As the early morning sun bathes the village of Abondavie in a warm, golden glow, the air is thick with anticipation and excitement. The scent of freshly baked pies, the sound of laughter, and the clinking of tankards fill the air as the villagers gather in the heart of the village for the grand celebration: the Days of Silver Festivals.

Abondavie, a haven on the northern frontier, is a charming blend of cultures and races. Timber-framed buildings line the quaint streets, where humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, halflings, tabaxi, and genasi bustle about, all eager to partake in the festivities. As the sun climbs higher, the village market springs to life, vibrant stalls offering goods from every corner of the realm.

Today is a special day, for the Days of Silver Festivals mark the commencement of the spring planting season, and the entire village and others from around the region and Protectorate have come together to celebrate and give thanks to the Moon Goddess for her benevolence. The air buzzes with joyous chatter as villagers prepare for the multitude of competitions and activities that await them.

Those feeling particularly strong can test their mettle in arm wrestling or tug-of-war, while the more daring can try their luck in the Blinking Hog Chase, hoping to catch a hog that seems to vanish into thin air. The ale-drinking contest beckons the thirsty, and the pie-eating contest promises a delightful mess for all involved.

For those with keen wits, there’s the guess the number of feathers game and a thrilling scavenger hunt that will lead adventurers all over the village and beyond. Music fills the air as talented performers vie for recognition in the music competition, and graceful dancers take to the stage to captivate the crowd in the dance competition.

Beyond the contests, there’s a plethora of general activities to enjoy. Carriage rides offer a leisurely tour of the picturesque village, while a magical show captivates audiences with wonder. The puppet show entertains the young and the young at heart, and the gurning show delights with its comedic antics.

But it’s not all just merriment and games. The Luminal Jubilee, a solemn and momentous ceremony, awaits as the capstone of the celebrations. Led by the March Priest and the acolytes of the Lucinic Brotherhood, the Luminal Jubilee is a time of supplication for a bountiful harvest, a tradition passed down through generations, responsible for the village’s prosperity and well-being.

So, as the 7th of Springenmonth 1322 unfolds, the stage is set, and the choices are yours to make. Engage in the festivities, embrace the camaraderie, and seize the opportunities that await in this enchanting world of Abondavie. Whether it’s competing for glory or uncovering secrets hidden within the celebration, the adventure begins now, and the journey is yours to shape.

As each of you arrived in Abondavie on the 6th, the eve of the Silver Festivals, you've found the village of about 1,000 burgeoning with visitors and dignitaries from around the land. The village's single inn is already occupied beyond its capacity. All the same, the people of Abondavie welcome all into their village for this holy celebration, offering their homes, barns, and land for rent. The prices are as follows:

• For 5 gold pieces a night, you can enjoy a master bedroom suite with privacy and a meal.
• For 1 gold piece a night, you can share a floor with a warm hearth with other travelers.
• For 5 silver pieces a night, you can share whatever space is available in a barn or outbuilding.
• For the budget-conscious, you can spend just a silver piece for a small spot to pitch your tent.

Please indicate what kind of staying arrangements you wish to make--including being a vagabond and sleeping illicitly in any space you can find, etc.--and what if any equipment you choose to carry around for the day during the Silver Festivals. Also, let us know what you are doing on this sunny morning. Ideas for various activities are listed below. For the competitions, there is time in the day to do only one.

Competitions

• Arm wrestling competition - 5sp entry fee, winner is awarded a silver armband worth 15gp and the annual title of "the Showdown Champion."
• Tug-of-war (teams of 2) - 5sp entry fee, winner is awarded free drinks, 15gp for each winner, and the annual title of "Oxe of Abondavie."
• Pie-eating contest - 5sp entry fee, winner is awarded an engraved silver plate worth 25gp, and the annual title of "the Gobbler of Loaf Street."
• Scavenger Hunt - 5sp entry fee, winner is awarded two ivory dice worth 25gp, and the annual title of "Seekers of the Moon."
• Barrel Run - 5sp entry fee, winner is awarded a new set of clothes worth 10sp, including a belt with a gemstone affixed to it worth 5gp, and the annual title of "the Balanced One."
• Ale-drinking contest - 5sp entry fee, the winner is awarded a copper chalice with silver filigree worth 25gp, as well as the title of "the Steel Gut of Abondavie."
• Guess the Number of Feathers - 5sp entry fee, the winner is awarded a piece of gold cloth worth 25gp, as well as the title of "the Lamp of Neomas."
• Music competition - 5sp entry fee, the winner is awarded an embroidered handkerchief worth 25gp, as well as the annual title of "the Silver Herald of Abondavie."
• Dance competition - 5sp entry fee, the winner is awarded a black velvet mask stitched with silver thread (the whole mask is worth 25gp), and the annual title of "the Moon Swan."

Activities

• Food and drinks
• Market and services
• Magic show
• Carriage rides
• Gurning show
• Penal mocking
• Puppet show

This message was last edited by the GM at 00:35, Tue 20 Feb.

While there were still a few stares thrown his way, the people of Abondavie had become somewhat accustomed to Togrirr's presence in the Silver Festivals. Throughout the year, the burly bugbear tended to stay on the outskirts of town, where he met with merchants and peddlers who were interested in trading with him. But during the 7th of each Springenmonth, the bugbear could be seen participating in the festivities just like any other townsfolk.

Aside from his race, which he didn't bother to try and hide with a hood or similar clothing, Togrirr was easily spotted because he categorically refused to part with any of his equipment, carrying a heavy backpack with him wherever he went. Even after renting a spot in one of the town's barns to spend the previous night, he didn't feel it was safe to leave his belongings unsupervised, considering the number of strangers that came for the festivities.

This year, there was a new oddity that even people who knew Togrirr personally couldn't ignore. Tied to his belt, there was a small pouch. Whatever was inside it seemed to be oozing some sort of black ichor, staining the underside of the container.

Togrirr planned to head straight to the Luminal Jubilee as soon as the sun set, as he had important matters to discuss with the Lucinic Brotherhood, but for the moment it wouldn't hurt to take part in the festivities. As such, he signed up for the arm wrestling competition, likely discouraging some of the less confident townsfolk from participating. After all, their chances against a literal monster were slim to none.

-Buying a second pouch.
-Renting a barn to spend the night.
-Carrying all equipment with himself.
-Signing himself into the Arm Wrestling Competition.

With morning sun peering through a gap in the wall illuminating his face, Alaric lay awake in the straw for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the village coming to life. He brushed the straw from his tousled hair and quickly packed his things into his blanket roll which then went over his shoulder. He’d heard stories of big towns and had no intention of trying to cache what little he carried for someone to pocket for themselves.

Emerging from the barn, he realized that he’d never seen so many people in one place and momentarily entertained the idea of fleeing back into the forest until after the festival. But no, he had a task before him, and the trail had led here. Amidst the lively market stalls, he indulged in a simple breakfast, savoring the succulent meat sandwiched between freshly baked bread, washed down by the crisp tang of apple cider.

Intrigued by the vibrant tapestry of voices and sights, Alaric allowed himself to be drawn deeper into the heart of the festivities. The puppet show held him spellbound, a spectacle unlike anything he had ever witnessed amidst the quiet solitude of the road. Disappointed by the absence of archery in the day's competitions, he nonetheless resolved to watch the performances of the musicians.

He planned, as he was sure did nearly everyone else in the town, to attend the Luminal Jubilee.

Spent 5sp for space inside a barn
Carrying all of his possessions
Watch the music competition
Wander observing and listening

This message was last edited by the player at 15:17, Mon 12 Feb.

    While the inn was certainly crowded beyond reasonable privacy, Trésor none the less was able to wrangle a floor spot from the innkeeper in exchange for entertaining the room for a few hours the night before. Not quite the single room he usually earned, but understandable given the overburdened town's current population. Enjoying the easy comradery of happy folk all equally excited about the Festival, he finds the ebb and flow of the crowds an inspiring time and he wakes the next morning with a cheerful disposition.
     Not overly burdened by worldly goods, his backpack contains all he needs for his travels. Knowing of the music challenge from his mother telling him of it's existence, the morning sees him heading straight there to register his name for the contest. While he awaits his turn on the judging stage he wanders the markets and food stalls, sampling some of the stranger fare offered and listening to the chatter and gossip of an active, lively marketplace. He does make a point of attending the major ceremony of the Festival, knowing how important it is and wanting to see what such a powerful magic item looks like.

Entertainer background for basic accommodations. No cost
Entering the music contest - 5 sp.
Carry all his gear.

Smoke was unhappy despite the festive air in the town, he'd lost Mateo's trail and had little to show for it. If emotions showed visibly, there would be a cloud of dissatisfaction hovering over his head as he stalked about.

To try and get himself out of the funk he'd found himself in the last day or so, Smoke decided to at least sample the festivities. He left his bags behind, there was little in them to either incriminate or of extreme value to be stolen, and he shouldn't need his bow out in the town so he left that and his quiver behind.

It had been a few years since he'd had to stay in such squalid conditions, but at least the price was right and he couldn't afford to to squander any of his remaining coins on a place to sleep.

As he went out and about through the town and festival Smoke found one thing that piqued his interest. The Scavenger Hunt. Maybe this was something that might reinvigorate his juices and intensity for his own hunt. So he paid his silver for the entry fee. If I win I can pawn the prize for some more coin too, so win-win.

Background Feature: Free Poor Lifestyle Safe House
Entering the Scavenger Hunt
Carry Equipment other than backpack/quiver/bow

If there was one thing Jessica always taught her, was managing money wisely was always vital to travel on the road. One never knew when they needed it. So when she arrived Abondavie she found the living arrangements somewhat limited. Fortunately her hunting skills came in handy and aside from providing food on the road, she could sell any extra catches to earn a little bit of coin. Still even with her new money she was still limited in choices.

Rather than be out in the open she decided for one of the barns. For a teenager she was if anything very aware of her surroundings. She may be young but she seems to have the look and overall feel of a seasoned traveller. She was wearing rugged, but comfortable clothing consisting of a long sleeved blue shirt, brown pants, a hooded red cloak which partially concealed a backpack and a pair of well used black boots. She had a sheathed dagger on her belt as well as a sling and a multipocketed belt pouch. She kept her money pouch deep in her backpack.

When she enters the barn she nods politely to the bugbear before picking the nearest corner to plop down and set up her stuff. She is of course naturally curious about the bugbear but does not wish to intrude. It was not her place to judge and as long as he did not attack her or any innocents, she had no problem with him.

