This is the official game thread for A Single Stone... With this, we begin. As is typical, only players and myself are to post here, but, as always, lurkers are welcome.
Deysor Twenty-Fourth, 1121
Graffton, Irvala Province
Brandost
Dawn breaking night lit the morning sky with a faint azure glow, picking out the thick silhouettes of clouds drifting lazily eastward. The early signs of an overcast day, the light peeking over the horizon through the gaps in the atmospheric canopy struck the thin layer of snow that clung to the sprawling grain fields like the dusting of flour upon a baker's table. The bitter winter's chill was slow to relinquish its hold over Brandost, but the pearly blanket cast across the land in the months prior had been merciful, having almost vanished from the flowing ranges of the prairie nation.

Until almost a year ago, Brandost had been two lands, divided by decades of fighting between the north and the south. Grain flowed like water from the vast fields and silos of each, but during those brutal days, the blood of men stained the earth red, while the flames of war charred the battlefields black.

But now, not even a year past, swords had been laid down, war banners returned to the walls of forts and keeps to fly in the wind high above the soil, rather than being trampled in the mud beneath the boots of armies.

Peace had come, something so many had yearned for their entire lives.

Graffton was far enough from the borderlands to have spared its residents from the worst of the battles, but sited along a major trade route, footprints of soldiers had left their mark heavily enough upon the golden fields of oat, wheat, and barley. The roads had quieted down, save the trundling of a twice-monthly merchant wagon and the occasional wanderer. The hammerblows ringing from Maelon's smithy no longer sung the shaping of swords and shields. The Graffton Inn was once again a country bed and tavern, devoid of the rambunctious warriors spending their pay on nights before battles.

Irvala had become a very different place the day that Queen Celeste had penned her name upon the treaty, signing into being a peace to protect their peoples and their fields. But in doing so, the southern Queen had also effectively given up the independence of her territories, the identity of her peoples, and most of all, the hand of her firstborn daughter to that of the Lanner son, Loghain.

Now, within the expanded border of the united Brandost, things had become quiet, seemingly uneventful by compare to the stormy times now a thing of the past. People could walk the roads without having to make way for marching of the enlisted, and while the treaty to build a single nation of two provinces was still accepted with a certain uneasiness, most of the populous had embraced the solace over their home.

Graffton was no different. The town was not large, but the few hundred who resided there looked forward to the unveiling of their fields with eagerness and optimism. For most, this would be the first Spring free of hostility and intolerance. With hope, it wouldn't be long before the ground thawed enough for hoe to bite through the soils of Irvala and seed to be cast to the furrows. Crops would grow unbloodied, and welcome in a new era. And while the day promised an overcast sky, the sun would rise nonetheless, and with it, the hope of a brighter future.

(OOC: Reasonably open, but I figure its a way for you to sort of open up and introduce yourselves a touch. The group is in Graffton, whether resident or visitor. Early Spring, but not fully free of winter yet. Write yourselves in, and welcome to A Single Stone...)

Desrik Darraman sat at a corner table of the The Grinning Grasscat, a Tavern he had become rather fond of in the past weeks. Since the end of the war, the 5'9" Syln had fallen into a deep rut, making ends meat doing odd jobs, his ability in battle serving him rarely. Most folk seemed happy since peace was declared, as well they should. But Desrik had only ever been a Mercenary. It had been a popular and lucrative profession for years...
But now, as soldiers laid down their arms and went back to their quiet lives and families, Desrik drown his troubles in liquor, sometimes sleeping in alleys and stables if he had to choose between a room and a bottle.
Dispite his rougher-than-ever appearence, the young man of only 26 winters was handsome, with black hair, steel green eyes, and a boyish face that seemed to have smiled alot more once apon a time. He wore studded leather over his less-than-elegant clothes, and a long sword leaned on his table, in easy reach.

Looking around at the other various patrons that were all so familiar to him by now, he sighs, drinking from his bottle. At least he had some Palts in his pocket. That meant spirits in his belly, and a warm bed for the night. That was all he could look forward to these days...

Peace. Atlam take this accursed peace!
The thought made its way through Bailox Steelbringer's mind for at least the thousandth time since his journey began. I was born a warrior, I live as a warrior, and I will die as a warrior, he thought. If we are to have peace, at least let it be a peace in which we keep our freedom, our dignity, our pride! But no, he reflected, that was apparently not to be. Everything he and his clan took pride in, everything that made him and his people proud to be of Haervath, was now washed away by the ink of Queen Celeste's pen. With that single signature, Celeste had stolen Haervath's very identity as it became one with their longtime foe Irvala, bringing them together as one new nation, this "Brandost". Faugh! Even the name of the place brought a foul taste to Bailox's lips. Perhaps the nations now appeared as one on a map, but Bailox knew he would probably never see them as anything other than the two nations that had made war upon one another since the time of his ancestors.

The irony of that train of thought was not lost on Bailox as he looked around him while he walked thorugh the Irvalan landscape. He was deep within the territory of his "former" foes, approaching the town of Graffton. He had left his beloved Haervath many days before, having decided to seek his fortune as an adventurer. After spending much time pondering the usefulness of a warrior without a war and praying to mighty Atlam for guidance, Bailox had an epiphany. He realized that there were still battles to be fought, enemies to pit himself against, and reward aplenty to be had for it. He, like all children, had grown up hearing the occasional tale of adventurers and their exploits. He could now be one of them! He would seek his fortune, have grand adventures, eventually find a mate worthy of a warrior, raise many fierce and powerful sons, tell them the tales of his own adventures, and one day see them off on grand exploits of their own. It was with exhilaration in his heart and a spring in his step that he left Haervath, answering the adventurer’s call.

