While Togrirr normally preferred to keep to himself and avoid large crowds, he was not immune to the invigorating feeling of a cheering crowd. Once in a while, to have strangers clamoring for your victory felt nice.

As the farmer approched, the bugbear nodded amicably.

"Good day to you too, Géraud. I'm signing myself in. I fear hard times may be coming, so I could use the extra coinage. How about you? I didn't take you for the rowdy type, I'm surprised to see you in charge of the event this year"

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 12):

Géraud responds with a half smile. “Well, I didn’t want to miss the competition this year. I’ve got some coin on it. You’re just watching, right? We’ve got some good ale over there, not the watered down stuff they’re using for the drinking contest.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:46, Tue 13 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 10):

Her eyes twinkling with genuine admiration for Trésor's fervent declaration, the halfling claps her hands together in delight, the sound crisp and merry in the festival air. "Ah, what a refreshing breeze you are! Your spirit is exactly what the heart of this festival yearns for.”

Her smile broadens, reflecting the warmth and enthusiasm. "What name does the world cheer when you grace the stage with your presence? And pray tell, what instrument do you intend to wield as your wand to cast spells of joy upon us?”

Amidst the sea of faces that had once felt suffocating, Alaric found solace in the enchanting performance unfolding before him. As the mesmerizing tale drew to a close, he felt a newfound lightness in his step. With a determined stride, he navigated the throng of spectators, drawn towards the humble stage where the halfling performer stood.

With a sense of appreciation for the artistry he had just witnessed, Alaric dropped a glinting silver coin into the basket at the edge of the stage. "A most wonderful story and performance. Bravo, good sir," he commended with genuine admiration, a warm smile gracing his lips.

As he began walking toward the center of the town, his hand instinctively drifted to the familiar weight of the pan flute slung at his side, a constant companion on his travels. Though he harbored doubts about his own prowess amidst the talented competitors of the village's festivities, he couldn't resist the allure of the music and spectacle that awaited him on the village green.

With a mixture of anticipation and humility, he made his way towards the heart of the festivities, content to immerse himself in the rich tapestry of sights and sounds that surrounded him.

22

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 15):

     Finding himself more and more enamoured by this sparkling personality, Trésor warms to the conversation. "Trésor Ne D'Elfe, at your service, fair hostess. Jongleur, poet, teller of tales and - for this time upon Abondavie's stage - player of my lute Rossignol, maker of music, amplifier of art and heirloom of hymns. It is through her that my brand of magic is spun and woven into hopefully a work that weaves among those present to hopefully enthrall them with glimpses of glories! If I may be so bold, to whom am I dancing verbally with - perhaps the Queen of the Festival herself?"

Jessica is entranced by the performance. She simply watches silently and does not do anything else though she always keeps her eyes and ears open. As a whole she does not get involved and simply enjoys the show, choosing quiet introspection and entertainment over socializing.

17:35, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 16 using 1d20+6 ((10)).

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 16):

With a keenness sharpened by his life in the wildlands, Alaric's senses extend outward, weaving through the cacophony of festival sounds and sights, latching onto the undercurrent of spoken words and whispered secrets. His perception, honed and focused, captures the essence of Abondavie's pulse——the laughter, the music, but also the whispered threads of stories untold and rumors spread in hushed tones.

As he stands amidst the crowd, drawn in by the magic of the puppet show, his ears catch more than the tale of bravery and adventure unfurling before him. The murmurs of the audience, a tapestry of admiration and curiosity, coalesce into a clearer picture of the man commanding the stage, Doréan Lumieré. His name, spoken with a warmth reserved for those whose presence lights up a room, floats through the air, carried by voices rich with affection.

"He's the heart of any gathering, that Doréan," says a woman to her companion, her eyes not leaving the puppeteer. "His parties, remember? Like stepping into a storybook, each one more enchanting than the last."

Another voice chimes in, a note of nostalgia coloring the words, "Yes, but have you noticed? They've become rare, almost as rare as catching a glimpse of his wife these days. A shame, really. She always had such a grace about her."

A third, older voice, tinged with concern, adds, "It's been what, two years that Lady Lumieré has taken ill? Ever since then, the light in Doréan's eyes... It's as if part of it has dimmed, even if his talent for bringing joy has not."

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 17):

"Trésor Ne D'Elfe, what a fortune it is to cross paths with a bard of such eloquent description and evident talent," she begins, her voice melodic, imbued with the cadence of a well-spun yarn. "I find myself dazzled by the promise of your Rossignol's symphony, eager to witness the magic you and your cherished companion shall cast upon our humble stage."