Instead of participating in the activities, Jessica will simply be a bystander. The music competition sounds nice so she attends that but does not participate. She takes note of the elf who she also saw at the barn.

Jessica will stay in a barn. She will have all her possessions with her on her person all the time. She will only be a bystander at the music competition and will discreetly listen in on local gossip of interesting news if any.

From the moment he had entered the village Erlathan had felt an itch. The mere sight of so many people all in one location was simply overwhelming. His traversal through the bustling crowds had been slow, the young warrior strained struggled with his own reflexes whenever someone brushed up against him. Eventually he had been directed to a barn where he had managed to secure shelter for the night. A few days ago the elf would have scoffed at staying inside a large wooden box. However, he had come to realize most people did not approve of setting up traps this close to towns, it was odd.

A good chunk of the morning was wasted as he inquired about the Lucinic Brotherhood. Most of the people Erlathan questioned implied he should wait for the Luminal Jubilee ceremony that would happen later in the day. Undeterred, he pestered people about the Brotherhood until someone could point him in the direction of their members.

-Reserving a spot in a barn to sleep
-Erlathan will carry all his gear with him.
-Pester people about the Lucinic Brotherhood
This message was last edited by the player at 00:25, Tue 13 Feb.

As the cleric emerges into the festival, Sirena immediatly goes to see if anyone is hurt. She finds a spot in the ban, and reserves it but keeps her gear upon her back with her shield. Smiling at times whenever she sees a interestiing person, the cleric finds a spot and watches the puppet show. Once it is complete, she moves towards the marketplace humming a tune and goes to check anything interesting focusing on candles and chalk, as well as ball bearings. Strange genasi indeed and ask if anyone is interesting in glassblowing.

Spent 5sp for space inside a barn
Carrying all of his possessions
Watch the puppet show
Wander to the marketplae looking fo chalk, candles and ball bearings.

Sorry for the delay, I'm trying to give everyone time to respond.

As the first light of dawn caresses Abondavie, the village stirs, wrapped in the quiet excitement of the festival morning. Sunlight, soft and warm, peeks through the branches, painting the cobblestone streets with a mosaic of light and shadow. The timber-framed houses, adorned with festoons of silver and blue, gleam under the morning sun, their decorations shimmering like dewdrops. Amid these, red brick structures emerge, bold and unexpected, adding depth to the village's quaint landscape.

The air, crisp and vibrant, carries the scent of baked goods, cooking meats, and the delicate aroma of night-blooming flowers, their fragrance a silent prayer to the Moon Goddess. The sound of preparation fills the streets; the murmur of voices, the clatter of goods being arranged, all weaving a tapestry of communal anticipation.

Travelling through the village, you find the heart of the festivities lies between the village center and the Iron Tree Square, connected by a stretch of the main road of packed dirt that is teeming with people, animals, and a visual feast of colorful decorations. The Iron Tree Square, named for its central, stoic tree, hosts the carts and stalls of those who trade in goods and services. The village center, dominated by the Argent Pillar, a carved stone monument dedicated and consecrated to the Moon Goddess, hosts food, drink, dancing, and a plethora of other entertainments. All along the way and even amongst some of the side roads, craftsmen proudly display their work while contests of skill and tales of magic draw crowds, their excitement as infectious as the laughter that bubbles up around them.

The villagers, a diverse tapestry of races and cultures, are themselves a spectacle. Cloaked in garments that reflect the night sky, they move with a grace that honors their goddess. Jewelry that catches the light, mimicking the stars, complements the simple beauty of painted lunar symbols adorning their skin.

Togirr
Togirr, the bugbear ranger with a stride as silent as the forest, navigates through Abondavie's bustling streets, his path illuminated by the joyous light of the Days of Silver Festivals. The village, alive with the scents of culinary delights and the vivid hues of decorations, momentarily pauses as its inhabitants take in his imposing figure. While some villagers regard him with a cautious curiosity, their eyes tracing the contours of his formidable frame, others offer nods of respect, recognizing the strength and spirit of the wilderness that he embodies.

As he approaches the Iron Tree Square, the clamor of those awaiting the start of the arm wrestling competition envelops him, a blend of spirited cheers and the competitive clash of wills. The grounds are a lively spectacle, centered around robust tables set under the protective shade of vibrant tents. Competitors from across the realm flex and prepare, their forms a diverse display of the land's inhabitants. The tables, scarred from battles past, await new stories of strength and perseverance.

Upon his arrival, Togirr's presence commands attention, his towering form casting a long shadow over the competition grounds. Spectators, initially taken aback, quickly warm to the intrigue of his participation, their murmurs turning into cheers of encouragement. Organizers, seizing the moment, guide him to his place at the table, where Togirr stands ready, not just as a contender, but as a testament to the unity and diversity celebrated within the heart of Abondavie.

"Ah, um, Togirr," one of the organizers says, approaching with an edge of embarrassment. Togirr recognizes this man as Géraud, a farmer. "Good day, good day. Are you here to, um, watch the competition?"


Alaric
Alaric, with the untamed spirit of the wildlands coursing through his veins, finds himself adrift in a sea of marvels as he meanders through the village of Abondavie. Every sight, every sound comes like a shout from the vibrant life that thrives within the embrace of civilization, a stark contrast to the solitude of nature's expanse. The air, rich with the mingling scents of fresh baked goods and the earthy perfume of livestock, guides him through the labyrinth of bustling streets. His eyes, wide with wonder, dart from the quaint timber-framed houses adorned with festive garlands to the faces of villagers, each bearing a story untold. The laughter of children playing tag between the market stalls, the haggling of merchants, and the clinking of metal from the blacksmith's forge compose a symphony of human endeavor, alien yet mesmerizing to his untamed heart.

Drawn by the sound of laughter and melodic whimsy, Alaric's journey leads him to a side road, just a breath away from the village's main artery. Here, a gathering of villagers encircles a spectacle that captures his curiosity—a puppet show, illuminated by the warmth of shared enjoyment and the soft glow of afternoon light. A wooden stage, simple yet inviting, becomes the focal point of this enchanting world. The puppeteer, a halfling with golden hair that rivals the sun's own brilliance, dressed in finery that sparkles with a spectrum of colors, commands the attention of all. His voice, rich with emotion and humor, weaves through the air, a tangible thread of narrative magic, while a trio of musicians accompanies the tale with silly, heartwarming tunes.

The story unfolds: a young girl, brave and kind-hearted, embarks on a quest through the deep, whispering forest in search of a magical acorn, the key to lifting a curse laid upon her step-mother by a magician, green with envy. With each twist and turn of the puppet's journey, Alaric feels a kinship to the forest depicted, a representation of the wildlands he knows so deeply, yet portrayed with a whimsy and mystique that is altogether foreign. Through the trials faced by the puppet girl, from trickster spirits to riddles of nature, the audience—Alaric included—is transported to a realm where courage, love, and a dash of magic conquer all adversities. The story concludes with the girl defeatedly returning without the acorn, only to find the strength of her resolve and the purity of her heart rewarded by the Moon Goddess removing the curse from her step mother.

Alaric, while your watching the puppet show, give me a Perception (Wisdom) skill check, please.


Trésor
Trésor, with the effortless grace of a leaf dancing upon the wind, drifts through the lively streets of Abondavie, his half-elven heritage bestowing upon him an air of ethereal charm. His eyes, alight with the spark of unbridled curiosity and the gleam of a carefree spirit, drink in the vibrant tapestry of the festival around him. A bard by call and heart, he moves not merely as a spectator but as one who seeks to weave the essence of the festival into the melodies that flow from his soul.

The scents of the festival—a mélange of roasting meats, sweet confections, and the subtle hint of spring flowers—fill his senses, each aroma a note in the symphony of the village's celebration. The laughter and chatter of the villagers blend with the strains of music that float through the air, a cacophony of joy that beats in rhythm with Trésor's own heart. His fingers itch for the strings of his lute, eager to capture and contribute to the melody of human connection and festivity that envelops him.

Trésor's path is one of whimsy, guided by the sights and sounds that beckon to his bardic soul. He pauses to exchange tales with travelers, to share verses with poets, and to laugh with children chasing each other with ribbons and streamers. Each encounter, each shared moment, is a thread of inspiration, weaving into the fabric of his artistry. He eventually arrives at the village green, where a temporary raised platform has been erected. It is here the music competition will soon commence.

Upon arriving, a halfling woman with incredibly brilliant red hair greets you. Her smile is immediately infectious and her words of welcome one of the most sincere things you've ever heard. With a spark of mischief in her eyes and a playful tilt to her smile, she says, "I had the delight of catching a piece of your performance last evening. Your music, it seems, has the power to make the heart lighter and the evening air a bit warmer."

She takes a small, thoughtful pause, her eyes never leaving his, as if trying to read the stories etched in the depths of his gaze.

"Today's contest of melodies has already drawn the quills of many a seasoned musician, each with their own tale to sing and strings to strum. Yet... I wonder, will you step into the ring and pluck the victory from beneath their noses? For something tells me, the stage yearns for a spirit as untamed and a talent as raw as yours."

Her smile widens, playful yet genuine, inviting not just a response but a revelation of intent, as if she already knows the answer yet yearns to hear the tale spun from his own lips.


Smoke
Smoke moves through the village of Abondavie like a shadow detached from its source, his steps silent but heavy with a weight not visible to the eye. The vibrancy of the festival around him feels distant, as if he were separated from the world by an unseen barrier. The lively laughter and the bright colors seem to mock his current state of defeat; robbed of his worldly possessions, he finds himself adrift, a boat unmoored in the midst of a bustling harbor.

His aimless wanderings lead him to the heart of the village center, a place where the pulse of Abondavie beats strongest amidst the celebration. It's here, amidst the sea of joy and commerce, that Smoke's keen eyes notice a stall unlike the others, not for what it sells but for the crowd it draws. Curiosity, that ever-persistent spark even in his dimmed spirits, nudges him closer to investigate the source of this gathering.

As he weaves through the crowd, his lithe form slipping through gaps only a creature of his nimbleness could find, he discovers the stall's allure: a sign-up for a scavenger hunt. The event, designed to weave through the village and its surrounding areas, promises adventure and, more importantly, a prize for the winner. It's a chance, a sliver of opportunity in the fog of his misfortune, for not only does the competition offer a distraction from his woes, but the reward could very well be the means to reclaim what he has lost—or at least, to start anew.