That was many steps ago.

Now, as he entered the edges of Graffton, Bailox again reflected on the irony. He had indeed been enthusiastic and excited when this journey began; now, many, many miles later, he found that his thoughts had returned to their grim lamentation of this new peace. Perhaps some rest will rekindle the fire, he thought.

He asked what few passersby he saw about the locations of the local inn and a good tavern. He received the expected wary and suspicious looks. He couldn’t blame them, he supposed; he left little doubt that he was a warrior. Standing almost six and a half feet tall, thickly muscled, he cast an imposing air. The long brown hair that fell below his shoulders and the large silver hoops in each ear lent him a roguish aspect. His dark brown eyes, so dark as to appear almost black, lent an imposing aspect to his gaze. Add that to the fact that he wore an obviously often-used set of scale mail armor, had the hilt of a broad sword rising over one shoulder from his back along with a battered shield, a short sword hanging from one side of his waist and a large mace hanging from the other, along with a quiver of nasty-looking arrows that were friends with the long bow shaft strapped to the other side of his back, and he could understand why one might be apprehensive when this massive walking arsenal happened by and asked directions.

Finally, though, he was given directions to The Grinning Grasscat. As he reached it and ducked his head to walk through the door, conversation within ceased for a moment at the sight of this armed behemoth invading the patrons’ space. However, when death was not immediately and thoroughly dispensed in their general direction, they went back to their drinks and conversation. Bailox looked around the room for a moment, taking note of the people within. All seemed to be fairly innocuous, and no sense of alarm readied him for battle. He was, however, intrigued as his gaze slid over one man in particular sitting at a corner table; he had the unmistakable and not-quite-identifiable air of a warrior about him. Along with the very identifiable air of too much drink. Perhaps in unconscious need of the company of a fellow warrior, along with the fact that the other tables were full, Bailox weaved his way through the other patrons to stand over the corner table and the man seated there. “Hail, sir,” he said in his sometimes-intimidating bass rumble. “May I rest at your table, and perhaps buy you an ale for your trouble?”

Desrik looked up as he heard the door open, revealing someone unfamiliar to him. And he would have remembered this man. 'Warrior' was the first word to describe this behemoth of a man that came to mind, and the Mercenary took a bit of comfort in the familiar hush going over the crowd. The slight apprehension as everyone waited to see if he was here to cause trouble.

But as the buzz of conversation slowly started again, Desrik lost interest, his gaze falling back to stare blankly at his table.

“Hail, sir,” A deep voice rumbled in front of Desrik's table, bringing his eyes back up, getting a closer view of the battle-worn armor the man wore, and the dark gaze that almost belayed his friendly greeting.
“May I rest at your table, and perhaps buy you an ale for your trouble?”

The Mercenary felt a slight grin tough his lips at the mention of an ale, and he gestured to the chair across from him.

"Well met. Feel free, mate. There is always room at my table for a fellow Warrior." He replies respectfully, pleasantly surprised he managed to speak without slurring. He spoke so little these days....

Deysor Twenty-Fourth, 1121
Graffton, Irvala Province
Brandost
Early Dawn
Adelror (pronounced Ah Dell Roar) had spent the last two hours in prayer, as he walked around the outskirts of Graffton, surveying the town of a few hundred people. He had spent the previous night sleeping inside his bed roll in an untilled field, the chill of winter in the air and ground comforting the Duskarn like a forlorn lover.

It had taken the Cleric of Dareen more than 3 weeks to find his way from the city of Mahlport to this town of Graffton. He had never in his short 40 years been west of Mahlport, but the vision he had received during a sojourn of meditation in his family caverns in the Prallmere Mountains had been so vivid, that Adelror the Avenger could not ignore the urgency of undertaking this journey west.

Besides, he now had the blessing of his fellow War Clerics, to journey into the outlying lands of Brandost; championing the cause of Dareen on a War Quest, that would bring him into company with fighters and adventurers of diverse origins and beliefs.

As the residents of Graffton stir from their sleep and begin their daily routine, the War Cleric made his way to the Temple of Hamar, intending to give a personal thanks to The Autumn King.

Upon entering the Temple, he sought to make known his intentions, for he knew in his heart that it was a rare sight indeed for a Cleric of Dareen to enter such a Temple. Rarer still that it be a silver haired, silver bearded Duskarn, armed with a 2'6" Long Sword, Knife and 2 Throwing Axes.

The 4'5" 140 pound Duskarn bowed in pleasant greeting to the Keeper of the Temple of Hamar, lowering his back pack slowly to the floor, adorned with a bed roll, 2 wine skins (one filled with water and another with wine) and filled with unknown contents. He laid his Long Sword against his back pack in an unthreatening manner.

Then he removed his Battle Helm with the Crimson Clenched Fist Holy Symbol blazoned across the forehead, surveying the new surroundings, while keeping a wary bright red eye on those who entered and departed at his unexpected, bold, yet humble, entrance into the Temple of Hamar.

He stifled an impulse to reach for the black eye patch, stitched with the Crimson Clenched Fist Holy Symbol, that covered his left eye. He wore a Dareen War Tunic with a sleeveless hood that buttoned down over his Shirt and Chain Mail Armor.

Instead, with a nonchalant effort, he allowed his hands to rest upon the heads of his Throwing Axes, in a non-threatening manner, striking a pose that allowed the curious and the cautious to better determine why a Duskarn Dareen War Cleric had chosen to enter this Temple of Hamar?