Her gaze, alight with mirth and a playful spark, holds Trésor's as she continues, "As for the dance of our dialogue, you find yourself in step with Isolde Lumieré, Mistress of Chateau Bleufron and keeper of La Halte des Histoires, the village's heart and hearth for those who seek the comfort of tales and the warmth of shared drink. While I lay no claim to the title of Festival Queen, I dare say I reign over a realm of revelry and rest within my tavern's walls."

She steps back, her movements as graceful as the flow of verse, and gestures around them to the bustling festival. "Here, in Abondavie, every soul plays a part in the grand tapestry of celebration. And you, dear bard, have woven yourself into its very essence with but a few words. I await, with bated breath, the enchantment your music shall weave amongst us, hopeful it might even stitch together the hearts of those who've let the threads of joy unravel."

Isolde's character image can be found here
https://www.deviantart.com/uk1...er-AI-art-1020824968
This message was last edited by the player at 22:54, Tue 13 Feb.

Smoke took in the tent and the people. So many people in one place for this festival. He hadn't been around this many people at one time since he was last in the big cities, just the lonely roads hunting for the last few months.

Smoke looked at the people and the notices that mentioned the Scavenger Hunt. Despite his overall air and mien, Smoke chuckled at the dwarf's comment, "Good point, then people are more likely to remember me. I'll keep it in mind." he slid through the crowds looking around at things before he spoke to the dwarf more.

"Are you running the Hunt? Do I sign up with you to enter or some other? What are the stipulations of the Hunt rules?" he motioned vaguely to the sign for the Scavenger Hunt. "I am interested in the Hunt. Sharpening my skills."

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 18):

As Jessica threads her way through the throngs of celebrants, her ears tune into the murmurs that ripple beneath the surface of joviality. She overhears a group of villagers speaking in hushed tones about rumors from one of the nearby hamlets of a mysterious figure seen at the edge of the forest, cloaked in shadows, who disappears whenever approached. "Some say it's a guardian of the old ways," one villager speculates, "or perhaps a sign that not all is as it should be."

Amidst the laughter and the clinking of glasses in the tavern, Jessica catches snippets of a tale a woman dressed in white and silver bedecked with moon iconography, who's been overwhelmed by a sudden surge of sickness in a hamlet to the east, at the edge of the frontier. "It's odd, like nothing I've seen before," the patron shares, concern lacing her voice, "A festering rot. There's strange talk coming from the druids and dryads and fey that dwell beyond the frontier's edge."

Finally, as she pauses to admire a troupe of dancers, she overhears a child speaking excitedly about finding strange tracks on the river bank, small but person like. "Lots 'em. My pa says it's nothing, but I saw the things that made 'em. Small, like me and you. Pointy ears. Fighting in voices I don't understand," the child whispers to a friend, wide-eyed with a mix of fear and fascination.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 21):

The dwarf offers a crooked smile in reply, and then explains the rules for the scavenger hunt.

The hunt begins after the noon meal. Participants may join as individuals or as groups. The hunt starts at the Sanctuaire d’Aurargentvie and ends at the guardhouse in the Commons. Teams or individual participants are provided a list of items they must procure and a token to be delivered to the bailiff once all of the items have been gathered. The first team to do so wins the award and the title.

Participants are asked to present the following items in to the bailiff (who does not keep the items, but expects the participants to return them to their places of origin, if necessary):

• Plate painted with five moons
• Small doll
• Pipe
• White scarf with yellow trim
• Scavenger Pendant

This is run as a skill challenge, where participating heroes can use their various abilities and skills to quickly locate and procure the listed items. Narrative is an essential element of this skill challenge.

Select the first item you want to search for, identify the skill you'll use to do so, and provide a rationale for how that skill will help you locate the item. For the sake of time, give me a skill roll to go with it.

In reply to Isolde Lumiere (msg # 20):

    Thoroughly enjoying this banter, with her style and wit thrilling the spark of his own creativity, he answers her in kind, "I am subsumed in the depths of your flattery and grace, dear Mistress Lumieré. A keener light than your beauty has not graced me before, and certainly not in my imagination did I expect to encounter one as lyrical, talented and even melodic in turning phrases as yourself. I only hope that your expectation of my skills is truly justified once I put finger to strings on stage and perform. I'm certain your tavern's stories warm the mind and soul as much as your words warm my ego! With regards to your mention of those who have run out of happiness, if but one of those who attend my playing feel the healing of their joy, I'd count myself content."
     With that, he smiles and asks, "So, now it comes to ask where I needs be to place my name upon the lists of musical jousting, and await my turn to dazzle. Regardless of the challenge's outcome, I shall seek out your hearth and partake of that shared drink afterwards, that we may continue to expand our stores of stories! Perhaps, if you'd be so inclined, even a duet for your patrons at some point."

