The snap of mortal bones seemed to echo through Sehanine's head as she felt the weight of gold in her lap. As the days unfolded, these country bumpkins were becoming more and more ruthless. Like cord stretched out too taught, they were nigh ready to snap and release all their impotent rage. With a little direction that fury could be channeled into something quite productive. It would take nothing more than a careful hand and a gentle push. A sly smile crept across Sehanine's ageless face as plots and schemes danced gleefully through her mind. She suddenly found herself quite pleased they had settled in this little hovel. A faery could find endless entertainment in such a place...

Violet eyes alight with faery fire, Sehanine turned her attention to her fellow "heros" and their next quest. Tristan was right they did have so much to discuss. Returning the bearded man's smile with a coy grin of her own, Sehanine fixed him with a gaze that promised mischief far beyond the matter at hand.

"Yes, let us eat. While we do, you can regale us with tales of all your travels yesterday."

”So…just gonna sit there…or do you want a drink?”
Mal wasn't sure whether Argos was being facetious or not, but in either case the old keep was demonstrably thick as dragon's hide. He'd asked the same question of him a scant few days ago, and surprised him then with an answer in the affirmative. This place was a tavern, wasn't it?

Tristan replied before Mal could form an appropriate insult. "We've much to discuss, and personally, I'd rather not do it on an empty stomach." Sehanine agreed. ""Yes, let us eat. While we do, you can regale us with tales of all your travels yesterday."
Three days ago Malachi had sneered at the bartender. Whether the recent battle had dulled his wit or sharpened his hunger he wasn't sure, but it made no difference. The Argent Blade found no suitable words, other than "Yeah, a beer would do, Argie. Some breakfast as well." He frowned a little, worried that the bartender might think he had begun to like him.

Argos beamed at him dully for a moment, and Mal thought he caught the gleam of gold in his eye. Did he expect some sort of tip? He'd already been paid twice what he was worth. The lout. The Argent Blade turned his gaze back to his companions. Tristan grinned at him. Sehanine was smiling as well, but hers seemed more introspective. Everyone was all teeth and no bite this morning. Mal chalked it up to the gold in their pockets. Maybe that was what held his tongue today as well.

Looking around the table at his gathered comrades, Tristan tipped his hat at Argus as the man served the group and returned to the bar. He glanced around the empty room, making doubly sure no one was within listening distance. More out of worry that Malachai would give them away again than any real sense of paranoia. Although, trivial as it was, this talk could end up splitting the newly formed group.

Deciding all was well enough to begin, Tristan did so. "So. Jaron. Robber Baron, only without the Baron. He is apparently the big name around these parts." He glanced at Sehanine. "All reports seem to agree with the information we got from our late friend. Based out of some old dwarven ruins a few hours southwest of here." A pause to stretch his neck, popping the joints. "Apparently they've been getting brave lately. The man's hobbies include stealing from the rich, killing the poor, and kicking small puppies." Another pause for a smile." Oh, and if the rumors are to be believed, killing people with a literal glance."

Tristan smirked, looking 'round the table again. "Of course that part is most likely so much yokel superstition.... but I know what I can do, and I know what she can do," he said, with a gesture at the she-elf, "and I'm not willing to completely discount it."

"That's all I've managed to learn. Make of it what you will, but in my opinion, its high time we got out of Schell." This part was where the touble might lie. At the very least, the paladin would want to stay on some misguided quest to save and protect the little town. And he didn't think any amount of spinning was going to change that, so Tristan decided he wouldn't put forth more than a token effort. A convincing token, as he was still... himself. But only a token.

"There's nothing else we can do to help the people around here, short of taking up a life of farming. In the event the rumors about this Jaron fellow have even a modicum of truth to them, I don't relish the idea of facing him as we are now. The fight at the farm was bad enough. We were disorganized, easily seperated, and ended up flailing about like so many confused goatherders. And that was against enemies with no mystical power at all. Imagine if they'd had so much as a cleric with them? Or even the weakest of sorcerors?"

Tristan shook his head. "No, I say we need to spend more time working together before we go off chasing rumors of any sort." He leaned back, gauging the reactions of his companions. He hoped they'd be sensible about things. Then his gaze fell on Malachai and Relos, and he sighed.

Somehow, he really doubted it.

"Goats." She Muttered, "I. Hate. Goats."

The grimace that replaced what would normally be a serene little smile didn't last long. As the halfling lass drew her eyes away from an exchange with the most dreadful of beast, to a most wondrous site, her lips perked up in an uncontrollable manner. Isaiah was keeping true to his word, and was heading their way now. Argos threw open the door and began blustering at the others, as she fairly ducked underfoot and down the stairs towards the common room of the establishment to meet their semi satisfied customer.

As the old farmer passed out the sacks of gold, Calopee was first in line, eager hands ready to cup the bag. Her eyes nearly shined with tears, such was her greed. A smile beamed across her face, and she quickly retreated to count her well gotten gains. 100 shiny pieces of gold. She could eat them they looked so tasty! When Relos refused to take his share, she almost considered sequestering it, but a look in Relos' eyes had her think better of it. Something was amiss with the fortune's finest, and she had yet to place her finger on it.

Tristan, in a bout of lunacy, shelled out an absurd number of coins to the boisterous proprietor. His gleeful grin made the holy man look a fool. That, or the covetous halfling really couldn't get over the uncalled for tip to a man that pours musty ale for a living. Still, breakfast did sound very good. She climbed up and sat on the counter beside her Discq-beloved counterpart, and awaited her breakfast."No poison for me this early, Argos. Some of those noisy bird eggs will suit me just fine."

After listening to Tristan's tale of Jaron, and his recommendations for their departure, her pride flared up a little. She'd taken care of herself just fine out in that wheatfield. Though, a slight tenderness in her ribs reminded her that if not for Tristan's intervention, things could have gone much worse. Perhaps he wasn't eager to revisit his last encounter on death's doorstep, which was an admirable goal. Instead, Calopee had another idea about where they should focus their efforts. "Risk versus reward, right?"