The idea of joining a scavenger hunt, with its inherent promise of challenge and potential for cunning, ignites a flicker of his former self. It beckons to the rogue within him, the part that thrives on wit and agility, on the thrill of the chase and the sweetness of victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. With a resolve that hardens in his chest, Smoke approaches the stall, his defeat momentarily forgotten, replaced by the burgeoning thrill of competition. In this moment, the possibility of redemption, of turning his luck around in the most unexpected of ways, seems just within reach.

Coming under the open-air tent, Smoke is greeted by a gray-haired dwarf with an austere complexion. "Don't look so glum, whiskers. People might start saying you're more sour than me. What brings you here?"


Jessica
Jessica, with the restless curiosity of youth, meanders through the village of Abondavie, her ears as eager as her eyes, sifting through the air for fragments of tales and whispers of lore. Each conversation she passes is like a thread, promising to lead her through the intricate tapestry of village life, revealing secrets and stories only known to those who listen closely enough.

Her wanderlust carries her like a leaf on a breeze, down the cobblestone paths lined with laughter and lit by the bright hues of festival decorations. She drinks in the sights—the vendors with their myriad treasures, the children darting like fish through the stream of people, the old stories retold with renewed vigor. Yet, it's the undercurrent of gossip that truly captures her attention, tales of love and loss, of strange happenings in the woods beyond, of travelers from lands so distant they seem conjured from the mist of dreams.

Drawn by an increasing murmur of excitement, Jessica finds herself at the end of a side road, where the crowd thickens, coalescing around a spectacle that promises to be more than just idle entertainment. A small platform serves as the stage for a fire genasi, his presence as commanding as the element he controls. The performer, with movements as fluid as they are fiery, dances and leaps, his hands weaving tales in the language of flames. The mask upon his face, aglow with the semblance of an eternal blaze, adds a layer of mystery to his already captivating performance. His ash-white hair and the sparks that dance at his command paint a picture of a being not just performing magic, but embodying it.

Behind him, a cart laden with curiosities—gleaming glass bottles and chests adorned with silver filigree—hints at adventures and secrets as numerous as the stars. Seated beside this treasure trove, an elderly gnome watches the performance, her eyes, though dimmed by the passage of time, sparkle with an unspoken knowledge, suggesting depths of wisdom and experience that beckon just as strongly as the genasi's flames. The ferret on her shoulders, a quiet spectator to the marvels unfolding, adds a touch of whimsy to the scene.

Jessica, give me a Perception (Wisdom) skill check.


Erlathan
Erlathan, a youth with the untamed spirit of the frontier coursing through his veins, steps into the village of Abondavie with a heart heavy with questions and eyes wide with trepidation. The press of bodies, the cacophony of voices, and the riot of colors that greet him are as foreign as the stars to a cave-dweller. Raised in the solitude of vast landscapes, where the sky stretches unbroken from horizon to horizon, he finds the bustling closeness of village life not just overwhelming but suffocating.

Navigating the throngs of festival-goers proves a trial for Erlathan. Each accidental brush of a shoulder, each inadvertent jostle sends a jolt through him, igniting his frontier-honed instincts to flee or fight. Yet, neither response suits his purpose here. With each step, he battles not just the sea of humanity around him but the rising tide of panic within. He's a lone reed swaying in a storm, desperately seeking the shore.

His quest is a beacon, a singular focus amidst the chaos: to find the Lucinic Brotherhood, keepers of knowledge and guides to those lost in the shadows of doubt. When a helpful voice amid the clamor directs him towards a figure clad in the garb of a cleric, Erlathan clutches this thread of hope as if it were a lifeline. The cleric, lost in the thrall of a performance that has captured the hearts of the assembled crowd, stands as an island in the stream of revelry.

Undaunted by the wall of bodies that separates him from his goal, Erlathan presses forward, driven by a need for answers that overshadows the discomfort clawing at his senses. He maneuvers through the crowd with a determination that belies his earlier hesitation. Standing before the cleric, Erlathan pauses. The cleric's attention remains anchored to the spectacle before them. With a courage born of desperation, Erlathan clears his throat, stepping into the cleric's line of sight, effectively pulling the cleric's attention from the show to the young frontier youth before him.

Erlathan, continue to the end to see what the prompt is for your next action.


Sirena
Sirena, a cleric whose life is dedicated to the service of the Moon Goddess, steps into Abondavie with a heart full of purpose and eyes open to the wonders of the Days of Silver Festivals. Her pilgrimage, a journey both of faith and duty, has guided her to this vibrant village at a time when the air itself seems alight with magic and devotion. With the blessings of her superiors as her guide, she seeks to immerse herself in the life of the village, to gather supplies, and to understand the souls she has sworn to serve.

As she navigates the bustling streets, her senses are caressed by the myriad sights, sounds, and scents of the festival. Each corner turned reveals new marvels—stalls brimming with goods, laughter echoing from every direction, and the palpable joy of the villagers as they celebrate. It's a tapestry of life and faith interwoven, a perfect backdrop for a servant of the divine to begin her sacred duties.

Drawn by the sound of laughter and the melodious strains of music, Sirena finds herself amidst a crowd gathered for a puppet show—a simple yet enchanting spectacle that captures the essence of storytelling. The tale unfolds of a young girl's quest through a mystic forest in search of a magical acorn, a journey fraught with challenges yet illuminated by the purity of her heart. Sirena watches, her cleric's soul touched by the universal truths woven into the narrative: courage, love, and the transformative power of faith.

It is at this moment of captivation that an elf, his appearance marked by the trials of life yet his eyes burning with an unquenchable fire, steps before her, obscuring her view of the puppet stage. The determination etched into his features is shadowed by desperation, a silent story of struggles untold. His serious presence stands in contrast to the whimsy and light of the puppet show.

Erlathan, you've happened upon Sirena while she's watching the puppet show. As you are the one making the approach, you'll post up first, and then Sirena may respond
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:58, Mon 19 Feb.

     With a unrestrained grin of a spirit bouyed by the excitement and bright joys of the Festival so far, Trésor gives the friendly halfling a heartfelt bow, answering, "My thanks for the compliment and yes, I DO strive to brighten my world with music and feeling that echoes the singing of my soul. To cheer and embolden my audience to set free their innate goodness and light, and leave them happy and at peace once I finish, is truly a goal I find worthy." With a flourish on his instrument, he adds "While I have not yet met any of those who will strive with me upon the stage, the contest is not the only reason I wish to participate in this event. It is yet another chance for me to raise the spirits of my listeners and bring the joy the world needs to have more of. I'd be happy if my competitors did much the same, no matter who wins the title and prize. If I should be so lucky as to walk away with the rewards, that would be a bonus of the Goddess."

Focused on the puppets, the cleric seems rather surprised. She steps back, hand on her mace and bites her lip. Looking up at the man, her eyes go from surprised to a more serious look "Are you alright?" The show seems familiar. Like what she is intended to do for the most part.

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?"

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 34):

Togrirr
Géraud scrunches his face, biting his lower lip. "Of course, of course..." he says. He takes a quill from the table where the officials are stationed and scribbles your name onto a sheet of parchment. He looks over the list of names with a sick look on his face. "We start within the hour. Your first opponent is Maurice."

"Poor Maurice," someone groans nearby. But almost as quickly, the same person pipes up, "The boys will have to see this. He's getting his arm broken for sure!"

Let me know if there is anything you want to do within the next hour before the competition starts.
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:47, Wed 14 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 35):

Trésor
Isolde's expression momentarily clouds over, a fleeting shadow passing across her features at Trésor's inquiry. However, as quickly as the cloud appears, it disperses, replaced by a resilience that seems to brighten her demeanor even further.

"Ah, Trésor, this is Abondavie, the heartland of Nordeligne, where the earth generously yields its bounty and the skies bless us with their grace," she responds, her voice a melody of genuine pride. "Here, amidst these rolling, vibrant fields tragedies are but shadows at noon—brief and swiftly overtaken by the light. Our land is a tapestry of blessings, woven with the threads of community, joy, and the enduring spirit of our people."

She gestures expansively, as if to encompass the entirety of the festival and the lands that stretch beyond. "What challenges we face, we overcome with unity and the strength of our hearts. It is this resilience, this unyielding joy, that we celebrate. And it is this spirit that your music will uplift and honor. So, let not your heart be troubled by our little trifles. Focus instead on the light you can bring, for in Abondavie, the light of Solara and the Moon Goddess always prevails."

Trésor, you may make an Insight (Wisdom) skill check on Isolde if you would like. Alos, the music competition will begin within the hour, but you won't perform for another three. Are you staying and watching until then or are you going to do something else in the meantime?
This message was last edited by the player at 10:45, Wed 14 Feb.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 36):

Jessica
Jessica makes her way toward "The Ebon Hoof," one of the town's stables that sits adjacent to the village green. Its rustic charm may often be a quiet backdrop to a day's usual hustle, but today, it is anything but quiet. Jessica approaches the stable to find it swarming with an excited crowd, the air thick with the chatter of animated voices and the occasional ear-piercing shriek that slices through the din.

At first, the cause of the commotion eludes her, the throng too thick to permit a clear view. Yet, with determination and the agile grace of one accustomed to threading through tight spaces, she nudges and weaves her way forward. Anticipation builds with each step until she comes upon the spectacle that has captured the crowd's attention.

Behind a shimmering magical barrier, the source of the earlier shrieks stands revealed—a feathered cockatrice, its scales glinting in the dim light seeping through the barn's slats. With the body of a dragon and the plumage of a bird, both beautiful and fearsome, the beast seems a grotesque amalgamation made by some bored deity. Its wings are partially folded, the feathers a stunning array of hues, predominantly grey with striking red accents that blaze like the embers of a dying fire. Chained to a post that seems to draw on the earth's depths for its stability, the cockatrice moves with a restrained ferocity, its eyes darting across the sea of faces.

Nearby, a cadre of mercenary guards stands vigilant, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their swords, their eyes sharp and assessing. They are a bulwark against the curious and the foolish, ensuring the barrier is respected and the creature contained.

Beside a cart adorned with colorful banners and flamboyant decorations stands the master of ceremonies for this peculiar contest—a man as lean and stretched as the imagination of a storyteller, his garb a riot of colors and patterns, each piece an ode to carnival extravagance. With the rapid-fire delivery of a practiced showman, he calls to the gathering, inviting them to hazard a guess on the number of feathers adorning the captive beast.