They could see his Belt Pouch where his 2 Throwing Axes rested on either side of his stout, muscular body, noticing the same Crimson Clenched Fist Holy Symbol on their handles, as well as on the hilt of his Long Sword. A Knife with the same insignia on its handle was strapped to the outside of his left boot. They also noticed that he wore a pair of Dareen War Breeches.

Adelror explained that his deceased family used to worship Hamar when he was younger, so he merely wanted to pay his respects in their memory. So taking his leave, he found a quiet place where he was able to kneel in private, reach into his belt pouch with both hands to touch the familiar contents, giving thanks to Hamar for his bountiful provision.

While kneeling in private prayer, Adelror tugs thoughtfully at the single Red Ruby Gem braided in his beard. His hazy thoughts drift and float to ... a remembrance of some worshipers of Hamar ... held prisoner in the Orc Slave Pens ... and Orc and Half Orc Breeding Pens ...

... Orcs so foul ... screams of terror ... my 3 War Cleric comrades wounded ... arrows from Syln slavers ... trading young flesh for Orc gold ... Syln slavers paid with their lives ... blood soaks the rocks ... screams from Syln innocents ... must rescue ... Orc Breeding Pens ... savage and ruthless ... Dur'Amani ... Buunta ... Duskarn ... screams of terror ... young women ... Orc Breeding Pens ... young men ... Orc Slave Pens ... a living death ... must rescue ... swing my Long Sword ... snaps in Orc skull ... my comrades drag our leader to safety ... must protect ... must rescue ... double bladed Battle Axe on the rocks pick it up ... turn it against Orcs ... hear it sing as it cleaves ... Orc skulls smashed ... gashed ... find my way to the Pens ... rescue ...

... Orcs lay dead ... or dying ... Battle Axe sings its song of freedom ... prisoners released ... we help my comrades ... we find our way to Dareen War Temple ... prisoners rescued ... comrades healed ... Duskarn Elders award Red Ruby Gem ... braid my beard ... War Clerics award me Dareen 2'6" Long Sword ... prisoners returned home ... my blade thirsts for more Orc blood ... must avenge ... must do my duty ... serve Dareen ... may Hamar take notice ... avenge my family ... avenge innocents ... whoever they may be ... wherever they may be ... protect innocents ...
Adelror reached both hands back into his belt pouch ... thankful for the precious gifts of the earth ... secreted in his belt pouch ... reward enough for freeing the worshipers of Hamar ...

"Thank You Hamar ... for these precious gifts of the earth ... from the caverns of my family ... Who Worshiped You Hamar ... who died ... unprotected ... but I Thank You Hamar ... for Your Reward ... for my sparing Your Worshipers ... the same gruesome fate ... or worse ... in the Orc Slave Pens ... and Breeding Pens ... Remember Hamar ... Thank You Hamar ... for these precious gifts of the earth ... from the caverns of my family ... my dead family ... Who Worshiped You Hamar ... Remember Hamar ... Remember ... Thank You ..."
This was always difficult for Adelror the Avenger to do, because he still blamed Hamar for not finding a way to protect his family, resulting in their gruesome deaths.

When Adelror was satisfied that he had done as well as he could to give Hamar thanks, he retrieved his belongings that were unmolested by anyone during his private time before Hamar, then he turned to leave the Temple with a slight bow and a nod to the Keeper of the Temple.

(OOC: Any information that Adelror is able to receive from Sister Myrah Lonse pertaining to the general atmosphere of the town, its residents and the surrounding region with any news of anything seeming to be amiss; would be exchanged for his positive observance that the untilled fields he has passed by in recent weeks look to be fit for a bountiful harvest this year. He tells her that his journey was peaceful and there were no signs of hostility along the way. He also mentions things of interest from the City of Mahlport and what she might like to know about the Hamar Temples in the region he has been familiar with these past several years! He makes no mention of the Vision that urged him to make his way this far west of the City of Mahlport, but says something that satisfies her curiosity and that he has arrived in Graffton with friendly intentions!)
Upon excusing himself, the Dareen War Cleric made his way into town, with an unhurried, but steady gait, examining the surroundings with an intent eye.

He purposely makes a wide berth of The Grinning Grasscat, passing by the Tavern with a wary eye!

The smell of fresh baked goods from the Bakery entices him to pay a visit, but he has more important things to do at the moment, also noting the friendly comfort of The Graffton Inn, but there will be time enough to get a room at the Inn later!

Adelror the Avenger makes an unhurried beeline to the Graffton Forge, where he is confident that he can find out what he needs to know about the town and the surrounding area from the smithy!

(OOC: Adelror is quite prepared to spend the time required to strike up a friendship with Maelon O'Meere to gain the information that he needs to know about the town, its residents and the general atmosphere of the surrounding area. Any historical information as well. Again, he makes no mention of the Vision that motivated him to journey to Graffton from Mahlport, but he praises Maelon for his workmanship and strikes up conversations about how things are in the City of Mahlport, setting the smithy at ease that the War Cleric has arrived in town with friendly intentions!)

(This conversation is a compilation through PM, contributed to by Salvator and myself.)
Bailox gratefully lowered himself into the chair. It creaked ominously as his bulk settled, but it held. Summoning the barmaid, he ordered two ales. When they arrived, he smacked his parched lips in anticipation and hit the other warrior's cup with his own. "Well met, and Atlam's blessings upon you!" When they had both drained the surprisingly good ale from their mugs, Bailox heaved a contented sigh and leaned back, his chair once again creaking in protest. "I am Bailox Steelbringer, son of Bailam," he rumbled, holding out his large and callused hand.