She looked around to see how the others reacted to this, and then carried on. "He's not wrong. I mean... I did take down four of them," she smirked a bit as she reintegrated her prolific contributions, "but it wasn't without help." she backtracked. "We almost lost Tristan, and, as he said, these were common thugs. I say we carry on, and let things settle down a bit here. Perhaps we can find ourselves some more lucrative jobs, see if we can expand our good name... and, you know, work on that whole group dynamic?"

Sehanine ran a coppery finger along the rim of her cup, filled thankfully this morning with tea. It had a musty taste that hinted it had aged beyond its potency, but it blessedly lacked the burning bite of spirits. It was far too early of an hour for the ale-soaked swamp hag to make an appearance. Continuing to trace the perimeter of the crude ceramic cup, the fey regarded Tristan as he spun his tale.

Her finger stopped its orbit at the mention of Jaron's supposed death glare. There was a chance it was nothing more than local superstition, but magic had a way of settling in the most unlikely of places. Sehanine racked her mind thinking through all sorts of powerful death magics, but nothing seemed a more likely possibility than another. The potential for this be real was there, and not knowing left a strange hollow feeling in her belly.

Deciding the strange hollowness was unpleasant, Sehanine took a sip of tea in hopes of banishing it. For some unfathomable reason the hollowness persisted. An irritated pout painted across the elf's face as she unsuccessfully tried to ignore the feeling and focus on the threads of intrigue that might be spun. Instead all she could focus on was getting away

Tristan and Calopee it seemed had a similar thought in mind, as each made a rather strong case for moving on. Their words made good sense, and in truth there was little of consequence to keep her here. Saving a few farmers from a low grade crime lord had little appeal, and in truth she was beginning to grow bored. Let the folk of Schell deal with this themselves.

Let the folk of Schell deal with this themselves.
A sudden wave of excitement rushed in to banish the very unwanted hollowness. These farmers had proven ruthless when pushed. It would take little more than gentle suggestion to send them off after Jaron. Give them each a sword and the proper words of motivation, and this problem would be solved without dirtying a single favored hand. Such a thing would be gloriously entertaining to watch.

Faerie fire burning in her violet eyes, Sehanine faced each of her companions, "You are both right, of course, it is perhaps best that we become a more..." a sly smile punctuated her pause and she ran a hand through her silver curls "...cohesive collective before facing unknown death glares. Yet we need not leave them to their fates." Shifting a meaningful glance toward Malachi and Relos the enchantress continued, "We have begun to train them to defend themselves. Let us give them the means and encouragement to deal with these threats themselves. Imagine how empowered they will feel then."

As was his habit, Tristan pulled his hat down over his face as he listened to the response of the group. All the better to conceal amusement, or indecision. His thoughts wandered, as they elaborated, back to last night's fight. It had been quite awhile since he'd brushed that close to death. He was grateful, as he rarely was, for the divine power he was able to call upon at times.

Lifting his free hand, he palmed the silver figure he wore. The loaded die. It embodied the con, the job, the lifestyle he loved. Always playing the odds, while doing everything you could to skew them in your favor. And yet....

What had drawn him to it, what kept him there, what connected him to the deity he only occasionally remembered to pay lip service to, was the gamble. The test of raw luck, just to see what would happen.

The mood slowly overtook him, as it often did. He'd been playing it too safe. There was rather a lot of ground between playing paladin and not playing at all. A nice middle ground is what he needed, and what he preferred.

Tristan smiled to himself under his cap. If the elf could be mercurial, why couldn't he? It was going to be worth it just to see their reactions when he he was done talking again. He'd have to make sure to pay attention. Perhaps they'd take it in stride. Hopefully they'd be surprised. With some luck, he might even get one flabbergasted.

Pulling his hat back up as Sehanine finished her (admittedly interesting) proposal, Tristan spoke again, nodding at Calopee as he did so. "On the other hand, we have little in the way of prospects. We've no contacts, moderate skill, only one lead, minimal reputation, and that only locally. Lucrative jobs don't just roll down from the mountains."

He slowly looked around, a mischievous grin spreading as he continued. "That one lead though. This Jaron apparently leads a number of men. His influence may perhaps be felt in a number of villages and towns near by, and if he leads a crew of bandits, he is certainly possesses some sort of fortune." Tristan grinned wider, unable to resist. "A fortune I'd favor more if it were ours. Clearing out a bandit lord, why, that's just the sort of reputation boost a group like ours desperately needs. And as for this 'death glare' I spoke of..." He shook his head, a look of distaste plain on his features. "Remember how very reliable the good townsfolk were when informing us of those sand-dwelling followers of Sartyria? No, I don't think stray rumors around this particular town should be so quick to scare us off of such a grand opportunity."

Speech made, he once again waited for reactions.

"On the other hand, we have little in the way of prospects. We've no contacts, moderate skill, only one lead, minimal reputation, and that only locally. Lucrative jobs don't just roll down from the mountains."
Moderate skill, she scoffed. Surely Tristan was speaking on the behalf of his other guild-mates. Calopee had a very refined set of skills. Running away from certain death was king amongst them. He wasn't wrong about their prospects, or their narrow walk of fame, but it still wasn't worth walking headstrong into the wrong kind of fray.

"That one lead though. This Jaron apparently leads a number of men. His influence may perhaps be felt in a number of villages and towns nearby, and if he leads a crew of bandits, he is certain to possess some sort of fortune. A fortune I'd favor more if it were ours. Clearing out a bandit lord, why, that's just the sort of reputation boost a group like ours desperately needs. And as for this 'death glare' I spoke of... Remember how very reliable the good townsfolk were when informing us of those sand-dwelling followers of Sartyria? No, I don't think stray rumors around this particular town should be so quick to scare us off of such a grand opportunity."
The little thief's eyes lingered upon the favoured ones lips as he made mention of fortune. There was something so irresistible about the thought of gold laden chests, hers for the taking. Theirs, she sneered ruefully, as though sharing were a sinful thought.

