likely an Orcan Cleric, which stuns everyone) takes pity and moves to the pallet, his hands gently taking the bolt lodged in Zyther Frost and wrenching its barbed end from the hapless fur, placing a compress of dubious cleanliness immediately over the wound and calls for some strong alcohol to cleanse, "And bring some more bandages." His gruff voice roughly grates on delicate ears.

A long night ensued as watches rotated, listening and keeping alert for dangers... which, thankfully, do not materialise into any danger to the Tavern or our guests... as of yet...

o0o

The ceiling is timber framed, high and covered in plaster, whitewashed not too long ago. The light sources are radiating from wall sconces set with thick candles, and two overhead circles of wrought iron with candle cups, every few inches, holding flickering beeswax candles. It is neither too warm, nor too cold inside, even though the windows are slightly open and a strong breeze flows the bluish grey smoke from pipes and cigars out, maintaining a breathable air quality.

A thin reedy woman and a couple of smaller urchins scamper about, removing dirty dishes and serving hot, freshly made bread to those who request it, and another thin man is coming up from the cellar, carrying a large barrel of cider, the door is large and at the side of the chimney. You see him turn the key in the lock, before returning the key to his vest pocket. It appears to be attached to a chatelaine.

The overall feeling is peaceful.

She (the barmaid) smiles placidly at you, "Oh, as you can see business is very good. Many visitors, much companionship. Lots of pleasant evenings filled with laughter." She motions to the barman to fill your cup. "Be careful, 'tis potent stuff. He brews it in the basement; legendary recipe, handed to him by his father's and his before him." She nods sagely and winks as the man's head is turned... "Did you have enough to eat? More bread, perhaps?"

Upstairs, the private rooms are $100gp each while down here the food and drink are free... No one particularly appears to be overly intoxicated, although the wine/meade seems quite potent, as you yourself, can now attest.

As the candles begin to dim, the Tavern guests rise from their chairs and begin to make their way to the pallets, none go up the stairs.

"Good night; sleep well!" ring out as one by one guests curl up on a blanket-covered wooden slated-pallet, and the candles dim further as the waif and urchins quickly clear the remains of the meals and tankards; their eyes wide as they scurry to finish, swiftly curling in the corner, sharing a pallet as the thin woman lies on the pallet next to them, the barman taking the one beyond that, the brewer happy to sleep behind the bar.

My Lady shall extinguish the second-to-last candle as she leads you to a pallet. "Do not be disturbed by the darkness, its velvet blanket protects us from the ...things best left unseen." She whispers. "Sleep well."

The noise of soft snores of some; the whimpers of others; the prayers of yet others are heard. All falls silent as the final candle is snuffed, and the great room becomes pitch black and very quiet.

o0o

Roll for sleep,

Fledgling Dungeon Master,

khrys...

*~*~*~*