Desrik stifles a cough as the frothy drink burned his throat a bit, then grins, clasping the large Hand.
"Desrik Darraman, Son of no one important." He replies, trying not to notice how the Warrior's hand was almost big enough to completely enclose over his. Releasing his grasp, he sits back. "So, what brings you to this wee excuse for a town, if I may ask? You won't find much honorable combat among farmers and peasants." He adds with a smirk, adjusting the red, wide brimmed hat on his head, his finger briefly touching the large plume.

Bailox's brow furrowed a bit and his gaze darkened as he gave a rueful nod. "Aye, friend, in fact methinks the days of honorable combat...with anyone...may be at an end. I find myself here because I am a warrior without a war. I hail from Haervath, which is one half of this new Brandost."

He took a generous swig of ale and continued. "I and my kin fought the Irvalans for generations beyond number. Now, suddenly, the war is over, and our land, our culture, our very identity have been swept away to make room for this new unified country in which you and I now sit and drink."

He gave a subdued chuckle that sounded like two boulders grating together. "So, to make a long tale short, I found myself wanting to be an adventurer. And now, I find myself here, in the company of another warrior. Methinks Atlam mayhap nudged me in your direction."

He drained the last of his ale and motioned for the tavern wench to bring another round. "So I pose your question to you. What brings you here?"

Desrik smiles genuinely. He and the man before him had much in common it seemed, but that Desrik killed both Haervathians and Irvalans if the price had been good enough. Still, as the man had so elegantly put it, they were warriors without a war...

The small mercenary nods, finishing his own brew. "Alas, my path here is one of self-pity... After the war, I, and those like me, found it hard to earn a decent living. The palts of war flow freer that those of grain." He quoted an old mercenary proverb. "These past months, I have worked my way here, making a name for myself only in local tavern and inns. But while liquor and women console me for a time, my heart yearns for battle once more." He chuckles. "As for your god's blessing, I would think you were only directed to me as an example of what happens to a warrior that has given up."
He raises his empty glass in an almost bitter salute. "But hey, To finding that honorable fight, aye?"

Bailox drained his latest cup, laughed heartily, startling the tavern patrons and quite possibly a few nearby small animals, and clapped Desrik on the shoulder. "Friend Desrik, I have found that when I have been ready to give up, that is when Atlam makes things the most interesting!"

He waved down the tavern wench again. Smiling a fearsome yet appealing grin at her, he bellowed "Barmaid, ten palts for your pocket if the cups of my friend and I do not find themselves empty this day!"

As she hustled away toward the ale taps, Bailox settled back in his chair and sighed contentedly. "And so, Desrik the Forlorn, we shall share tales of battle, drink our fill, and see how Atlam shall make things interesting!"

Desrik grins, and nods. The man was indeed entertaining, and the Mercenary felt this was the type of folks he belonged around. Hardy, strong fighters that lived and died for the simple things. Honor, duty, glory, sauce or women, it did not matter.
"Sounds like a better plan than I had." He replies with a grateful nod as the next round of drinks was brought. Indeed, he had planned on drinking here all night... But now it seemed he would be doing that, AND possibly finding a room he could afford.

Removing his great hat, and running his fingers through his short black hair, he hangs the hat on his sword's pommel, and relaxes into a comfortable position.

"So what shall we discuss? First kills, most memorable moments on the field... The best prize received.." He smirks, having one or two tales concerning all of those.

Thus did two warriors pass the time...

Birdsong thrummed softly from the trees adorning the side of the road to Graffton and the sun shone brightly, though not warmly, down onto the uneven surface ahead glinting off the shinier stones on the path. For Elberon this was a strange experience. In all of his life he had never spent such a prolonged time in the outdoors such was the way of the Wizard. He had spent many years poring over old and dusty tomes trying to learn their mysterious teachings, but little had sunk in.

Most Wizards of his school reached his age and had finished their teachings with much ease, Elberon however had always struggled. The masters had always tried their best with him but it appeared he had little skill in the field. Nevertheless his determination to prove them wrong had always held firm and that was why he was shambling along this path on his way, for the first time, to town.

The afternoon sped past, such was Elberons fascination with the rolling fields and the travellers hurrying past him. As he reached the top of a large hill he caught sight of Graffton, his destination. It was the largest area of inhabited land he had ever seen and he was appropriately amazed. Houses sprawled out in every direction and when the wind shifted he could hear faint snippets of noise. For the first time of his journey he quickened his step eager to find out more about this strange place.

As he reached the gates of the apparently welcoming town the noise was so loud Elberon could barely think of anything else. It was a far different environment to that of the silent libraries of home. When he entered Graffton and began walking at a leisurely pace, often stopping to stand and stare in amazement, he was ushered quickly on by a rushing passer-by or was forced to quickly step aside as a cart laden with goods trundled past.

Whenever he tried to stop someone in the street to ask for directions to a place to sleep for the night and to acquire a warm meal he was often ignored, such was the rush going on around him. Eventually though he was pointed in the direction of an Inn named the The Grinning Grasscat and began to head their immediately. The novelty had not worn off for the gangly, scrawny Dur'Amani but dusk was falling and an elder had warned him of the dangers that dark brought on, claiming it was safer in the wild than it was in a town.