He was right to discredit the village rumour mill, though, there was a definitive difference between mistaking one bandit for another, and mistaking a death glare for the heebie jeebies. It would be a disastrous turn of events if they found the legend to be true to the tale.

So long as he wasn't catching her eye with his glare, she interjected, if only in her mind.

Tristan had hit it right on the nose, though, even if he didn't know it.

There was bound to be a well established network of bandits that stretched across his territory. Surely they could handle the outlying tendrils of such an organization. They could gather information; supplies. Lure this Jaron out as he becomes ever more frustrated. Fight him on their terms. Mindful of this, she looked to her comrades, and suggested exactly that.

Lifting the cup to her lips, Sehanine took another sip of tea and grimaced. The stale flavorless liquid that coated her mouth seemed a perfect echo to the droll hamlet they found themselves within. A thought danced across her mind as she felt the welcome tingle of fey magic. Snapping her fingers, Sehanine sent a thread of magic into the bland tea, enriching its flavor and filling the air with the pleasant scent of lemons. Taking another sip of tea, the faerie smiled. It was perfect. Continuing to smile, she sent Tristan a meaningful glance as he laid out his plan.

"... Lucrative jobs don't just roll down from the mountains"

Wealth was decidedly not motivating. It was certainly useful and provided the means for much that did entertain her, but it did little for her as an ideal on its own. Still, there was little reason that her own amusement could not be made with economic benefits. Lure a few farmers into heroism and collect the gold, she rather liked the ring of that.

"That one lead though. This Jaron apparently leads a number of men. His influence may perhaps be felt in a number of villages and towns near by, and if he leads a crew of bandits, he is certainly possesses some sort of fortune." Tristan grinned. "A fortune I'd favor more if it were ours. Clearing out a bandit lord, why, that's just the sort of reputation boost a group like ours desperately needs. And as for this 'death glare' I spoke of..." He shook his head, a look of distaste plain on his features. "Remember how very reliable the good townsfolk were when informing us of those sand-dwelling followers of Sartyria? No, I don't think stray rumors around this particular town should be so quick to scare us off of such a grand opportunity."

The thought of taking direct action dampened her mood. Sehanine was a creature of secrets and subtlety, pulling strings to convince those around her to deal with matters all the while thinking it was their own idea. Such methods had served her well in her time amongst men, but she had wandered alone then. Now she found herself among companions, and beyond all imagining, she found herself wanting to stay. With a band of cohorts there was no telling what sort of mischief they could make, especially with an entire town to play with. And a paladin. Things were looking decidedly bright, she just needed to convince them all of a more subtle plan of action.

Thought, it seemed brought promise and possibility. Once again little Calopee spoke with glorious inspiration and a plan to lure Jaron into trap of their liking. To that end, a fledging village militia would do quite nicely.

((Prestidigitation))

"Why, that's just the sort of reputation boost a group like ours desperately needs..."
The headache seemed to have lasted a year, but now the beer and birch bark had finally done their work, and Malachi watched the conversation at the tavern with some interest. Tristan's speech drew a little sneer fron the corner of his mouth, but facts were facts and the reputation of one Argent Blade had barely begun to make waves in a tiny backwater village on the outskirts of the outskirts of the empire.

Courageus. That's how they would write it, one day long hence. Schell would take up arms and stand beside Malachi - no, they would stand beside The Argent Blade, and they would rise up against the bandit warlords, and push the bandits back, back, back, and Malachi and his crew would chase them to Jaron like a flame on oil, and burn them down like so much tinder. It would be the gateway to greatness, and history would remember the day The Argent Blade (and his minions) took up arms against evil.

"Argie more beer!" cried The Blade.

The fight was over, the battle was won. But he knew that their war had only just begun. Soon enough someone would notice those thugs never returned from their search and something even worse would befall the farms or even Schell itself.

Relos mulled over these thoughts as they stood about Isiah's farm, meeting the farmer and his militia escort. He hadn't had much to add to the conversation with everyone else already doing a fine enough job, until two young men came asking about the equipment that had been discarded. They asked to keep the weapons and armor, their own weaponry supplanted with house hold items and workshop tools. It was Malachi who spoke up first.

"I see no reason why not. In fact, I can do better than that. A place like this needs a hero sometimes but a protector always." His speech was punctuated with tiny shreds of bark as his mouthful of homemade headache cure became slightly airborne with his words. "Bring yourselves and six others back here when the others have left, and I will give you a lesson on how to safeguard your city. Oh, and take the armor with you, I expect you to have it on when you return."
As his words sunk in, Relos couldn't help but smile. Of course this line of thought would be the answer to the problem that plagued his mind. Obviously the group couldn't stay here forever, so make them self sufficient! It was the only way they would survive this hostile world, and Relos would do everything in his power to see them succeed.

As Fortune's Favored went about their individual tasks, Malachi took lead in training the militia and Relos assisted as best he could. He gave lessons on pole arm fighting, defensive stances, how to hold a blade, and how to properly throw a spear or javelin. Hours flew by as they worked, but as much as they tried it didn't seem enough. Some how they'd need to teach themselves.

The sun beat down on them as the training concluded, and all the assembled men gave thanks as a clanging signaled something stirring in the village. Relos thought about how he could help out more, and before the assembled militia could depart he approached them, speaking before the group of men.


"You men did well with training, and I'm deeply sorry I cannot stay longer to help train you all. So it is with these that I hope you are able to defend your self, your families, and your livelihood from any more attacks, bandit or otherwise.
Relos grabbed six of his master crafted javelins and laid them at the groups feet.

" I watched many of you throw these with great strength, but you know each other better than I do. I want you to give these to who you think would wield them effectively.
He then unbuckled his scabbard from his sword belt, and held the stiff leather sheath in both hands. His master crafted long sword was a beautiful blade, kept polished to a sheen and cleaned with meticulous care.

