*Note this is a place for in character (IC) role play and discussion. All events described below take place in game, between events.
Please pull up a chair and enjoy some mead next to the fire, thank you*
+ Settled comfortably along the road between Cailenstadt and Trinity Lakes, the Mountain Run Tavern has long provided a refuge for adventurers, bards, tradesmen and common folk alike. The family of the hospitable barkeep turned king, Foster, built the tavern up from nothing and has made it a place of respite in these dangerous lands for all. A fair price brings a warm bed and a hearty meal. The hearth is fired year round; those who draw near to enjoy some wine, mead, cider, or a smoke can always hear a song, share a tale… or find adventure. +
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The midday sun was shining through the shutters when K strode through the doors of the Tavern. While few patrons took note of the arrival, Foster came around the bar to take the offered hand.
"Ah you’re back”
“Yes, and no more wiser for the journey, and I think I am developing a cough” lamented K, as he coughed into his sleeve. Everyone looked up at him. “Whaat?” he whined adjusting his pointed red hat, the afternoon light streaming into the tavern fell on the K's dusty burgundy robes, glinted on his many fetishes, and highlighted his wizardly accoutremon.
K hobbled over to a chair by the fire, taking out his pipe. "What news of late?" He threw the question over his shoulder at the barkeep.
"A group of Wardens passed this way yesterday," said Foster. "They drove off a band of orcs that troubled the villagers in foothills, but it seems they've been dealt with."
K looked up at the mention of orcs. Foster noticed that K’s right hand dropped unconsciously for his sword grip and then he fidgeted nervously. Remembering that he had taken it off and left it outside with his pack, K smothered another cough, his throat dry from the road, and leaned back in the chair as Foster anticipated his need poured him some mead.
"You are on your way from the south, then?" asked Foster. K nodded. "Aye. There is growing unrest in the southland and I fear that even now the plagues are spread north. We’ll be inundated with cases here by harvest if my calculations are correct. Nothing seems to stop it except that amulet Brennen Farno has, but he is only one man.” he added as he drained the cup of mead.
Foster refilled the cup, smiling. "Oh, that doesn’t sound promising. Maybe if you hadn’t opened that portal to the abyss and let in those demons..."
K simply nodded, looking into the fire. "Yes, my liege," he said - seemingly half to himself, as Foster returned to the bar. "I'm sure we’ll sort it out." K drew on his pipe and gazed into the fire, lost in thought, and wasn’t so sure.
Darkness had fallen and most patrons had already finished their supper when the door to the Mountain Run Tavern creaked open. The few who bothered to turn their heads at the arrival of the newcomers observed a small party of travelers enter. Seeing nothing particularly interesting about the robed and hooded figures - just a group of monks or pilgrims seeking refuge from the road - those who had noticed quickly turned back to their flagons.
The small party, some wearing robes of different colors, but most dressed in grey or brown, their features hidden within the hoods they kept in place, made their way to an empty table in the back of the main hall, the glow of the distant fireplace bringing little warmth or light as they seated themselves.
A barmaid sauntered over. “What’ll ye have then, …er, brothers?”
One grey clad stranger raised his head, the darkened hood aimed at the server. Though his features were hidden, the voice revealed he was a man and the good humor of a hidden smile laced his response. “Good evening, dear woman. We are weary and famished from the road. Whilst our means are limited, we would stay for the night and sup here if you have meagre accommodations and fare that would suit our party.“
The barmaid rolled her eyes, clearly there was not much coin to be made from these beggars. Still, they seemed a decent if shy sort of folk. “Aye we’ll scare up some cheese, bread and mutton for the table, and I’ll bring a pitcher of ale. There should still be room in the stable loft for ye. The hay is clean and dry - 4 bits for the lot, ye can pay in the morning.” She cast an eye over the group again.
”Pilgrims are ye? Where ye be bound, then?” The hoods turned to one another again, as if in silent communal, then the grey robed one spoke again. “We bring word from the East. We seek Commander McKrag, or to speak with Foster - are they in these parts at present?” The woman raised her eyebrows. “Oh, seekin an audience with *King* Foster, do ye?,“ she cackled. “Ain’t seen that big ranger in a few moons now, but I hear the king *she snorted again* is layin out a feast for them lordly types on the morrow. Good fortune bein a’ table there, lest ye come begging.” She chuckled to herself aa she moved back toward the bar.
The darkened hood of the stranger followed her, then turned to his fellows. “Thank you, good woman, perhaps we shall.”