The description of a cleric nearby sparked a fire within Erlathan. No longer wandering lost, he had a clear objective that he could pursue. He looked out amongst the crowd and spotted her almost immediately. Where before people had brushed against him the young warrior now pushed people aside as he approached her. He barely registered the performance going on near them, his whole attention now focused on her.

When she took a guarded step back and inquired about his purpose Erlathan faltered for a second. He had recited this moment countless times since he had heard of the Lucinic Brotherhood but now that he was here the words seemed stuck to his tongue. The elf forced himself to take a deep breath and briefly bowed before Sierna. "Apologies miss but I must speak to you and the other clerics at once. An evil has appeared in the forest, a darkness that taints the very natural order. They have attacked my people and stolen something precious from us." He stopped briefly as he recalled the attack, his fists clenched so tightly they turned white. "I have come to warn your people of their danger and to request your assistance in understanding what they are."

Togrirr looks at the farmer, somewhat confused. He considers the possibility of there being some sort of subtetly going on that he is missing, but the bugbear is not one for subtle approaches.

"As I said, I'm signing myself into the competition. Are you alright, Géraud? Your hearing going?"

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 26):

“Uh, yeah, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t you think that maybe, well, you’re… uh, you’re… it’s not me, no, no… it’s just, you’re—you don’t think I’m—“

A man standing behind Géraud pipes up: “He’s trying to say he thinks you have an unfair advantage.”

"OH!"

Togrirr laughs out loud, finding Géraud's hesitation funny. "I see the problem. Do not worry, I understand that you find yourself in quite a unique position. Let me fix the problem for you"

To Géraud's despair, Togrirr looks around for a sturdy looking table and climbs on top of it, gathering the crowd and the other participants attention. He clears his throat, and projects his voice so it may reach everyone attending the event. "It was brought up to me that it was possible some may consider my participation unfair! Of course, while I understand the concerns of the honorable organizers of the event, I firmly believe their worry is unwarranted. So I ask you all: are you so afraid of me that they would rather I don't take part on this event? Feel free to raise your voice, and I'd graciously bow out of the contest, knowing myself stronger than all of you!

As mentioned, he was not one for subtleties.

My first inclination is to have you role a Persuasion (Charimsa) skill check, but this seems to call for a Performance (Charisma) skill check, as you’re playing to the crowd. Oh, the promises this situation offers!

Jessica does not say anything or question anyone. Her father once told her that sometimes listening often got more results than questioning. More often than not one got more results from just keeping one's ears open rather than one's mouth. The rumors were very interesting as she continued towards the music competition. She wondered what kind of disease was causing the festering rot and what kinds of small, child sized creatures had pointed ears that were not elves.

19:54, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 7 using 1d20+6.  Medicine Check to try to identify 'festering rot'. – 7

19:54, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 11 using 1d20+7.  Nature Check to try and identify creatures. – 11

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 28):

As Togrirr ascends the makeshift stage of the creaking table, his every step sends a shiver through the wood, hinting at the calamity to come. He stands tall, a paragon of misplaced confidence, ready to deliver his grand challenge to the sea of festival-goers, who turn their eyes towards him with a blend of intrigue and preemptive glee.

"It was brought up to me that it was possible some may consider my participation unfair!" he bellows, his voice cracking like a teenage bard attempting his first ballad. "Of course, while I understand the concerns of the honorable organizers of the event, I firmly believe their worry is unwarranted. So I ask you all: are you so afraid of me that they would rather I don't take part on this event? Feel free to raise your voice, and I'd graciously bow out of the contest, knowing myself stronger than all of you!"

The words are meant to inspire awe, yet they hang awkwardly in the air, like an ill-fitting garment. He puffs out his chest, an attempt to embody the very essence of strength and charisma. However, the effect is somewhat diminished by the unfortunate timing of a sneeze, which escapes him with such force that it sends him teetering precariously on the edge of the table.

The crowd, initially ready to indulge him, can't help but burst into laughter as Togrirr, in a desperate bid to maintain his balance, performs an impromptu and thoroughly ungraceful jig. His arms flail, seeking salvation in the air that offers no purchase, and his feet tap-dance on the table's surface in a panic-induced rhythm.