This blade goes to the man with the most skill in swordsmanship. I've only seen one day worth of practice from all of you, but in due time if a man shows a talent for the blade, I highly suggest you let him wield this.
He knelt and set the sheathed sword on the javelins, and reached back for one more item. He pulled out two potions wrapped together in a leather bag.

These next few things are for a time that I hope never comes. If you do fight, use these on those that will succumb to their wounds without aid. Two potions that will knit flesh and bone back together in moments.
Relos knelt, leaving the two vials of potion among the equipment. Rising, he begins speaking again.

Now, my last gift to you all is something I value more than these items that lay at my feet. This journal here, this book is a collection of lessons written to me personally from my master, Sir Caiste. Now I know for a fact you all don't need the lesson on being gentlemen, or lessons on proper etiquette, you're all experts on that already. He gave a slight chuckle as he kept speaking. But what I do have is pages of sword play and stance technique, how to use a shield and how to fight for your life. Those you do need. So I gift you these, a way to continue your training as best as I can offer
Relos flipped the book open to somewhere in the middle, a chapter titled Combat & Arms . He reached for the top of the page to begin slowly tearing out the ten page chapter, hesitating only a moment before reassuring himself what he was doing was necessary. Carefully he plucked out each page, using his dagger to slice clean a stubborn page here and there. He reached into his pack, pulling out a thin wire from his jeweler's kit, and poked a hole in the upper left hand corner of the pile of papers with it. He twisted the ends together fastening the pages in order into a packet that hopefully would serve his pupils well enough in the future.

Now those are all the things I have that may help you in your fights ahead. I pray to Gian that your only worry is a good harvest but I would be naive to think only that. I will make it a point to stop through again, and I hope to see all you still here alive and well.
With his closing words Relos steps aside, making his way back towards the village. Whatever excitement was going on had passed, and his only concern was getting back to the Bearded Dragon and getting some semblance of rest.

The next morning he wandered down to breakfast, answering out to the call for ale. "Yeah, why not! I'll have one Argo!.
He sat to breakfast sipping his pale yellow bitter, and listened in on the plans circulating the table. Tales of bandits with death glares, possible whole networks of bandit activity, and a plethora of dangerous situations that could easily arise with any avenue they choose. His companions certainly were wishy washy on what exactly they should do, surely the heroes of Giant's End shouldn't take this long to decide a course of action?

I've listened to a few ideas bouncing around this table, and I for one am not too keen on leaving this village to up and fend for itself. We rattled the cage when we put down so many of Jaron's men and it should be us to clean up what we started. Now, I'm not advocating for a swords out run in smash attack, but I'm absolutely not going to let these men get coaxed into attacking a fortress either. Relos nodded in Calopee's direction, agreeing with her comments.

I'm more akin to her ideas, rooting out what outlying groups may be branched from Jaron himself. Bring low those and maybe we can get the beast to rear its head.
He took a swig from his mug, chasing it with a slice of bread.

Surely a few men playing at war couldn't scare the four of you, not as much as any rampaging giant at least...
( I give 6 Master work javelins, a master work longsword, 2 potions of cure light wounds, and a chapter lesson on combat and weaponry out of Relos's personal journal to the militia.)

Morning, The Bearded Dragon, Schell
"So,just gonna sit there,or do you want a drink?"
The words seemed to have echoed within the musty confines of the Bearded Dragon's tavern hall for what seemed like forever, and Argos eyes lit up as a few of the Favoured answered in the affirmative. It seemed he'd briefly giving up on them ever saying anything again, and was pleasantly surprised when they all chimed up at once after what must have felt as if it were an eternity of silence. As the large hairy man busied himself pouring mugs and preparing breakfast, (doubly so after taking a moment to see exactly how much gold Tristan's overly generous gratuity truly consisted of), the Favoured returned to the matter at hand.

As seemed to almost be the custom in their short time together, the conversation quickly shifted to the relative merits of death glares versus taking the gold and running. Tristan, having spent much of the previous night's adventure investigating the path to the great beyond, seemed particularly hesitant, almost immediately advocating a swift departure from Schell before he found himself facing any sort of "death glare" as had previously been described to him by so many superstitious villagers. Calopee was quick to support his proposal, though she seemed more confident in their chances in a fight, given the body count her rocks accumulated while Tristan had been laid low. The relative silence of Relos and Malachi seemed to provide a quiet acquiescence as no other plan was brought forth, but the capricious Sehanine soon saw to changing that.

"You are both right, of course, it is perhaps best that we become a more..." a sly smile punctuated her pause and she ran a hand through her silver curls "...cohesive collective before facing unknown death glares. Yet we need not leave them to their fates. We have begun to train them to defend themselves. Let us give them the means and encouragement to deal with these threats themselves. Imagine how empowered they will feel then."
Now if there was one feat the Favoured in their brief time together had managed to perform consistently, it would most certainly have been their knack for being wholly inconsistent. This however, would prove a new record for turnabout as they weighed the elf's words carefully. Their brief work together had found them success, but success was fleeting, and perhaps by the time their "team-building" was finished success could have already passed them by. Tristan, an adherent of chance, seemed to realise that the quickest, as his voice was the first to follow Sehanine's.

"On the other hand, we have little in the way of prospects. We've no contacts, moderate skill, only one lead, minimal reputation, and that only locally. Lucrative jobs don't just roll down from the mountains." His grin already an indicator to some of what he'd say next.

"That one lead though. This Jaron apparently leads a number of men. His influence may perhaps be felt in a number of villages and towns near by, and if he leads a crew of bandits, he is certainly possesses some sort of fortune. A fortune I'd favor more if it were ours. Clearing out a bandit lord, why, that's just the sort of reputation boost a group like ours desperately needs. And as for this 'death glare' I spoke of...Remember how very reliable the good townsfolk were when informing us of those sand-dwelling followers of Sartyria? No, I don't think stray rumors around this particular town should be so quick to scare us off of such a grand opportunity."
The words in the air, though the silence was broken far quicker as Calopee began an admittedly rough plan of an ambush. For all their failures the night before, the presence of the halfling concealed within the fields had proved a positive event, and confronting this Jaron under similar circumstances with a slightly improved battle plan could prove an advantage. Sehanine seemed to add her quiet assent, though as much as Tristan's grin, Sehanine's agreement could often be taken as an ominous sign.