Elberon reached the rough wooden door of the Inn and could hear the merriment inside. Music was playing and laughter and shouting could be heard within. When Elberon entered he was not prepared for what he saw. The tavern was packed, the smell was smoky and stale and the range of people inside was staggering. A group of small Buunta's laughed outrageously at another one of their kind who had fell off his stool and was now trying to stand, but failing miserably. Three Dur'Amani sat in a corner talking in hushed tones and looked much hardier than him. A Duskarn sat alone three empty tankards surrounded him and still four more full ones were set before him. All of the tables were full, bar the Duskarns and a seat next two large Syln's with an impressive arsenal about their bodies. The Dur'Amani chose the seat with the Syln's as the Duskarn already seemed lost in his cups.

Anxiously Elberon approached the pair, his eyes once more drawn to the impressive swords that hung, sheathed, on various parts of their bodies.

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt but do you mind if I take a seat. You see I am new to this... environment and you two seem jolly enough fellows. My name is Elberon, by the way.”

(OOC: Presuming its okay to take a seat)

Elberon nervously lowered himself onto the stool and said.

“It has been quite a day and I find myself quite parched. What drinks does a place so... haughty as this serve?”

"...and there he wash, running full shpeed toward me, shword raished...sho I threw a goat at him!"

Bailox roared with laughter as he finished his latest tale. He and Desrik were well in their cups now; the barmaid was obviously serious about getting her palts.

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt but do you mind if I take a seat. You see I am new to this... environment and you two seem jolly enough fellows. My name is Elberon, by the way.”

Bailox looked up at the two men who spoke. After a moment, they decided to be just one man. Bailox could tell by the look of him that he was a wizard. And wizards were always interesting.

"Met and well hail, friend! Indeed, have a join and seat us!" Wait, that wasn't right...was it? "Your pardon, friend, we've aled a bit of drunk..." Bah, this was an inopportune time to have his language skills tested! Keep it simple. "Aye. Sit. Drink." He pointed at himself. "Bailox." He then pointed at both Desriks. "Desrik. And Desrik."

Elberon nervously lowered himself onto the stool and said.

“It has been quite a day and I find myself quite parched. What drinks does a place so... haughty as this serve?”

Bailox roared yet again with laughter. "Barmaid!" he bellowed. "Ale for my lizard friend!" Drat. "Er, whistle! WIZARD! Bah!" The barmaid was almost collapsing in laughter as she brought another cup of ale.

"So, Elbow! Er, Elnerbob! By Atlam, I beg your pardon...Elberon!" He beamed with pride at getting it correct. "What brings you to this stine efablishment?" Oh, forget it. He wisely shut up so the man could speak.

(OOC: Salvator, feel free to add whatever you wish; just wanted to get a response up to get Elberon included in the conversation.)

The black of night was sundered by Deilver's blade, striking the earth upon the horizon and shattering the veil of shadow with a myriad of reds yellows and purples as dawn broke over Baelenoa once more. Emerald eyes fluttered open as the sun's first rays caressed Ja'aron's face. A weary hand reached up to tuck a stray lock of chestnut hair back behind a chiseled ear, rising to a slight point belying the traces of Dur'amani blood that coursed beneath his lightly tanned skin. A cool breeze, the remnants of winter's embrace chased the sleep from his eyes and roused him from his lingering slumber. Stretching, Ja'aron stiffened his legs and arched his back much akin to a feline, using the trunk of the great oak he had taken his reprieve under as leverage as he rose to his feet; enjoying the feel of the bark as it scratched his back and shoulders on his ascent. Though the tree still bore no leaves, the buds showed promise of the coming warmer weather, and with hope, their would be little need of blankets and bedrolls to protect from the chills while one slept under the majesty of the stars.

It had been a long walk from the small woodland hut the young initiate called home. For a fortnight he had made his way down from the richly canopied forest Ja'aron enjoyed towards civilization. It was time to trade in some of the pelts and furs he had gathered after utilizing the rest of the animals for sustenance over the winter months. Ja'aron was in need of more herbs and reagents not found within the confines of natural borders, and with spring's arrival it was time to visit Graffton one more wherethe townsfolk there were always kind to receive the young naturalist. While young in the ways of druidism the youth was still more than knowledgeable about tending the land and was more than willing to aid in manual labour or offer his minor magics in assisting the local populous in exchange for the minor things he needed to get by. Ja'aron didn’t find much use for monetary things, though the years of interaction in Syln civilization gave him an understanding for its importance in most peoples lives.

Reaching down for his pack, Ja'aron's hand brushed the tail of a chipmunk, and the tail shook, and then disappeared in the warmth of the pack as the critter rummaged around. Moment's later, the ash coloured creature poked his head up from the confines of the pack, acorn happily held between tiny paws, a cherished treasure revealed.

“Mae, already rustling my nuts and the sun's barely out.” Reaching down to gather his things, the chipmunk happily scampered up his arm and sat upon his shoulder enjoying her breakfast. The weight of the pack upon his shoulders felt strangely reassuring. Every person needed a weight upon their world, it gave a sense of purpose. While Ja'aron was naive and suffered no lack of experience when it came to many facets of the world and it's inhabitants social interactions, the open country roads, the frost covered soil beneath his feet grounded the half-blood, keeping his more aloof lineage at bay. Surrounded by nature was where Ja'aron was at peace. In truth, perhaps due to circumstance, Ja'aron often felt more comfortable in the presence of animals. They were instinctively honest, there were no socially awkward moments, and there was never a question of their intentions.

Ja'aron ran his fingers gently over Mae's fur, and she chattered happily. As he took his first strides towards his destination, the woodsman mused about what changes the months had brought to the small town of Graffton. It had been some time since he had ventured into the populated lands and he smiled at the opportunity to touch base with some of those he had made acquaintance with in the past.