It's a spectacle of such profound awkwardness that even the birds overhead pause in their flight, perhaps out of respect or sheer disbelief. Togrirr's challenge, intended to be a moment of triumph, becomes a scene straight out of a bard's farcical play.

The coup de grâce comes as Togrirr, in a final bid to recover his faltering dignity, attempts to right himself with a dramatic flourish. Instead, his hand finds not the stable edge of the table but the unfortunate placement of a pie, left forgotten in the excitement. His paw plunges into the creamy dessert, and as he stumbles backward, the pie plate follows, an errant projectile that lands with a splat against the face of a passing woman.

The crowd's laughter reaches a crescendo. The air is fills with chuckles, snorts, and guffaws at the sight of the mighty bugbear, brought low not by a worthy adversary, but by his own theatrical misadventure.

Before Togrirr can pick himself up, a hardened dwarf approaches him from the crowd. His visage speaks volumes of the life he's led—one of toil, strife, and unyielding resolve. His skin, weathered like ancient leather, is etched with scars and the faint trace of ink—a tapestry of hard mining work and stories earned. His eyes, deep-set beneath a heavy brow, glower with a mixture of defiance and weariness, as if constantly challenging the world to give him yet another test. Thick, dark hair and a bristling beard frame his face, both bearing streaks of gray that speak to his years of experience. Clad in a sturdy, earth-toned tunic and weighed down by chains that seem more a choice than a burden, he carries the heft of his past with the ease of one who knows his own strength. His arms, adorned with bands and the faint, intricate designs of tattoos, fold across a broad chest.

This dwarf, known as Racnvaldr, the previous year's Showdown Champion, reaches down to take Togrirr's hand. "I'm not afraid. I for one welcome the challenge."
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:24, Wed 14 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 24):

Her eyes light up at Trésor's proposal, reflecting a mixture of surprise and delight. "A duet, you say?" she muses, her voice tinged with a playful note of contemplation. "An intriguing thought indeed. Yet, if you were to share the stage for a duet, your heart should insist it be alongside my husband. He is a vocalist of some renown, serenading the ears of nobility and royalty with his melodies. A man whose voice can soothe the fiercest storm and warm the coldest night."

She offers a gentle, understanding smile, her gaze softening. "However, to stand beside him in performance is an honor reserved for those whose talent shines exceptionally bright. Impress us during the competition, captivate our hearts and spirits with your music, and such an honor might well be within your grasp. The festival is a time of wonder, after all, and who's to say what magic the Goddess will weave?"

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 30):

Nothing comes to mind about a rot, other than the carried away imaginations of youth considering all the possibilities. As for the description given by the child, you can’t think of what it could be.

On the ground, Togrirr stared up into the morning sky for a few moments. The Gods comedic timing was as impeccable as ever. He briefly looked around, but was unable to locate the woman he had accidentally pied in the face. He made a mental note to apology to her if he ever saw her again.

Despite the embarrassment, his plan had worked in a roundabout way. After all, after that shameful display, his participation in the event would surely go uncontested. Glass half full and such.

Just as he was about to get up, Racnvaldr approached him. With the presence of mind to recognize that a dwarf picking a bugbear back up would surely lead to a second act for his comedy show, Togrirr nodded his thanks and got back up on his own. "I appreciate the helping hand, but I wouldn't want to cover it in pie. If a worthy challenger is so willing to test his strength against mine, then I better go sign in"

With that, he walked towards Géraud. "Sign me up now, Géraud. Unless you want me to climb onto a second table?"

In reply to Isolde Lumiere (msg # 32):

Unable to prevent a slight twinge of regret at the reveal of her marriage, he none the less responds willingly, "All I could ask is to succeed in such a measure as to be deemed worthy and perhaps my talent will shine as brightly as needed. I shall do my best to entertain and enthrall and come away with the grand prize, after all. May the Goddess see me through the contest! Something does disturb me though - you mentioned some people have lost their 'joy'? Has some wide-spread tragedy occurred to people here? "

After some thought Jessica decides to get involved in the festivals. She might regret it later but in truth she needed fun in her life. So she decides to head to the 'Guess the number of feathers competition, deciding that the competition was a test of intelligence.

The cleric seems skeptical and she has a mission. Was this part of it or to keep her from accomplishing said task? She takes a deep breath and he bows to her? Definatly strange. She tilts her head "What did they steal? Of course this is not the place to speak of this." She looks around for a place that is private. All of these people are a good way to keep from being attacked but if this is something she needs to find out or something she needs to overcome. Sirena looks at him "If I may, who are you?"