Malachi, fresh off a hangover that would be spoken of in bards' tales were they to hear of it, seemed quickly aboard, thinking seemingly of the accolades to be gained from a coup such as the disposal of a local "bandit lord". His far less silent assent came in the form of a raucous call for inebriation, which sent Argos (himself suddenly a little taken by the revelry) sprinting to his kegs so quickly he tripped over a stool and utterly demolished a second as his large form crashed through it. While the unexpected clatter briefly drew the group's focus, Relos drew their attention back with his long awaited input.

I've listened to a few ideas bouncing around this table, and I for one am not too keen on leaving this village to up and fend for itself. We rattled the cage when we put down so many of Jaron's men and it should be us to clean up what we started. Now, I'm not advocating for a swords out run in smash attack, but I'm absolutely not going to let these men get coaxed into attacking a fortress either. Relos nodded in Calopee's direction, agreeing with her comments.

I'm more akin to her ideas, rooting out what outlying groups may be branched from Jaron himself. Bring low those and maybe we can get the beast to rear its head.
Relos' words were predictable, a man of his order was somewhat bound to that opinion, but his connection was somewhat more personal. He'd spent his time with the men of the militia, and the rest of the group had not failed to notice that more than a few of the villagers were carrying weaponry Relos had originally possessed. It seemed unlikely he'd shift his position but before they'd a chance to argue Argos returned, bringing with him Mal's order of beer and causing a brief break in discussion. Without so much as an invitation their host pulled a chair over and sat alongside the group, seemingly seeking to add his own opinion.

"Did I hear right, y'er looking to find Jaron then?", he paused to take a swig of his own drink, "This'd be the time then, after what you lot did last night anyway. Jaron's known in the land but more for his cruelty than manpower...I reckon that was a good part of his men."
Argos paused again as he upended his mug, seemingly emptying it as the froth from his drink flowed from the corner of his mouth and into bushy beard. The group sat in part disgust, part rapt attention as the robust man finally finished with a satisfied sigh, and his incredulous stare as he looked back at the group betrayed the fact that he'd briefly forgotten what he was talking about. A moment of awkward silence followed as the Favoured could almost hear the gears turning in the innkeeper's head before he remembered the topic of conversation and resumed dispensing what information he knew.

"I don't know about the townfolk's thoughts m'self, though I doubt they're ready for much even with yer help.", he nodded at Mal and Relos, "Though from what I hear the man in charge of the villagers you spoke to earlier is Tomas...he'll be the one you want to talk to about such matters, done some time huntin' out in the wilderness, knows the land and where you'll need to go."
Argos rose with a speed that belied his size, gathering any empty dishes in his enormous hands. "Shouldn't be too hard to find Tomas,", his gaze focused on Relos with a toothy grin, "...he's the one carrying your sword."
(OOC: Yep yep let's roll2.0)

A smirk drew across Mal's face as he quaffed his second beer. I still can't believe you gave him your mother-blessed sword. Were you tired of using it, or did you just want to upstage me, Relos?" He stroked his smooth chin thoughtfully and continued. "Argie's right though, it'll help us tell these cretins apart. Come, O pious one, let us seek our fortune." Mal got up and headed for the door without waiting for Relos, though he did throw a "let's get going" nod in his direction.

A faint whiff of smoke still seemed to hang in the air as Malachi took to the streets. It was a smell he had already come to love; it smelled like victory. He took a deep breath of the morning and expressed as much to anyone within earshot.

Things felt different today. Maybe it was the first two ales talking, but Mal thought he could feel the adoring gaze of everyone in the town. Things felt good. Here was a meditation on the events of the past few days: He had taken his group of minions from a ragtag bunch of lying rat-busters to full-blown town heroes. They were still a bunch of lying rat-busters but one honest win went a long way to the standing of Fortunes Favored in Mal's mind. A memory arose from a couple nights ago, something he had said to Relos.

"We're heroes, dammit. It's time we ante up and start doing some hero work. I'm perfectly happy riding that dead knight's coattails for a little while, but that reputation can only last so long before we're expected to start doing some real good."
Mal smiled as he headed down the street in search of information, a real honest smile.

((OOC: Gather Information relating to the whereabouts of one "Tomas" who is carrying a sword, then seek him out as best I can))

The golden drink was cool, the meal warm, and Setus' warm rays all made for one of the better mornings Relos had had in a while. That and the lack of battle wounds or hangovers. Having left his armor and halberd in their room, Relos sat comfortably in a blue sleeved tunic, his silvered holy symbol hanging from his neck. It felt nice to feel the breeze and walk briskly without layers of steel covering your body.

They casually ate, drank, and discussed their next course of action, and as if reading the same book over again, they could guess his words; Not letting the weak defend themselves, champion their cause for them, make sure what's right is what is done.

He didn't think being a person of good morals was that hard of a concept for some people, but apparently he was wrong. Maybe taking the holy vows of Gian had subtlety influenced him, but even from a young age doing good just seemed the right thing. What's more pleasant then seeing the gratitude on someone's face when you help them when thy least expect it, or give them everything they need in a time of great trouble. To him, giving someone like Isiah all of his coin and then being invited in for a meal and night's rest is more valuable than just buying a night at an inn. People appreciate you more and you make a friend that can pay off ten fold down the road at some point. And what if they don't invite you? Well then either they are so destitute they have nothing to give, and you should feel right doing what you can, or they are a greedy sod who you know to stay away from, someone who you probably can't trust later in life.

With Fortune's Favored, he was a moral out-lier, the moment he gives up gold or belongings to people who truly need it more, their heads spin and jaws drop like they've seen a ghost. Why, he'll never understand. Some people feel as strongly about their own personal gain as he does about the welfare of others, and that's O.K, but if spending his time with them he rubs off a little compassion then that would be alright with him.