"Step right up! Test your eye, test your luck!" he bellows, his voice carrying over the crowd, "Guess the feathers on yon creature and win a prize that'll make your heart soar higher than the Ebon Hoof's own rafters!"

An image of the cockatrice can be found here: https://www.deviantart.com/uk1...generated-1020984006
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:01, Wed 14 Feb.

Alaric
As Alaric weaves his way through the beating heart of Abondavie, the village center unfolds before him with the vibrancy and clamor of life in full display. His journey, whimsical as the flight of an autumn leaf carried upon the brook's whims, brings him to a sight both jarring and jocular near the steadfast red-brick guardhouse.

A gathering of youths, their laughter sharp as the morning air, play their roles in an age-old tradition of punitive spectacle. They dash about, their small hands grasping at the earth to shape clods of mud, or seizing discarded remnants of the market's fare, now no more than fodder for their boisterous game. These jesters fling their organic missiles with unerring glee at the unfortunate souls displayed in the pillories.

The scene is a cacophony of mockeries, a chorus of jeers that rise from both the young and the young at heart, as even the adults cannot resist partaking in this communal chiding. The air is thick with the sour-sweet scent of spoiled produce as it meets its mark, splattering against the wood and the shamed alike.

Overseeing this spectacle of punitive pageantry stands a rotund dwarf. Clothed in a cascade of rich fabrics and an ostentatious array of jewelry that jangles with his every breath, his attire is a vibrant tapestry. His hat, a riotous bouquet of feathers, bobs with an air of indifference to the mockery at play before him. A portrait of opulence, he regards the scene with an expression that borders on ennui. His countenance, as craggy and enduring as the mountains of his kin, is marked by a thick beard and a mustache that bristle with the gravity of a figure used to far more engaging spectacles. The revelry around him seems but yet another duty, an annoyance if he were to care enough to be such.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 38):

Not wanting to miss his match, Togrirr decides to stick around, enjoying the drinks that Géraud offered when trying to dissuade him from participating. He measured himself, however, not wanting to get drunk. If he drank too much, then poor Maurice might indeed end up with a broken arm.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 41):

As Alaric approaches the tumultuous scene, his curiosity piqued by the bizarre juxtaposition of mirth and humiliation, his gaze is drawn inexorably to the enigmatic figure presiding over the spectacle—the rotund dwarf who exudes an aura of both extravagance and indifference.

Intrigued by the dwarf's stoic demeanor amidst the chaos, Alaric decides to strike up a conversation, his steps purposeful as he navigates through the throng of revelers. With a polite nod, he approaches the dwarf, his voice carrying above the din of the crowd.

"Good day, sir," Alaric begins, offering a respectful nod in acknowledgment of the dwarf's imposing presence. "Quite the lively scene you have here. May I inquire as to its purpose and your role in this... spirited display?"
This message was last edited by the player at 14:25, Wed 14 Feb.

Jessica observes the cockatrice closely, slowly and carefully counting the feather that she can see on the bird. She keeps her distance though, not wanting to be petrified by the damn thing.

11:48, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 22 using 1d20+7.  Nature Check(number of feathers a cockatrice has). – 22

11:44, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 22 using 1d20+6.  Perception Check. – 22

In reply to Isolde Lumiere (msg # 39):

The bard sees the troubled woman's momentary pain and ponders the root cause, but rallies quick enough, his irrepressible nature paramount. "As you say, Mistress Isolde. Let me then bend my meager skills and ability to brightening a thread or two of your weave here, and at least leave an impression of my time on your stage. I ask your leave to tune my lute and voice, as well as partake in some more of the interesting foods the Festival has to offer, until my brief moment arrives. All joy, blessings and happiness you, your family and your Chateau, and I will see you once the challenge is over!" He says brightly, then bows deeply and seeks both another sampling of the food courts as well as a good place from which to see and hear the other performers in the challenge.


Insight attempt (NP base +3)
09:11, Today: Tresor Ne d'elfe rolled 22 using 1d20+3.  Insight.
He will definitely find a place to watch the competition, refining his own offering now and then while doing so. About 15 minutes before, he will arrive "backstage" and tune up as needed until his turn.

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 43):

Alaric
The dwarf barely spares a glance for Alaric as he responds in a tone devoid of the enthusiasm one might expect from a festival overseer. "Good day," he mutters, his voice carrying the gravelly weight of countless similar days spent in the service of Abondavie.

"This?" he says, gesturing languidly towards the pillories with a dismissive flick of his hand. "It's the town's attempt at justice with a side of entertainment. Petty offenders—loudmouths, drunks, cheaters, and the like—get a stint in the stocks. Public penance. I'm just here to make sure the rotten tomatoes don't turn into stones. The thrill of it all," he adds dryly, his bushy eyebrows rising in a mockery of interest.

He shifts his weight, the chains of his office seeming to clink in time with his dwindling patience. "My name is Achille, Bailiff of Abondivie. Today, I oversee this excitement, make sure it doesn't get out of hand. Though honestly," he leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I'd rather be knee-deep in paperwork than babysitting this lot. At least the parchment doesn't throw things back at you." His eyes scan the crowd with a mix of boredom and resignation, a man whose days of finding any of this amusing or engaging are long behind him.

Finally, he returns his attention to Alaric. "By the looks of you, you're far from home. Not from any of these parts."
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 19:39, Wed 14 Feb.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 44):

Jessica
Jessica reached into her memory, searching the bestiary tomes your father had kept and the tales you’ve picked up along the trail. You remember reading a detailed examination of a cockatrice once and clearly recall a lengthy dissertation on the shape and coloration of different species of cockatrice (and as any well-read person should know, not all cockatrice even have feathers.

Moving about the barn and the barrier, jostling your way between or through gawkers or other participants, you ascertain the species of this particular specimen, and begin looking for those areas you know to be feathered. All the while, you mentally jot down each feather as you notice it, tallying up the total as you go.

Give me another skill check, please, but it can’t be Nature or Perception.
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 20:33, Wed 14 Feb.

In reply to Achille (msg # 46):

“You’ve a keen eye or am I that obvious?” He glanced down at his clothing and then looked around at others in the crowd. “I’m Alaric Ironwood. Tis true, my home is far from here, deep in the timberlands,” he confessed, his gaze drifting momentarily towards the distant horizon. “A humble farm and quarry no more than a stone’s throw from a grist mill and smithy where the river is bridged, I don’t think it even has a real name, everyone just called it The Mill.”

His eyes suddenly brightened, and a flicker of determination crossed his features as he continued, his voice gaining strength with each word. "The bailiff! Perhaps you can help for I come seeking something more precious than gold or glory," he explained, his words infused with a sense of urgency. "I seek my father, Thorald. A man of humble stature, like myself, with hair the color of burnished oak and hands weathered by toil. His left hand bears the scars of a life spent quarrying stone, two fingers forever crippled from an accident long ago. The rumors I follow say he passed this way but it may have been some time ago."

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 42):

Togrirr
Here are the rules for the arm wrestling competition.
Each arm wrestling match is divided into rounds, with each round representing a moment of struggle as the competitors vie for dominance.

• Strength (Athletics) Baseline: Both participants make an initial Strength (Athletics) check. This sets the baseline for their position in the match. The higher result gains an early advantage.
• The Tug-of-War Meter: Create a simple tug-of-war meter with a range from -5 to +5. The match starts at 0. A result of -5 or +5 represents a win for one of the competitors, with negative values favoring one side and positive values favoring the other. The initial Strength (Athletics) check can move the meter 1 point towards the winner's side.

Rounds
Each round, the participants can choose an action from the following options, each affecting the outcome in different ways. After choosing their action, both participants roll a d20 and add any relevant modifiers based on their action choice.

• Push: Make a Strength (Athletics) check to push your opponent's arm towards their side. Success moves the meter 1 point towards your side.
• Feint: Attempt to outmaneuver your opponent. Roll a Deception check. If successful, your next round's action gains advantage.
• Resist: Focus on defense, making it harder for your opponent to gain ground. Roll a Constitution saving throw. If successful, you gain a +2 bonus to your next round's action.
• Power Surge: Use sheer force to attempt a significant push. This action can only be used once per match. Make a Strength (Athletics) check with advantage, but on a failure, you suffer a disadvantage on your next action due to overexertion.

Special Conditions

• Stalemate: If both participants choose the same action and their rolls (including modifiers) tie, the round is considered a stalemate, and the meter does not move. Both participants may choose to change or stick with their actions in the next round.
• Comeback: If a participant manages to bring the meter back to 0 from -4 or +4, they gain a burst of momentum, giving them advantage on their next action.

Winning
The first competitor to move the tug-of-war meter to -5 or +5 wins the arm wrestling match.


Togrirr, with the silent confidence of the wilds etched into his bearing, takes his seat at the sturdy arm wrestling table, a structure that seems almost diminutive beneath his imposing frame. The gathering crowd, a mix of excitement and curiosity, swells as whispers and pointed fingers signal the anomaly of his participation. The ambiance is one of eager anticipation, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or cheer, especially from the younger attendees, who embody the festival's spirit of unrestrained revelry.

Into this lively scene steps Maurice, a halfling whose demeanor broadcasts a blend of bravado and the heady influence of morning indulgence. Surrounded by his companions, his entrance is marked by a boisterous fanfare of cheers and jests, his actions tailored for the adoration of his audience, particularly the group of young halfling females who respond with giggles and hushed whispers. Maurice's performance, however, hits a snag as his eyes lock onto Togrirr, his competitor, an imposing bugbear whose very presence commands the makeshift arena.

The realization that he's been paired with Togrirr sends a ripple of apprehension through Maurice, his earlier confidence quivering like a leaf in a storm. In a bid to navigate this unforeseen predicament without diminishing his stature in the eyes of his peers, Maurice adopts a facade of contemplation, scratching his head exaggeratedly as if struck by a sudden bout of strategic foresight.

"Ah, well, you see, my friends," Maurice begins, his voice a careful blend of jest and feigned disappointment, loud enough for his entourage—and, inadvertently, the surrounding crowd—to hear, "I had been training, yes, training for this very moment. But alas, it seems fate has a different path in store for me. To wrestle arms with such a... distinguished opponent," he casts a glance at Togrirr, aiming for respect but tinged with the unmistakable hue of reluctance, "would be an honor too grand for this humble celebration. No, no, let us not risk overshadowing the festivity with such an epic confrontation."