“I wonder if Miss Molly will have more of those fruit and oat bars she had on our last visit” The thought of the crunchy oats and tangy cranberries bursting upon his tongue made his stomach growl. It would still hours until the initiate reached Graffton, but a meagre meal of tack and water from a skin filled from a brook far removed would suffice.

One foot in front of the other, and the road grows ever shorter. Onwards, to civilization
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
There were no rolling hills to climb over, no swell to crest to reveal majestic Graffton beyond. Rows and rows of wheat and grain fields yet to be planted greeted Ja'aron as he approached, their barren aisles devoid of seed and stalk. As Ja'aron passed between the fields, he was soon greeted by the happy barks of a shaggy haired sheep dog, and soon after still the first of the children appeared still bundled up tight under the scrutiny of protective parents.

Perhaps it was his apparel that attracted the innocent youth of the town; vestments of deep greens and earthen hues, covered by a warm cloak of wolf fur with the head shaped around the hood, painted stones replacing the long removed eyes giving it a cold, unending stare. Though his hood was draped back over a pack laden with pelts and other furs, there was a spring in Ja'aron's step the triple tapping of foot foot quarterstaff upon the cool earth forming a steady rhythm. The children danced around the 'wolf man' as he had been named on past visits howling playfully though their joviality sent Mae scampering to the safe recesses of Ja'aron's pack. He raised a hand and returned the few waves he received from parents and farmers poking their heads out of the surrounding villas as childish wolf cries echoed into the early afternoon.

The children laughed and danced, and Ja'aron laughed and danced along with them, quite a strange sight to behold, a man of almost 20 winters prancing about without a second thought, but the mirth of those bright eyes around him made his heart soar, and he hummed a jovial tune as his entourage followed him into town.

While his stomach directed him towards the O'Kreen bakery, his laden shoulders would take him towards the Graffton General Store, where hopefully he could part with his goods and begin his bartering. Mr Vaylin had always seemed a fair man, and he looked forward to see how the winter had fared for he and his kin.

(OOC: transactions and basic behind the scene shenanigans covered in pm with Tek, it's really merely accounting for starting funds and equipment and placing Ja'aron in town)

"...and there he wash, running full shpeed toward me, shword raished...sho I threw a goat at him!" Bailox concludes, followed by a roar of laughter that Desrik matched.


“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt but do you mind if I take a seat. You see I am new to this... environment and you two seem jolly enough fellows. My name is Elberon, by the way.”

Desrik looks up to the robed figure at his table, a moment of suspicion cross his mind before fading. He had always hated seeing their kind on the battlefield, flinging fire and worse... But he supposed there would be none of that here...

"Met and well hail, friend! Indeed, have a join and seat us!" Bailox slurred merrily "Your pardon, friend, we've aled a bit of drunk... Aye. Sit. Drink." He pointed at himself. "Bailox." He then pointed at Desrik. "Desrik. And Desrik."

The small mercenary chuckles, and nods to the Wizard, bringing his cup to his lips and saying nothing.

Elberon nervously lowered himself onto the stool and said,

“It has been quite a day and I find myself quite parched. What drinks does a place so... haughty as this serve?”

Bailox roared yet again with laughter. "Barmaid!" he bellowed. "Ale for my lizard friend! Er, whistle! WIZARD! Bah!" The barmaid was almost collapsing in laughter as she brought another cup of ale.

Deysor Twenty-Fourth, 1121
Graffton, Irvala Province
Brandost

The Grinning Grasscat
The Grasscat, a place that, even if not busy in the typical sense of the word, always seemed to have a fair count of patrons, was very much enjoying the business of the three wanderers that had made their introductions within its walls. Whether present before their sequential arrivals - or perhaps because of them! - business was good for the widowed Silcher and bustling staff for the night.

A number of the townsfolk had heard of a gigantic fellow who had loudly befriended the now-familiar Desrik, who frequented the ‘Cat on a very regular basis. In ones and twos, they had filed in, lending their own contributions to a festive effort between the soldiers that looked like it might drain the stores of the tavern. It wasn’t long before the laughter and commotion of the locals had risen to the point of becoming audible outside, and even then, it failed to drown the boasts and cheers of the swordsmen.

And that was even before the joining of the short-haired Dur’amani that wandered in and joined the duo.

Though there were a few others present in these early morning hours, elves were not an overly common sight in Graffton, and one approaching and joining the two warriors was enough to heighten their merriment to previously unequaled levels. Or, at least that of Bailox, who insisted that his newest friend share some of the celebration with them, though by this point, the cause for the night rested at the bottom of a flagon long ago taken to the sinks in the back of the house.

But, when drink flows so swiftly, so does the passing of time, and each was taken quite aback by the ‘sudden’ presence of Mary Silcher standing at their table, arms crossed beneath her breasts. A quick look around showed the three that the rest of the room had been cleared out, and by the low flames in the hearth, possibly for some time.

“All right, you pugs,” Her sharp tone struck their drink-addled minds like an axe through timber. “Its been nice havin’ you here all night, but shuttin’ time was over an hour ago. Lucky you,” The ginger-haired lass indicated at Bailox with her chin. “We ain’t got anyone big enough to chuck you on your ass. Deilver bless you, the sun is comin’ up out there!”

The windows of the tavern were tinted dark enough to make it near-impossible to tell if her claim was true or not, but the three settled up and made their way outside to where the morning, though overcast, was indeed beginning to lighten considerably. How many hours had they spent in there...? Good times had, this would be a long day ahead for the heavy-headed trio.