"Did I hear right, y'er looking to find Jaron then?", he paused to take a swig of his own drink, "This'd be the time then, after what you lot did last night anyway. Jaron's known in the land but more for his cruelty than manpower...I reckon that was a good part of his men."
Lost in his own thought as he watched the others, Argo spoke up and added his speculation. If what he said is true then Fortune's Favored could probably do this themselves! Finished chugging his beer that Relos had an odd respect for, Argo resumed speaking.

"I don't know about the townfolk's thoughts m'self, though I doubt they're ready for much even with yer help. Though from what I hear the man in charge of the villagers you spoke to earlier is Tomas...he'll be the one you want to talk to about such matters, done some time huntin' out in the wilderness, knows the land and where you'll need to go. Shouldn't be too hard to find Tomas...he's the one carrying your sword."
As Argo bused the table Relos nodded in slight agreement. He felt Argo was right about the townsfolk not being ready for a fight, the short day of training barely a dent in what proper combat training should be. But if all that is said is true then they could probably take control themselves and do the job, as the town would expect of them and as they should. It's the right thing to do of course.

"Argie's right though, it'll help us tell these cretins apart. Come, O pious one, let us seek our fortune."
The one called Malachi, Mal, or the Argent Blade. Interesting to take a moniker but it wasn't unheard of, so Relos went with it. The man stood and bid Relos to follow, and he did. Standing up he made his way to the door with Mal, not before thanking Argo of course. He looked to the rest of the group and gestured over his shoulder to Mal.

"I've been drafted to look around town for Tomas, hopefully it won't take too long. We should meet back here in few hours and decide on what to do. I'll let Mal know if you guys split off in town."
Relos turned and followed Mal out the door, taking a few strides to catch up. Standing beside him struck up a conversation as they made their way through the town.

"So Mal, if what Argo says is true, maybe we can do this without involving the folk here at all. You saw yesterday how they were doing. One day's training is not going to make a man into a soldier. They're gonna freeze up and probably end up worse n' those wretches at the farm."
( Relos will Also Gather info, splitting off a bit from Mal to cover a bit more ground but checking in over the next few hours. Also gear I'm wearing for the morning. Boots, dark brown pants, blue sleeved tunic, sword belt with sheathed dagger, pouch with 20 gold in it, pack with books, torches, healing kit, mortar and pestle, rope, artisans tools. I'm also wearing my ring. Everything else is in the room.)

Since its inception the town of Schell had staged few celebrations, (a result of a depressing lack of causes to celebrate,) but the townsfolk took to the new practice like a fish to a stream. Though perhaps more out of habit than intent, the group known as Fortune's Favoured had swiftly become heroes in the people's eyes. True, there had been some light arson, but that was largely incidental and ignored in the wake of their dealing with Isiah's raider problem and the well-known tale of their encounter with the now deceased giant Feephyfophum before that.

All about the village moods improved. An optimism had settled into the villages as they laboured throughout the day, and children could be caught wasting away hours in the fields, pretending to be their chosen of the Favoured and fighting their own imaginary giants. Under the watchful eyes of Malachi and Relos; the once makeshift militia of disenfranchised farmers had improved over the course of a week to a degree where they could police their lands for once fearsome, if lesser threats. Better armaments were recovered as local highwaymen were strung up in town and fledgling goblin tribes pushed back from nearby wilds.

Schell owed much to the Favoured, and so it came as little surprise that as the group spoke with Tomas and his militia about the possibility of pursuing Jaron's bandits to their source they wholeheartedly agreed to assist them. The information gleaned by Sehanine's charms provided them the direction of Jaron's stronghold, and soon Fortune's Favoured set off to the southwest accompanied by Tomas and the five men most fit for the dangers ahead.

*~~~~~~~~~~*

A day's journey passed quickly, and they soon found their target, a squat stone structure with a large brass door built directly into a jutting hill along a riverbank. Malachi and Relos confirmed after examining the door's inscriptions that it seemed to be a long abandoned guard outpost, most likely belonging to Thorold'um in ages past. Despite past assurances of a lack of traps the group proceeded cautiously, but their expectations were shattered the instant they made their way inside the keep.

Until this point the lack of sentries or patrols had seemed a fortuitous break, and given the group's history they scarcely paid it any notice, but the gruesome scene in the keeps entryway betrayed the more curious cause for their absence. Bodies were scattered about haphazardly, as if strewn about by a gale. Some charred and smoldering, some still frozen to the touch, it didn't take divination to smell the hint of magic in the air as the group surveyed the carnage. The room itself was ancient, if unremarkable. Once lovingly painted Dwarven murals remained chipped away and covered in crude graffiti, any overlay of value long since stripped away.

A casual once over identified the bodies as much the same type men as the farm raiders, likely more of Jaron's minions decimated while defending the keep. More troubling was the realisation that as one of Tomas' militia accidentally snapped the hand off one of the flash frozen bandits (prompting both a torrent of blood from frozen man's arm and another of vomit from the militiaman's mouth) these bandits had only been recently killed. A deep rumble from below them confirmed what they'd already suspected, whatever had attacked these men appeared to still be present.

The keep extended downward, the doorway opposite the entry revealing worn stone steps as the Favoured and militia escort slowly advanced to determine who, or indeed perhaps what had caused the scene they'd just witnessed. They found few answers in the first rooms they investigated on this lower level, an uncomfortable looking barracks and what looked to have once been an ancient dwarven dining hall now filled with poorly organised spoils seemingly from Jaron's past activities. However many miscreants had once served as the bandit garrison seemed to have been slain to a man, their blasted carcasses discovered left where they fell. Curiously, nothing else seemed disturbed, as if whatever killed the men had no interest in the looting of the treasure they guarded. Were it not for the nearing sounds of combat ahead, there would be no signs of life at all.