The crowd jeers and urges Maurice on, refusing to let him retreat. His friends, to whom he was an insufferable braggart to a moment ago, join together to thrust him forward, practically forcing him into the chair opposite Togrirr.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:30, Wed 14 Feb.

In reply to Sirena Mistseeker (msg # 37):

Erlathan's expression hardened at the cleric's response. A looming threat appears and she focuses on the relic?  The elf pointedly looked around as if just now realizing they were still in a crowded area. "Yes, this should be discussed in private," he agreed with a nod. Unfamiliar with the town he allowed Sirena to lead the way while he followed behind closely.

Only when they had some amount of privacy did he feel the need to speak again. "My name is Erlathan Virrie, son of Athtar Virrie. I am perhaps one of the only survivors of a group known as the 'Thorn Blades'." He reached into his shirt and produced a small pendant, an ancient coin wrapped in metallic thorns. He allowed the cleric to briefly examine the pendant before he returned it to it's proper place.

"As for what was stolen," the elf hesitated, his expression clearly concerned about discussing it. Even with the privacy they had gained he felt the need to look around, to ensure that no one heard his story. He started to explain before he realized he was speaking in elvish. As he examined the odd appearance of the cleric in front of him he stopped and restarted in common. "For centuries the Thorns have protected a holy relic, the heart of the forest. I believe you would call it the 'Verdant Heart'. It has fallen into the hands of an army of shadow creatures that blight anything that they touch. I've heard the Lucinic Brotherhood help cleanse the land, surely this is a danger you can not ignore!" Although his voiced remained steady the frown on his face displayed his frustration.

20:14, Today: Erlathan Virrie rolled 16 using 1d20+6.  Insight . 
This message was last edited by the player at 02:17, Thu 15 Feb.

"Relax kid, I'm not gonna hurt you. Let's just both do our best"

Togrirr attempts to relax him with a confident grin, but it occurs to him as he is doing it that baring his fangs might not have been the best idea... oh well, too little too late. He'll just try to end this fast.

He offers his right hand. and gets ready for a swift victory.


Baseline:
19:00, Today: Togrirr rolled 14 using 1d20+7.  Athletics. –

Jessica examines the bird(at a distance) as best she can.

17:08, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 10 using 1d20+5 ((5)).

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 52):



What skill are you using?

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 51):

Togrirr
Maurice jerks about for a moment, almost like he’s searching for a way out. But instead of bolting from his chair, he snatches an errant cup of ale. The wooden chalice, the size of a giant’s mug in his smaller hands, engulfs his face as he washes down his trepidation. Droplets of golden drink dribble down his stubble chin, before turning into a torrent washing down his front as he dumps the ale faster than he can chug it.

Finally, with a massive breath and a wipe of his face with a fluffed sleeve, the halfling slams his right elbow on the table. His hand disappears into Togrirr’s. To the bugbear, it feels like a baby’s paw. The officiant gives Maurice a pitiful look, shrugs, and slaps the table, starting the round.

Togrirr immediately seizes control, twisting the poor little one’s wrist and shoving his hand toward the table. Maurice’s drunken eyes widen in surprise, and then his brow furrows.

Togrirr won the base check and gets +1 on the scale. Choose which option you’ll take for this round and roll the relevant check.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:00, Thu 15 Feb.

Togrirr sees no point in clever strategies at this point, and just puts his strenght to work, pushing Maurice's hand.

Push - 24

21:17, Today: Togrirr rolled 24 using 1d20+7.  Push - Athletics. –

Sorry Investigation

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 57):

Jessica
Investigation is going to involve more than looking to see what you see, as you’ve already done that with Perception. So, how are you investigating?
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:53, Thu 15 Feb.

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 56):

Togrirr
Ooof, poor Maurice.

The match is swift, a testament to Togrirr's strength rather than any lack of courage on Maurice's part. The outcome is as inevitable as the turning of the seasons. There is a moment of tense silence, Maurice silently strains to recover from his initial loss of position in the bout. The crowd holds its breath, before Togrirr's arm moves with decisive force, bringing Maurice's hand down to the table with a thud that seems to echo through the village square.

In that instant, a sharp pop in Maurice’s arm, barely audible over the crowd but in sensed by Togrirr’s hand, marks the unfortunate climax of the match. Maurice's face contorts in a grimace of pain, a stifled scream caught in his throat as he struggles to maintain composure. His eyes, brimming with tears not of sorrow but of sheer physical agony, meet Togrirr's for a brief second—a silent exchange of respect amidst the folly of pride.

With a grunt that carries the weight of both acknowledgment and acute discomfort, Maurice withdraws, rising from the table with an effort to mask the severity of his injury. Surrounded by his friends, who are quick to offer a mix of consolation and hasty congratulations, he departs posthaste, eager to escape the scrutiny of the crowd and seek solace in the less public corners of the festival.

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 50):

Erlathan
Sirena accepts Erlathan’s offer to inspect the coin. After listening to his tale of the Thorns and the Verdant Heart, her eyes seem to narrow with interest and confusion. She bites her lower lip, and then says, “I’m from the southern province and have never heard of such things. Your tribe, your troubles, your stolen artifact… so much pain and suffering, which is something I do know. What can the Lucinic Brotherhood do for you?”

Erlathan, it would seem that Sirena doesn’t recognize the fact that you believe her to be a member of the Lucinic Brotherhood.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 59):

Togrirr is about to apologize for likely dislocating the halfling’s wrist (or something like that, he is no doctor), but stays silent and opts for a respectful nod after seeing the expression on Maurice's face. You can say anything you want about his bravado or pride, but noone can deny he has determination.

Togrirr waits for a few moments to see if someone else takes the halfling spot, and then turns to the organizers' table. "Who is next?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:31, Thu 15 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 45):

Trésor
You're time for your first performance has arrived. You arrive early, as planned, so you are prepared to make your entrance when called upon by the officiator. There are three rounds of competition, requiring you to score a certain number of points in order to move through each of the rounds to the final. You are expected to use an instrument for the performance (your voice may count, if you choose to sing.) Choose the difficulty level of the song you will perform (Simple DC 10, Intermediate DC 12, or Difficult DC 14). The points you score will depend on how well you meet (and hopefully) exceed the set DC. Greater difficulty means greater reward for points, but also greater risk of failure.

Let me know what instrument and difficulty of music you'll be performing for the first round; and even the name of the song, if you feel so creatively inclined. Then, give me a Performance (Charisma) skill check, please.

Maybe doing her best to count the feathers from a distance? Don't know what other skills to use.

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 48):

Alaric
Achille listens to Alaric's tale with an expression that barely shifts from its default state of subdued disinterest. As Alaric shares the details of his far-off home and his quest, Achille's gaze occasionally wanders, as though counting the moments until he can return to his own thoughts—or perhaps his paperwork.

"Obvious? Lad, you might as well have 'not from here' painted on your forehead," Achille responds. He leans back slightly, regarding Alaric with a look that might pass for curiosity in another, less world-weary soul. "A humble farm, a quarry, and a mill without a name, you say? Fascinating, truly," he adds, though his tone suggests his interest lies elsewhere.

At the mention of Thorald, Achille's eyebrows raise a fraction, more in acknowledgment of a new topic than recognition of the name. "Thorald, you say? Hair like burnished oak and hands marked by the quarry? Can't say the description brings anyone to mind. Then again, many pass through Abondavie, especially during the festivals. Names and faces blend into one after a while."

He scratches at his beard thoughtfully—or perhaps just out of habit—before continuing. "When was he supposed to have passed through? And what business would bring him here? We get all sorts, from traders and tinkers to pilgrims and wanderers. Unless he caused trouble or had dealings with the guardhouse, I'm not sure he would have caught my attention."

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 63):

Jessica
Understood. Some suggestions to get the creative juices flowing: Athletics check to jostle your way through the competition and gawkers to get a closer look from different angles. An Acrobatics check to the same effect. A Stealth check to get past the barrier and guards for an even closer look. An Insight check to get a gauge on what other competitors are thinking and concluding about the number of feathers. Sleight of hand to take any notes off a competitor who is tallying the feathers in that manner. Performance or Deception check to distract the other competitors, making their guesses worse. A Persuasion check to get close to one of the guards, giving you a better angle on the cockatrice.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:29, Thu 15 Feb.

In reply to Achille (msg # 64):

Disappointment etched lines upon Alaric's features, a shadow cast by the weight of uncertainty that plagued his quest. "When? I cannot say for certain," he admitted with a heavy sigh, his voice tinged with frustration. "The trail is marked only by vague rumors, whispers carried upon the wind. It could have been over a year ago." A bitter note of disdain crept into his words as he continued, recounting the scant details of his father's departure. "As to his purpose, he left behind naught but cryptic words, a fleeting glimpse of his duty before he vanished into the night."

With a weary nod of gratitude, Alaric bid the bailiff farewell, his heart heavy with the weight of yet another defeat in his relentless pursuit of truth. "Thank you for your time," he murmured, his voice laden with resignation as he turned away, his shoulders slumping beneath the burden of disappointment.

As he made his way through the thronging crowd, Alaric sought solace in the strains of music that drifted upon the breeze. The musicians’ competition was beginning! The crowd thickened around him, a swirling sea of faces and voices, each one a reminder of his own solitude amidst the bustling festivities.

Rather than vie for a vantage point amidst the converging masses, he opted for a quieter spot at a little distance from the stage, where he could sit and listen in peace. With a heavy heart and weary spirit, he settled himself upon the grass, his gaze fixed upon the performers who played and sang upon the stage before him. Perhaps, he mused, the fervor of the competition would prove enough to rally his flagging spirits, if only for a fleeting moment amidst the chaos of his journey.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:23, Thu 15 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 62):

Trésor walks up on stage with an open smile, happy and waving out at any and all of the audience. He sets up in the marked position and leads into his choice of song - "A Dryads First Love" an Elven song about the birth, growth and life of a young Dryad's tree - with a few bars of instrument only, his lute sending cascades of sound softly into the ears of the listeners. For his first number he merely plays, swaying like a branch of leaves being caressed by warm summer winds.

He will play his Lute, choosing a challenging (DC14) song to truly test his mettle.
07:57, Today: Tresor Ne d'elfe rolled 15 using 1d20+6.  Performance .
This message was last edited by the player at 18:35, Thu 15 Feb.