*****

Graffton Forge
Adelror wandered patiently near the smithy, biding his time until the blacksmith emerged from his stone home behind the open forge. The bed of coals had been lit, but of the craftsman, there was yet no sign. Unusual, given the fact that such places were typically open early to start the day off. The bakery was already at work, and the fine aromas of hot bread were scenting the cloudy morning. As well, the Duskarn had spent a part of his morning in the town’s temple, conversing with Sister Myrah and offering his own respects to the Autumn King, difficult as they may be to perform.

Still, in the time he spent with the priestess, he was able to gain some small insight as to the workings of Graffton, such as the extreme dependence on a bountiful grain harvest each year. This, however, was obvious to the wandering war cleric, both by the sprawling fields surrounding the small town, as well as the lack of any other great resource that he’d been able to spot. However, Myrah had notified him of the iron mine that the town did take advantage of. The presence of the temple to the lord of agriculture was also a solid giveaway. Such places were common amongst smaller country communities.

However, though his due respects were paid, he was unable to gather much more from the steel-haired daughter of the cloth, and while she did not directly send him out from the confines of the small building, it had been apparent that she preferred solitude to company in the morning hours.

So, Adelror had left her to her duties, and set himself to roaming the town in search of more information. The town was slow to get started, no doubt due to the frosty morning air that hung over the place in the wake of winter. Fields were not yet ready receive plow, and so, there didn’t seem much that would really demand the immediate dawn attention that would be asked for once the snow had fully departed the soil.

The bakery appealed with its offer of fresh treats, while the inn would likely be a place to gather rumours or news, albeit at the cost of some tin, but for a Duskarn, craftsfolk by birth, the smithy would hold much more interest.

But, that was entirely dependent on it being open. Fortunately, Adelror expressed no hurry in the workings of the cool breaking of dawn.

*****

Graffton General Goods
The long walk had been good to Ja’aron, the cool air of the departing winter brisk and fresh, while the sun more often than not lit the gradually lengthening days. With his pack laden with furs and pelts from the woods to the north that he called his home, the miles between his domain and the trading post where he hoped to make some profit for his ardours.

Pat Veylin was familiar with the wild half-breed after his various visits across the long months, and through the winter cold, the warm skins that the druid bore in from the north were highly appreciated, both by Pat’s accounts, and by the folk of Graffton who eagerly purchased them.

So, when the old Syln saw Ja’aron walking up the hard packed dirt road towards his mud brick shop, he arose from his seat on the bench outside his shop, tapped out his tabac pipe, and waved at the traveler. A good sign, the druid understood it, for even though his time in civilization was limited, a positive feel was always evident in a good morning greeting from his fellow man. No doubt, this meant he would be able to sell at least some - if not all - of his trappings, and that may lead to some of the baked sweets from O’Kreen’s kitchen. At the very least.

However, the prospect of a good sale for he and Mae was interrupted by a voice shot with distress from across the small settlement. Faint at first, and gradually rising in volume as it grew closer, the unmistakable pleas for help from a panicked woman met the ears of fur peddling half-breed, roaming dwarf, and the alcohol-pounded senses of the three outside the Grasscat.

Doors opened and heads peeked out to see what was the matter, and a few who were already outdoors at the time rushed over to see what was going on. A crowd gathered to see the lone figure of a filthy young woman, her simple coat and breeches torn in multiple spots and her hair a disheveled mess. Barely able to keep herself properly upright, the lass managed a few more steps before dropping to her knees and weeping. Between choked sobs, one unmistakable could be picked out from the shuddering mess.

“Robbers.”

(OOC: Not as detailed on each little page as I’d have liked, but its getting late, and I did say I would get this in today. So, here we go. The crowd is gathered at the southern edge of town, and the woman has collapsed into sobs in the middle of the road.

Desrick, Bailox, and Elberon are not rested, and still under the effects of alcohol from a night of partying.

Ja’aron has not yet managed to unload his pelts. However, prior to the disruption, a sale did seem eminent.

Keep up the great work everybody!)

Deysor Twenty-Fourth, 1121
Graffton, Irvala Province
Brandost
Southern Edge of Town
Early Morning
"Robbers."
Adelror had braced himself for the commotion that was sure to be the reaction of the townsfolk, from the moment the cry of distress had reached his ears!

The Dureen War Cleric followed the flow of the crowd, as people rushed outside in answer to the unmistakable pleas for help from a panicked woman.

Adelror had heard the cries of countless innocents and victims of evildoers too many times in his short years of service as a War Cleric.

Whether or not this unexpected cry was directly linked to his vision was of no consequence to the Duskarn, who had already determined that he would pursue the source of this woman's anguish; whether it be a trail of robbers, or worse!

It was just a question as to who else would be stirred to tracking the thieves?

With that thought in his mind, Adelror selected a good vantage point to view the victim, while observing the variety of people who gathered around the distraught woman.

After taking his seat next to the two large and muscular warriors Elberon adjusted himself so he sat comfortably. By the time he had shifted around a tankard filled with a dark brown liquid was put in front of him. Curiously he lifted the tankard and took a sup. Elberon fought the urge to spit the foul liquid back into the tankard and with much distaste he forced a swallow down his throat. He watched with awe as Bailox and Desrik downed their beverages nearly half a pitcher at a time and wondered how they stomached the stuff.