The final section of the keep lay sealed behind a large pair of stone doors, and the untelligible shouting and smell of burning from just beyond them alerted Fortune's Favoured they had caught up with whatever had left the trail of destruction they'd just born witness to. Steeling their resolve Tomas's militia took the lead, they threw open the doors and charged through only to stop in their tracks as the nature of what they interrupted became apparent.

The room appeared to have one point been some sort of beginning of a tunnel system, though cave ins had long since rendered any such network inaccessible the room was quite spacious, easily over one hundred feet across at its widest. The domed ceiling sloped down towards the far end of the room fifty feet on, the far wall formed by the rubble blocking the collapsed. Presently it seemed to serve as a study, the pile of collapsed stone that served as one of walls is lined at its base with chaotically stacked tomes. The only real furniture to speak of was a fine looking desk and a cheap cot, with only a table strewn with dishes and a single wooden chair in the corner. In sharp contrast to the boring nature of its furniture however, were the room's inhabitants.

Standing with his back to the doors a dark skinned man stood braced in loose fitting and unkempt robes. His long, greasy black hair whipped over his shoulder as he turned his head at the sound of Tomas's charge, revealing a pale face partially covered by dark stubble. Of note though were the man's eyes, seeming totally violet, with no sign of iris or pupil.

A single word escaped his lips as he took stock of the situation, "Who..?"

The man's eyebrows were arched in surprise at the new arrivals but his expression suddenly shifted to terror and pain, and in an instant his eyes lost their unearthly glow, their violet hue replaced by a flat grey. The colour too drained from his face, and the man's expression froze as his skin hardened into granite before the group's eyes. His body reacted instinctively, twisting back for a moment before it too froze, and where seconds before a man stood there was now only a statue. Tomas' militia hung in place for a moment, transfixed by the astounding sight. Their reverie soon broke though, as the statue that had once been flesh and blood suddenly shattered before their very eyes, revealing a second man standing just beyond it.

The remarkably slender and tall man stood at least seven foot high and was encased in what seemed to be shifting shadows, though a keen eye could determine it to be a well-fitted breastplate forged out of some deep black metal under a constantly shifting black cloak that seemed to distract the eye. Only their head seemed fully in focus but even then their features were disguised by a wrap of grey cloth which left only their eyes visible. One of the man's arms was out stretched, clasping an ornately carved wand who's tip glowed with a bright amber light, casting an eerie pall over the man's already unnerving appearance.

The man's head cocked a moment, as if he was considering action against the new arrivals before thinking better of it. Before any of Fortune's Favoured could get past Tomas' men the man pulled his cloak over his head in a flourish, disappearing from sight with an audible crack. Following what seemed like an eternity in the tense few seconds after the group could collectively finally breathe easy, apparently alone.

(OOC: Restart update part 1 of 2. The timeskip. Part two coming shortly!)

Late Afternoon, Formerly Jaron's Stronghold, Southwest of Schell
"Did you-...Di-...what wassat?" Tomas barely managed to get the words out. Despite his assumed position as "captain of the guard" the man was still obviously new the lifestyle.

The assembled townsfolk's heads could be mistaken for hinges the way they swung back and forth, darting from where the shadowy figure had stood moments ago, to the shattered remains of the once living statue to their own weapons, to the Favoured assembled behind them. For a brief time silence reigned, a moment of relief from the nervous tension that had been building among the inexperienced militia as they delved deeper into the keep. There was a sudden rush of adrenaline as the notion of their survival dawned on them.

"We're not dead." One said plainly, his eyes widening as he sheathed his blade.
" 'E is." Another said quietly, gesturing at the fragments of the petrified man.

Tomas took a few steps into the room hesitantly, his foot brushed against one of the granite shards and he shuddered. Gaining confidence from the still immobile granite shards' lack of aggression, he headed for the desk, poring over the notes that covered its surface.

"Rik', you can read, ya?" He waved over another of the militia, "Does this say Jaron? Is that..", he trailed off as he meekly pointed at the fragments, "...wassat Jaron?"

Rik peered at the words on the pages before him, nodding as he slowly read out "JEAR-ON" looking over at the shards before quickly catching himself and dropping his gaze. The man held forth a sheet of parchment. A bounty notice with a rough sketch of a man who resembled a clean shaven version of the petrified man. WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE, JARON KARSTERIAN was scrawled under the drawing, BOUNTY PAYABLE BY HOUSE CAHIER

"We've got to tell the others." Tomas voice began to swell with a bit of joy, "Jaron's dead. He won't come fer us no'more!"

A cheer went up from the townsfolk militia as the looked over at the Favoured.

"We're in y'er debt, kind heroes.", Tomas began, "We'd never have gotten this far, weren't fer ya. I owes ya' a drink, hells whole town owes ya' a drink." He looked back at his men as they milled about, setting down their weapons and leaning against the walls to catch their breath, their ordeal over. He turned back to the Favoured, "Give us a few hours or so to rest up and we'll accompany ya' back home. Y'er a gift from the gods themselves."

(OOC: Plenty of time here for searching the area hence the procurement of your new loot. No trace remains of the shadowy figure remains. Any specific looting/searching/investigating can be done here while the militia takes a break before the journey back to Schell.)

*~~~~~~~~~~*

Early Evening the Following Day, The Bearded Dragon, Schell
The trip back to Schell was quiet, and far more jubilant. The townsfolk swapped stories about what they'd seen, exaggerating even to each other as if they'd not just been there. Tomas largely stayed quiet, listening to the others laugh and carry on. His smile was could not be hidden for long though, and upon arriving back in Schell and putting a few of Argos' ales in his belly he was singing the praises of Fortune's Favoured along with the rest of them. They seemed genuinely so overjoyed at the removal of Jaron's threat that the Favoured's actual lack of input into the matter seemed inconsequential. The tavern swiftly filled up as word spread, and soon a drunken Tomas was up atop a table, eagerly regaling the crowd.

"So...there we was...right-...right in the 'tick of't", He paused, staring off into the ceiling as if it wasn't there, "And Jaron turns, ya? 'E turns an' he...well...well he just smashes right? Into rocks! Befor' he can even spit!"