In reply to Sirena Mistseeker (msg # 60):

The clerics confusion was mirrored in Erlathan as he watched her reaction. He had been directed to a cleric and had assumed this woman was involved with the Brotherhood in town. Perhaps that had been a mistake."I have heard the Lucinic Brotherhood is knowledgeable about not only the land but druids and others with magical connections. I have come seeking knowledge of what might be the cause and for someone to rally to the forest's defense. No bow or sword can stop the corruption that is spreading. If the Brotherhood and their moon goddess can not stop the blight then they might direct me to someone who can."

He paused as he inspected her once more. "Might I ask your name? You said you were from the southern providence, does that mean you are not one of the clerics in the Brotherhood?"

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 66):

Alaric
Alaric, give me a Perception (Wisdom) skill check.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 69):

20

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 70):

Alaric
While departing from the penal mocking, you notice a half-elf woman, attired in frontier clothing, listening on your conversation. As you sit to listen to the music competition, you notice her passing by from a distance, observing you while trying to remain discreet. A moment later, she disappears into a passing crowd and you lose sight of her.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:55, Fri 16 Feb.

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 68):

Erlathan
“My name is Sirena,” she replies, scrunching her face as if suddenly self-conscious. “I’m a Crescent Acolyte of the Sect of the Lunargent Clerisy. I’m sorry, did you think I’m with the Brotherhood?”

She hides her face and eyes by bowing her head. “I know little of the Brotherhood, only that they have a large presence in these parts of the Protectorate. Perhaps… perhaps there is something I can do to help. I may have something to offer. Or at the least, I can help you find someone actually with the Brotherhood. They have a church here, called the Sanctuaire d’Aurargentvie, I believe.”

Jessica tries to jostle and thread her way closer to the cockatrice to get a better look and angled look at the cockatrice to count its feathers. She also tries to get a better read on how the others are faring when it comes to counting the feathers.

01:12, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 10 using 1d20+4.  Insight Check. – 10

01:11, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 21 using 1d20+3.  Acrobatics Check. – 21

01:10, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 18 using 1d20+1.  Athletics Check. – 18

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 67):

Trésor and Alaric
Before Trésor took the stage, the musical competition had already seen an array of performers, each bringing their own unique flavor and talent to the fore. The open-air platform, bathed in the soft glow of the mid-morning sun, had become a nexus of anticipation and excitement.

The first to perform was a young dwarf with a drum, his performance a powerful display of rhythm and raw energy. However, his enthusiasm occasionally outpaced his precision, leading to a few offbeat moments that, while endearing to some, did not fully captivate the judges.

Following him, a human woman with a harp took to the stage, her fingers dancing across the strings in a performance that was technically flawless but lacked a certain emotional depth. The melody was beautiful, yet it failed to stir the hearts of the audience, leaving an impression of beauty admired from afar rather than deeply felt.

Then came a gnome with a fiddle, a whirlwind of motion and merriment. His performance was lively, filled with complex runs and spirited jigs. However, a misstep in his frenzied finale caused a jarring note that, while quickly recovered, marred the overall execution.

Amidst these varied performances, Trésor ascended to the platform, his lute in hand. The crowd, already warmed by the efforts of those before him, awaited with a blend of curiosity and expectation.

As Trésor raised his lute, the first notes floated out over the village green, clear and pure. His performance wove a tapestry of sound that seemed to capture the essence of the surrounding landscape—the gentle whisper of the wind through the trees, the distant murmur of the river, and the soft rustle of leaves. It was a performance marked not just by technical skill but by an emotional resonance that reached out and touched the audience, drawing them into a shared experience.

The crowd, moved by the beauty of his playing, responded with enthusiastic applause as the final note lingered in the air. There were smiles, nods of appreciation, and even a few teary eyes among the onlookers. As the applause faded, the murmurs of the crowd spoke of a performance that would be remembered, setting a high bar for those who would follow.

Trésor scored enough points to move to the next round. He’ll need a solid performance at a high difficulty or an exceptional performance at simple difficulty, or somewhere in between at intermediate difficulty, to pass through the second round.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:04, Fri 16 Feb.

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 61):

Togrirr
As the sun climbs higher, casting its golden glow over the village green, rumors of Togrirr's formidable strength in the arm wrestling competition have transformed the area around the designated tables into a bustling hub of excitement and anticipation. Whispers of the bugbear's victory in the first round, embellished with each retelling, have ignited the imaginations of the villagers and visitors alike. Some speak in hushed tones of how Togrirr not merely bested but broke Maurice’s arm, while others, caught up in the fervor of the moment, claim with wide-eyed seriousness that he tore it off entirely.

This growing legend draws an ever-increasing crowd, eager to witness the might of Togrirr for themselves. The throng of spectators, their numbers swelling by the minute, clamors for a good position from which to watch the spectacle unfold. Their enthusiasm is not just for the competition but for the drama and the stories they will tell of this day. In their eagerness, they begin buying up all available drinks, their laughter and cheers a constant background hum. The organizers of the event, initially concerned about the turnout, now sport wide grins, their eyes gleaming with the prospects of the unexpected windfall. The air is thick with the scent of ale and excitement, as tankards clink and coins change hands with increasing frequency.

Amidst this growing tumult, Togrirr's next opponent makes his way through the crowd, a figure of considerable bulk and determination. He is another victor of the first round, his eyes fixed on Togrirr with a blend of respect and the unspoken promise of a challenge not to be taken lightly. The crowd, sensing the imminent clash of titans, falls into a hush of anticipation, their attention riveted on the two competitors.

The two giants take their seats, locking eyes and then hands, each acknowledging the other's strength in the firmness of their grip. The officiator, a seasoned veteran of many such contests, surveys the crowd, then the competitors, ensuring all is in readiness. With a dramatic flourish, he slaps the table—a clear, sharp sound that cuts through the murmurs like a knife.

The match is on.

Please give me three Athletics (Strength) checks and choose and roll three of your arm wrestling actions, as a way of expediting the round.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 71):

The second time Alaric's gaze fell upon the half-elf, a curious notion stirred within him—an inkling that there was more to her lingering glances than mere happenstance. With a resolve born of curiosity, he rose to his feet and prepared to follow.

Stretching briefly to ease the stiffness that had settled into his bones, Alaric set off into the bustling crowd, his senses attuned to the faint trace of her presence. With each step, he scanned the thronging masses, searching for the telltale sign of her distinctive features and dress amidst the sea of faces.

Togrirr seems very amused about the pseudo-legend that is being born about his strenght. While not actively participating in the spread of the misinformation about his monstrous strenght, he doesn't make any effort to disprove it either. He is not a fan of lies, but everyone seems to be benefitting with this one.

As his large competitor takes his seat in front of him, the bugbear nods politely and grabs his hand.

"I'm Togrirr. Let's have a good match"


09:53, Today: Togrirr rolled 23 using 1d20+7.  Athletics. – 23
09:54, Today: Togrirr rolled 25 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 18.  Athletics. – 25
09:54, Today: Togrirr rolled 14 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 7.  Athletics. – 14
12:30, Today: Togrirr rolled 21 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 14.  Athletic Push 1. – 21
12:30, Today: Togrirr rolled 19 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 12.  Athletic Push 2. – 19
12:30, Today: Togrirr rolled 14 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 7.  Athletic Push 3. – 14

     Pleased by the results of his first performance, for his next one he will marry song and string from Rossignol. Hoping he makes her resonate like her namesake, he tries a song more popular with his home village - "The Hero of the Hearth" - About a renowned fighter who became a husband, unexpectedly marrying his foe when he found out her true nature. With his lute and voice, he weaves the simple tune into a jaunty ballad, trying to bring images of the battle then romance that the tale tells of.
     After he finishes, he asks for his last performance to fall after twilight, if possible.

---

08:09, Today: Tresor Ne d'elfe rolled 25 using 1d20+6.  moderate Performance DC10.

In reply to Sirena Mistseeker (msg # 72):

Erlathan sighed at the cleric's explanation. His frustration was no longer directed at her, but himself. The elf bowed his head, his voice having lost some of the fire. "My apologies Acolyte Sirena, I heard there was a cleric in the crowd and I just..." he shook his head. "I am somewhat out of my element in these crowds."

The mention of a church caught his attention and he nodded at her suggestion. "If they have a building in this town that is where I must go, this Sanctuaire d'Auragentvie." His voice slowed as he sounded out the name, unfamiliar with the pronunciation. "Any assistance you can provide in helping me find this church would be greatly appreciated."

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 76):

Alaric
Alaric feels like a fish swimming upstream as he pushes through the throng of people, a large press of flesh reminding him yet again of the peaceful environs left behind in his search. He believes he’s caught sight of the half-elf, a couple hundred feet ahead, moving in the direction of the Iron Tree Square. She turns with the road and disappears from view around the bend of a corner lot building. Time stretches as he pushes to catch up, mocking him by making it feel like half the day to reach the same turn, and to make it and see the stretch of road leading to where the ancient oak tree lords over the square district of trade shops. Almost with a frenetic air, Alaric weaves his gaze amongst the moving and mingling bodies, trying to catch sight of his quarry once more.

Please give me a Survival (Wisdom) skill check.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 73):

Jessica
Jessica listens in to the whispered conversations of the other contestants who either remark aloud on their observations or are working as a team. Noting their body language, the angles from which they observe, and the points of interest they seem drawn to, she can’t seem to make any progress in getting a better grasp of the actual number of feathers than what she has before. Weaving in and out of the crowd, leveraging her smaller size and the general lack of awareness of others, however, she manages to force her way closer to the barrier and even to within the spot where the barrier and the barn’s open door meet. This fortunate stroke of skill and luck yield an incredibly advantageous view, providing her an angle she hadn’t had before a look at more of the monster’s profile, giving her a good basis from which to make an educated and evidence-based guess.

Please give me a straight up Intelligence check, adding 1d4 to the roll, in addition to the usual modifiers (e.g., Intelligence modifier).

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 77):

Togrirr
As the officiator's hand slaps the table to signal the start of the match, Togrirr and his opponent, a formidable half-orc known for his brute strength and tenacity, lock hands in a contest of wills and power. The half-orc's muscles are like coiled ropes under his skin, his expression a mask of focused determination. The crowd watches with bated breath, the air charged with anticipation.