As the hours went on and more and more patrons started to take their seats in the Grasscat and the atmosphere grew loud and rowdy. Bailox and Desrik were nearly always at the heart of the fun and Elberon was intrigued by the stories they told. They spoke of great battles and fearsome duels the way only someone who was there could tell it. Elberon was captivated by his new friends and their stories were ten times better than those he had read in the books of the library back home. When the pair asked him of any great deeds he had done just shook his head lightly and told the pair that his life pales in comparison next to their rich and full experiences. However, they had probed and prodded him for a story and Elberon could not give one so he told them that this was his first time away from his elven homestead and he was on a quest to experience life just like they had. From then on it appeared as though they had taken him under their wing.

After his third tankard of ale Elberon was beginning to adapt his tastebuds to the foul liquid. He had also noticed that everything moved a little less sharply and it was although the world was dulled and blurred somehow. What an odd feeling, he thought to himself. He dreaded to think how the other two felt it seemed as if they had drunk far more than he had.

The night went on and more stories were swapped, each one equally enthralling to Elberon's ear. So fascinated was he that he didn't notice most others in the common room leave and nearly jumped when the barmaid came over to kick them out. She told them that it was near daybreak, but he refused to believe her. When they opened the door however he could tell the sky was breaking and true enough it was almost dawn.

Not long after the three of them had begun to wander in an apparently random direction shouts went up around the town and a large crowd started forming and making its way to the main square. After the previous nights exchanging of stories Elberon was keen to make his own.

“Come on, lets go find out what's going on. I want a story to tell like you two!”

(OOC: Presuming that Desrik and Bailox agree)

The trio headed to the main square where they found a large crowd gathered around a girl in rough clothes and a stricken look in her eyes. Most people gawped and stared, though a few rushed over to console her.

It was Elberon's chance. He needed to start doing to start learning. Elberon darted off through the crowd, forgetting to tell the pair of fighters in front of him, and made his way to the front. He stood over the girl and was sure he would never normally stand up so confidently in front of such a crowd and start speaking, then he remembered the drinks from last night and the strange effects they had on him.

“Don'th worry people of Graffton we will find thethe vile people and put an end to their mischief.” Elberon exclaimed with a slight slur.

Elberon looked into the crowd trying to find his two companions and when he spotted them he said.

“Desrik! Bailox! Come on there is an adventure to be had!” He stood waving them over before turning his attention back to the crowd. “Will anyone else join us to rid Graffton of these pests?”

After he had finished his last sentence the alcohol suddenly began to wear off and he realised the mass of people he had just spoke to. He tried to remain composed but knew that he was failing, all he could hope for was for someone else to come and take charge before he, inevitably, said the wrong thing, if he had not done so already.

(OOC: Elebron will stand there hoping his two new friends would come with him to find the woman's robbers, he was not sure he could do it alone.)

Desrik wanders through the crowd, gently pushing folks out of his way to allow him a better view of the haggard woman, barely hearing her as she mumbles "Robbers..."

The Mercenary's heart immediately rose, and his mind went off, thinking of the possible rewards of destroying them. He was barely aware of his new wizard friend.... whom he could not recall the name of for some reason.... as the small man cried out pledges of heroics.

“Desrik! Bailox! Come on there is an adventure to be had!” He stood waving them over before turning his attention back to the crowd. “Will anyone else join us to rid Graffton of these pests?”

Desrik looks at Bailox briefly, wondering what the warrior would choose.
"Sheems we have found ush a fight, me friend." He slurres, silently cursing his inebriation. Adjusting his large hat, he steps forward.
"I will go. This village has been good to me, and I shall return the favor."

“Come on, let’s go find out what's going on. I want a story to tell like you two!”

Bailox smiled briefly at his new friend Elberon’s enthusiasm as the trio headed toward the commotion at the town’s southern edge. Last night’s drink and the lack of sleep were definitely taking their toll; Bailox’s head was pounding and his limbs felt leaden as they trudged across town. The price one pays for such merriment, he mused. He smiled yet again as he recalled Desrik’s colorful tales, Elberon’s amusing anecdotes as he came out of his shell a bit, and two new friendships well made. All in all, worth, it, without doubt, he thought.

As they made their way across town and the cries became louder, Bailox grasped that it was a woman, and she was panicked. He remembered similar cries from women of his homeland when Irvalan war parties went on the offensive. His battle instincts, honed by years of warfare, kicked in. Adrenaline coursed through his body, temporarily washing away the inebriation and lethargy. He grasped the hilt of his short sword at his side and increased his pace. Bystanders, seeing the huge warrior with purpose in his stride, battle in his eyes, and hand firmly on his sword, wisely made way. As he broke through the edge of the crowd he was pleasantly surprised to see Elberon already there, standing protectively over the woman. This wizard has heart!
“Desrik! Bailox! Come on there is an adventure to be had!” Elberon stood waving them over before turning his attention back to the crowd. “Will anyone else join us to rid Graffton of these pests?”

Bailox looked over at Desrik to find his gaze returned. "Sheems we have found ush a fight, me friend," said Desrik. "I will go. This village has been good to me, and I shall return the favor."

Bailox smiled and clapped Desrik on the shoulder. “Did I not tell you that Atlam would make things interesting? Ha! You have heart, my friend, as does our wizard friend, it seems,” he said, gesturing at Elberon. “Let us make sure the girl is well, and go explain the perils of stealing to some highwaymen.”

He approached the young woman, nodding at Elberon, and knelt beside her. “How fare you, lass?” he asked as he laid a strong but gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you injured?” As he awaited her response, he took a look in the direction from which she’d come, bringing to bear his considerable tracking skills to see if any of the tale could be told from the part of her backtrail that he could see from his present vantage.