A hearty cheer rose from the captive throng as they listened to the story.

"An 'deres this other bloke, right? Right Rik? Ya saw 'im, ya Rik? Anyway...wat was I sayin'...oh ya he takes one look at'em there...", He waved wildly in the directions of the Favoured's table, his mug spraying a wave of ale out over the crowd and dangerously close to Calopee. "AN' HE JUST TAKES OFF LIK' THAT! SCARED OFF!"

Another cheer from the crowd, though between the number of times the story had been repeated and the amount of ale consumed it would be hard for any of the crowd to explain exactly why they had.

"So 'ere's to OUR HEROES!"

No confusion this time as Tomas raised his mug once more towards the Favoured's table, a motion mirrored by the rest of the tavern. Cheers and salutations were shouted as a final salute before the night descended into merriment.

*~~~~~~~~~~*

Dawn, The "Offices" of Fortune's Favoured, Schell
Argos booming laugh echoed through the tavern accompanied by the bleating of goats just as the first beams of morning light made their way through the inn's windows. Any designs of sleeping later were quickly dispelled as the bearded man knocked loudly before making his way into the Favoured's room, a try of ales held at his shoulder.

Mornin' Heroes!", his toothsome grin was on full display. "Brought you a pick-me-up. You've got callers waitin' downstairs."
He laid the tray down by the door.

"Came in a few hours back 'fore sun-up, some stuffy folk from the capital. Told 'im you earned y'er rest, but the one fella seemed real eager to talk to ya'."

The large man began to squeeze his way back through the doorway as he headed downstairs.

"Oh...did one of you let a bunch of goats in last night?"

*~~~~~~~~~~*

Dawn, The Bearded Dragon, Schell
As they made their way down to the tavern, the Favoured immediately noticed a few things out of place. Tomas' unconscious form slumped over a table, mug still in his hand, was easily explained, a product of the night before. Even the soft bleat from what seemed to be inside the floor that sent Argos muttering out to access his cellar seemed relatively commonplace, if mildly troubling. It was the only table still upright in the whole establishment room that drew their attention.

Sitting with his back to them, an imposing armoured man sat eating what looked to be a plate of sausages and bread, his helmet resting on the table beside his breakfast, a sword slung over his back and a crossbow resting at the side of his seat. Across from him, initially hidden from view behind the armoured man's shaved head sat a diminutive gnome with slicked back silver hair and an impeccably style goatee. He was dressed in stark contrast to his plate mailed companion, a fine blue silk doublet over a shimmering green shirt left little doubt he was the "stuffy capital folk" Argos had been referring to. As he spotted the group making their way down to the tavern, the gnome quickly hopped down from his seat, startling his companion and nearly causing him to choke on a mouthful of bread.

"By Mekartho's will, well met!, he moved towards the group with his hand outstretched in introduction, though he did not stop talking. "Thought you'd sleep forever. Busy night?"

He looked over surreptitiously at Tomas' only just stirring form.

"Cannot beat the local culture, hmm?", his accent was high and nasal, easily recognisable as coming fro the high markets of Cordova. "I am Gymenzious Oslatheran, greetings, greetings, greetings all."

He finally reached the group, retracting his hand and instead bowing, as if he'd somehow forgotten he had offered the hand at all. The armoured man had finally managed to swallow the offending crust and stood to face the group, his tanned face showing the stubble of a man who had spent a few days traveling.

"This is Karl," Gymenzious gestured to the man with a flourish, hardly stopping to breathe between words. "You may call him Karl, and you may call me Gymenzious, Master Oslatheran, or Gym!"

He began pacing back and forth as he continued, giving no room for anyone to speak.

"You are exactly who we're looking for, you are Fortune's Favoured, yes?", he gazed at the group expectantly, though again did not give them time to answer.

"Of course you are, just like they said Karl, three men, an elf, and...", his eyes trailed over to Calopee, giving her a none to subtle wink "..the fairest of the free folk I've ever seen. A thousand pleasures to meet you all!"

Karl grunted in agreement.

"We haven't any time now, if we're going to make our way to the city. They will be expecting us, you did send word, Karl?"

Karl grunted again, this time waking up Tomas, who took one look at Gymenzious and closed his eyes, shaking his head before laying back on the table with a soft moan.

"Master Merinuk will be very excited indeed. Veritable giant slayers. We'll be put up for commendation almost certainly." Gymenzious had not stopped, by this point it was unclear if he was really talking to anyone at all. "If we leave now we'll be back by tomorrow's dinner. We'll present them then and they'll be all..."

The gnome paused, as if overcome by epiphany. He started counting on his fingers, muttering numbers to himself before a third grunt from Karl brought his attention back to the present.

"What's that Karl? OH! I haven't explained myself have I? No, always getting caught up. Silly Gym.", he paused and made a great show of exhaling, puffing out his cheeks as he blew a steady stream of air through his pursed lips.

"Where was I...I'm Gymenzi-no I've said that. He's Kar- Oh the letters! Karl please hand me the satchel."

Gym held his outstretched hand out behind him for a full second before looking down and noticing the satchel hanging at his side.

"Nevermind Karl I've found them, thank you." he continued talking as he rustled through the bag, pulling out a stack of dozens of identical looking letters and handing one to each of the Favoured.

"Came here as soon as we heard tell of your business with the giant weeks past, you are a hard group to find you know that?"

The letters were indeed identical, and bore a seal at the top of them that Calopee and Sehanine recognised as belonging to one of the many merchant houses of Cordova. Written underneath, in flawless calligraphy was a simple message.

House Merinuk puts forth a call for those capable of dealing with discretion in a matter of some import. Substantial reward offered for prompt response and service.

"...we've carriages waiting to head to the ship, and food waiting, no time for delay." Gym had been talking even still. "Shall we be off?"

(OOC: Feel free to back post as far as you'd like to fill in the gaps. Questions/Comments/Pictures of Fish in Q&A and my Pms. It's pronounced Jim.)