Initially, Togrirr takes the lead, his arm moving with inexorable force, like a river swelling with the spring thaw. Inch by inch, he drives his opponent's hand closer to the table, the crowd's excitement growing with each visible shift in the battle's tide. Whispers of another easy victory for the bugbear begin to weave through the onlookers, as Togrirr's strength seems once again to dominate the field.

However, just as victory appears within grasp, the half-orc halts Togrirr's progress with a sudden surge of resistance. With a grunt of exertion, he not only stops his hand's descent but also begins to push back, their arms quivering in the air, locked in a perfect stalemate at the center of the table. The crowd's cheers turn to gasps and shouts of encouragement, as the two competitors struggle for dominance, their faces etched with the strain of the contest.

For a moment, they go back and forth, neither gaining nor losing ground. But as the seconds stretch into what feels like eternity, the half-orc begins to show signs of fatigue; his breath comes in ragged gasps, and a sheen of sweat coats his brow.

Sensing the shift in momentum, Togrirr gathers his strength for a final push. With a strategic twist of his wrist, he disrupts the half-orc's grip, a move subtle yet decisive. The crowd leans in, as if drawn by the gravity of the moment, their collective breath held in suspense. Then, with a roar that seems to draw on the depths of his being, Togrirr overpowers the orc's flagging resistance and slams his fist to the table.

The crowd erupts into riotous glee, their cheers a thunderous accompaniment to Togrirr's victory. Money changes hands in a flurry of bets settled, while others, caught up in the jubilation of the moment, offer mugs of ale to the victorious bugbear, a gesture of camaraderie and celebration. Géraud claps tepidly, his sun-licked face etched with growing anxiety.

Jessica tries to count the feathers.

01:38, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 4 using 1d4.  Bonus. – 4

01:37, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 8 using 1d20+5.  Intelligence Check. – 8

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 78):

Trésor
Under the broad canopy of the late morning sky, Trésor takes his place once again on the raised platform at the edge of the village green. With Rossignol, his lute, cradled in his arms, he begins the opening chords of "The Hero of the Hearth." The melody, simple yet captivating, flows into the air like the first light of dawn, weaving a tapestry of sound that captures the essence of the story it tells.

As Trésor's voice joins the lute, the ballad unfolds—a tale of valor and unexpected love, of a warrior whose heart, as formidable in battle as it was tender in affection, found its match in the very foe he sought to best. The song, jaunty and spirited, carries the audience along the arc of this unusual romance, from clash to clasp, from strife to unity. Trésor's performance breathes life into the narrative, his skill turning the simplicity of the tune into a vivid tableau of human emotion and connection.

The crowd, carried away by the depth of Trésor's artistry, finds themselves in the midst of the battle, feeling the clash of steel, the tension of conflict, and then, as the song shifts, the surprise of revealed truths and the warmth of blossoming love. Trésor sings with a sincerity and passion that transcends mere performance, embodying the spirit of the hero and his journey from warrior to husband, from isolation to companionship.

As the final note hangs in the air, a profound silence envelops the green. The audience sits, wrapped in silent contemplation, as if reluctant to break the spell that Trésor has cast. Then, as if on a single breath, applause breaks forth, a cascade of appreciation for a performance that has touched the heart of every listener, transforming a simple ballad into an unforgettable experience of storytelling.

Flushed with the success of his performance, Trésor, amid the cheers and accolades, raises a hand to request a moment's attention. "Might I play my third piece at twilight?" he asks, his voice carrying the hope of concluding his competition with the day's end.

An organizer, moved by the performance yet bound by the schedule of the day's events, approaches. "Your music has truly captured the essence of our festival," he begins, admiration clear in his tone, "but twilight is reserved for the Luminal Jubilee, a time when all of Abondavie comes together in light and celebration. The competition, I'm afraid, will conclude long before then."
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:42, Sat 17 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 80):

Alaric attempts to follow the half-elf.

6

OOC: Do you have a reference for die roll info? Entire message or just the mouse-over posted?

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 83):

Jessica
With the challenge set before her—to guess the exact number of feathers adorning the creature—Jessica's mind whirls in contemplation. She begins to count, her eyes darting from one feather to the next, attempting to apply logic and method to her estimation. Yet, doubt creeps in, a whispering thought that perhaps her initial count was off. She second-guesses herself, her confidence ebbing as she revises her number upwards, then downwards, caught in a loop of indecision. Her strategy, if it could be called that, seems to be unraveling before her eyes.

Amidst this turmoil of thought, a voice breaks through her concentration. Standing beside her is a half-elf, his attire marking him as someone of fine taste and his demeanor exuding a scholarly air. Yet, it's his easy smile and the genuine curiosity in his eyes that draw Jessica's attention away from her task.

"Quite the conundrum we find ourselves in, wouldn't you agree?" he begins, his tone light and inviting. "I must say, your method seems most intriguing. Do you believe in precision through uncertainty, or is there a hidden strategy to your second-guessing? I find myself rather at a loss on how to approach this challenge."

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 79):

Erlathan
“I visited the church yesterday, so I know the way. I spoke briefly with some of the acolytes there, they seem good people. I’m sure they’ll help.”

Sirena gestures for Erlathan to follow and begins heading west on one of the side roads. “This quest, it seems very important to you. And it sounds like it could be really bad for everyone else. Why are you the one sent to solve it? I mean, don’t think I’m… sorry. Um, how did you get involved is what I meant to ask.”

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 85):

Alaric
Alaric seems to have lost the half-elf’s trail in the Iron Tree Square. Every which way he looks, he seas a menagerie of faces and colors and costumes. There is a brief second where he thinks he sees a woman akin to the one he’s searching for talking to a fancifully dressed man near the ancient oak tree, but after a blink and double-take, he can’t be sure.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:23, Sat 17 Feb.

As before, Togrirr accepts SOME of the offered drinks, but makes sure to remain sober thoughout. Last thing the festival needs is a drunken bugbear. Besides, while the contest is fun and all, he has more important matters to discuss at the Luminal Jubliee.

He decides to stick around for the next round, unsure how many opponents were left.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 88):

Frustration bubbling beneath the surface, Alaric paused in his tracks, casting a wary glance around the bustling square in search of any trace of the elusive woman. With a muttered curse, he clenched his jaw in irritation, his mind swirling with a maelstrom of unanswered questions.

With a determined stride, Alaric made his way towards the towering sentinel that loomed at the center of the square—the Iron Tree, as it was known amongst the locals. As he drew nearer to the gnarled trunk, a wry smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a fleeting moment of self-awareness amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

"Iron Tree—Ironwood," he mused aloud, the words slipping from his lips in a bemused whisper. "Perhaps the crowds have addled your mind indeed, Alaric." With a shake of his head, he chided himself for entertaining such fanciful notions. What could he possibly hope to find amidst the twisted branches of a centuries-old tree?

Yet, despite the rationality of his inner monologue, a small part of him clung to the fleeting hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was some shred of truth to his whimsical musings. With a resigned sigh, Alaric approached the Iron Tree, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the cobblestone pavement as he braced himself for whatever revelations—or disappointments—lay in store.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:52, Sun 18 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 84):

Trésor bows off the stage, happy with the net result of his offering. Unsure how he will top the last performance, where everything just seemed to come together perfectly and resonate with the audience and his skills. He awaits his last round on stage with more nervousness than expected, choosing and discarding songs and ballads and melodies, trying to make a firm choice.

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 90):

Alaric
Sorry, will please clarify for me. Are you going up to the tree to inspect it?

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 92):

Unless there's some barrier to prevent his approach, yes.

While he's there he'll also look around and see if anything interesting jumps out from that perspective.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:17, Sun 18 Feb.

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 93):

Alaric
Alaric finds himself drawn to the ancient oak. Its robust trunk and sprawling branches speak of centuries witnessed. Alaric, with his roots in the wildlands where the land remains untamed and free, feels an inexplicable connection to this tree. Its leaves rustle softly, a whisper of movement that seems independent of the still air around it, as if the tree breathes with a life of its own.

He notices the careful landscaping that encircles the tree, a mark of respect and reverence from the people of the Abondavie. Yet, to Alaric, it's the tree's wild heart that resonates—a piece of the untamed world persevering in the midst of human constructs. The mystical quality of its sway, the way its leaves seem to catch the light, casting patterns on the ground that dance like spirits of the forest, all of it enchants Alaric, drawing him closer.

As he stands there, absorbed in the tree's ancient presence, a voice breaks his reverie. "Quite mesmerizing, isn't it?" The speaker is the nobleman Alaric notice a moment before, the one whom he thought the half-elven woman had spoken to. The man’s attire and bearing mark him as a person of some standing.

"I couldn't help but notice your fascination with the Iron Tree," he continues, his voice a melodic flow of articulate wizardry. "Its roots delve deep, not just into the earth but into the very essence of this place. Do you know any of its history?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:51, Mon 19 Feb.

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 89):

Togrirr
In a whirlwind of determination and raw power, Togrirr, the bugbear ranger from the untamed wildlands, forges his path through the arm wrestling competition with a blend of brute strength and surprising technique. Each round unfolds like scenes from a legend in the making, the morning air thick with anticipation and the scent of competition.

Round after round, Togrirr faces off against a diverse array of competitors, each with their own strengths and stories. Some matches are swift, Togrirr's might undeniable as he overpowers his opponents with a force that leaves the crowd in awe. Other bouts are more grueling, a test of endurance as much as strength, where Togrirr's arm shakes with the effort of holding back the determined push of a worthy adversary. Yet, in each encounter, the outcome remains the same: Togrirr emerges victorious, his hand slamming down the opposition with a finality that speaks to his unwavering resolve.

As the morning sun climbs higher, casting its light over the arm wrestling arena now swollen with spectators, the air vibrates with the electric buzz of anticipation. The final round is upon them, and with it, the challenge that all have been waiting for. Togrirr's opponent is none other than Racnvaldr, the dwarf known as last year's Showdown Champion, a title he wears like a mantle of honor. His reputation precedes him, a warrior as steadfast in arm wrestling as he is in battle, his victories the stuff of recent legend.

Géraud, returning from the semifinal he helped to officiate, divides his attention between Togrirr and Racnvaldr, his expressions a mix of worry and intrigue. The crowd around them is a tempest of excitement, bodies pressing close, voices raised in bets and cheers, the atmosphere charged with the palpable weight of expectation.

And then, amidst the clamor and the chaos, a moment of clarity as Togrirr and Racnvaldr take their places at the table. The noise seems to dim, the world narrowing down to the space between them. Hands clasp, the grip a testament to the journeys both have taken to reach this point. Eyes lock, an unspoken acknowledgment of respect and the shared knowledge of what it means to stand at the pinnacle of competition.

Géraud’s voice cuts through the tension, a simple command that feels as momentous as the start of a great battle. The final round is about to begin, and with it, a chapter in the saga of the Days of Silver Festivals that will be recounted for years to come. The anticipation is a living thing, a collective breath held in suspense as the village of Abondavie stands witness to the clash of champions.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 95):

Should I include some rolls in my next post?

In reply to Sirena Mistseeker (msg # 87):

The elf nodded in approval and followed the cleric as she departed. As they ducked into a side street Erlathan felt like he could finally take a breath. Although not alone the number of people paled in comparison to the crowds that filled the main streets. Unaware of where they were going he let Sirena stay a step ahead of him as his eyes glanced down every road at passed.

At her latest question the elf's grim expression returned. He turned his eyes down at the ground as he recalled the events. "I don't know if anyone else is left to take up the quest. The Thorn Blades are skilled warriors but we are not an army. The shadow creatures were almost upon us before we even realized they were there. I was tasked with escorting those who could not fight away from the battle. By the time I returned," he paused. The scene still clear as day in his head. "Only the dead and a blighted land remained, the heart nowhere to be seen. If other Thorns managed to escape perhaps they too are looking for help, honestly I do not know. For now all I can do is seek to reclaim the heart and avenge those who have fallen."

Sorry, yes please

Togrirr had been continuously testing his strenght against stronger and stronger opponents. His stamina wasn't endless, and his fatigue slowly began to show as the matches progressed.

However, as the champion sat in front of him, he felt a surge of strenght course through him. Racnvaldr had an aura of strenght around him, one could tell that he was a formidable opponent at a glance. But far from feeling intimidated, Togrirr couldn't help but grin as their grasped eachother's hand and readied to contest.

Togrirr's strategy didn't change. He almost felt it would be insulting to use tricks or deception to try to gain an advantage over the dwarf. If he was gonna win, then he was gonna win in a direct battle.

Went ahead with the same pattern as last time, 3 athletics + 3 actions (all pushes). Togrirr is determined to win this it seems.

09:44, Today: Togrirr rolled 23 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 16.  Athletics. – 23
09:44, Today: Togrirr rolled 17 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 10.  Athletics. – 17
09:44, Today: Togrirr rolled 27 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 20.  Athletics. – 27

09:44, Today: Togrirr rolled 14 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 7.  Athletics Push 1. – 14
09:45, Today: Togrirr rolled 22 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 15.  Athletics Push 2. – 22
09:45, Today: Togrirr rolled 23 using 1d20+7 with rolls of 16.  Athletics Push 3. – 23

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 94):

"If it pleases your Lordship," Alaric began, addressing the nobleman with a respectful bow of his head, "I regret to inform you that I cannot provide any insight into the history of this tree. I have only recently arrived in the city, and this is the first time I have set eyes upon it."

A palpable sense of self-consciousness tinged Alaric's words as he spoke with a man of higher status, his demeanor deferential yet earnest. "I would not presume to impose upon your time," he continued, his tone laced with humility. "However, if you are amenable, I would be grateful for any knowledge you could share regarding the tree, and perhaps the half-elf maiden who spoke with you earlier."

Alaric's expression softened with chagrin as he confessed his predicament, a hint of frustration flickering in his eyes. "I believe she was watching me, though I cannot fathom why," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Unfortunately, I seem to have lost her amidst the crowd."

Trésor, please allow me a little bit to get some of the other players caught up to where you are in the day's activities, and then we'll visit your third and final round of the competition.

Would Trésor like to do something while he waits? There are other activities that may draw his interest.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:55, Tue 20 Feb.

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 97):

Erlathan and Sirena
As Erlathan and Sirena make their way through the bustling streets of Abondavie, the festive atmosphere of the village gradually gives way to the tranquil serenity that surrounds the Sanctuaire d’Aurargentvie. Nestled on the eastern fringe of the village, the sanctuary stands as a testament to the deep reverence the people of Abondavie hold for the Moon Goddess and her nurturing embrace. The building, though modest in comparison to the grand cathedrals of larger cities, carries an air of profound sanctity, its architecture harmoniously blending with the natural landscape that cradles the village in prosperity.

Constructed from the whitewashed stones quarried from nearby hills, the church glows softly under the sun, mirroring the gentle luminescence of the moon. Its roof, covered in slates of varying shades of gray, seems to ripple like the surface of a tranquil pond under the night sky. Around the building, wildflowers and lush greenery are allowed to grow with minimal human intervention, a living mosaic that celebrates the Moon Goddess’s gifts of fertility and growth.

As they approach, the wooden doors of the church, intricately carved with motifs of lunar cycles and agricultural symbols, stand open, inviting all who seek the Moon Goddess's blessings. The sound of a gentle breeze playing through the leaves of the surrounding trees whispers a welcome, blending with the distant hum of the village behind them.

Inside, the sanctuary is bathed in a serene light, filtered through stained glass windows that depict scenes of harvest, renewal, and the cyclic beauty of the natural world. The interior is simple yet elegant, with wooden pews arranged to face an altar where a silver crescent moon, the symbol of the Moon Goddess, is prominently displayed. The air is filled with the faint scent of lavender and sage, calming the spirit and reinforcing the connection between the divine and the earthly.

Within the hallowed walls of the Sanctuaire d’Aurargentvie, the vibrant energy of the Days of Silver Festivals seems to dim to a whisper, replaced by the sacred silence and the soft, ambient light filtering through the stained glass. The church, a sanctuary for those seeking the Moon Goddess's guidance or offering their thanks for her bounties, hosts a sparse congregation today. Most of the town and its visitors, along with the majority of the Lucinic Brotherhood, have joined in the festival's celebrations, leaving the church in a state of serene quietude, punctuated only by the footsteps and murmured prayers of the devout few.

Erlathan and Sirena enter this tranquil atmosphere, their quest momentarily blending with the personal journeys of the others within. They observe a handful of individuals scattered among the pews, each lost in their own devotions or contemplations. The air carries the faint scent of incense, grounding the senses and focusing the mind on the divine.

At the church's heart, near the altar beneath the gleaming symbol of the crescent moon, stands a middle-aged woman whose vestments mark her as a member of the Lucinic Brotherhood. Her attire, though modest, is adorned with symbols of the Moon Goddess, woven with care and reverence. She is locked in conversation with a young man, his own garb a contrast of martial readiness and spiritual devotion, the chain mail beneath his cloak glinting in the light. His vestments, distinct from those of the Brotherhood, suggest an affiliation with another order, perhaps one that marries the martial with the mystical.

Their exchange is animated, yet retains a level of discretion, their voices a blend of earnestness and restraint. It's clear from their body language and the occasional gesture to the symbols around them that the discussion carries weight, touching upon matters of faith, duty, or perhaps a convergence of both.

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 100):

Alaric
In the dappled shade of the Iron Tree Square, the nobleman, with the effortless grace of one born to nobility, turns his keen gaze upon Alaric. His posture, relaxed yet inherently regal, and the subtle play of light and shadow across his finely tailored garments, lends him an almost ethereal quality.

"My name is Seigneur Étienne de Marceau d’Boudin-Lautte," says the nobleman with an open smile. "Though I doubt that means much to someone unfamiliar with these lands, such as yourself. But the lady of whom you speak, you may refer to her as Gisele, a companion of mine."

His smile shifts into flicker of amusement. "It was she who upon observing your exchange with that mundane jobsworthy these simple people keep as a bailiff, felt compelled to bring to my attention your presence in Abondavie. One of my many fascinations, you see, extends to the vast and untamed expanses of the north, a region from which you hail, if I'm not mistaken. The Goddess certainly does give favors on this holy day, does she not?"

Seigneur Étienne waves a hand crowned with fanciful rings. "But my curiosity isn't as much piqued by where you come from, at least at this moment. No, it is your fascination towards this arboreal marvel that intrigues me more. He sweeps the whole of the Iron Tree Square with open arms. "Observe its stature, it commanding presence amidst our surroundings."

He then points to the tree, whose dark, marvelous bark seems to shimmer with otherworldly pride. "Indeed, it is an oak of remarkable quality, yet still, at its core, merely an oak. Contrastingly, where one might anticipate the effigy of a distinguished hero or illustrious founder, here we find... a tree. A decision made by forebears long past, to plant and then persistently nurture this living monument."

Almost with a laugh, he pauses. He reaches toward the tree's bole, wider than several men standing side-by-side, but does not touch the revered oak. "It prompts one to ponder, do the denizens of this place truly grasp the myriad secrets it may hold, or comprehend the raison d'être of such a venerable being? I hardly dare ask aloud: does anyone truly know such things?"

He withdraws his hand and turns his eyes, wild with intellectual interest, back onto Alaric. "I must know, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 102):

Sirena tries to identify the man's vestments, as they look religious in nature.

rolled a 11+3 (total 14) for Religion (Intelligence) skill check

Set against the man's azure tabard is stitched a complex compass rose of gold, its point stretching out in eight directions. A twisting rope of burgundy encircles and encloses the compass. In addition to the tabard, the man wears a cape that reaches to his lower back. The upper portions of the cape, which are fastened to his shoulders by engraved pauldrons, is a stark white that fades to the dark blue of twilight at the cape's end. Sirena has encountered this symbol before and knows it well: the person bearing it is an official with the Church of the Eternal Archive, a branch of the Protectorate's official religion.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:19, Tue 20 Feb.

In reply to Etienne de Marceau d'Boudin-Lautte (msg # 103):

"It is a marvel," Alaric concurred, his tone reverent as he cast his gaze upon the ancient oak. "Though, beg your pardon Seigneur, not as great as the Grandmother of the Wood near my home." A nostalgic smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he recounted the splendor of his homeland. "It takes six grown men with outstretched arms to encircle her girth and her boughs would shade nearly this entire square. The elders say she is as old as the world itself," he added, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes, "and that magic dwells in her heart. I never saw such there, but her grove was always a peaceful place."

As Alaric reflected upon the nobleman's query, a flicker of introspection crossed his features. "I believe," he began slowly, his voice infused with quiet conviction, "that each of us carries within us a fragment of the truth, a piece of the puzzle waiting to be uncovered." His words resonated with a sense of simple wisdom, born of a life spent wandering the untamed expanses of the north. "Perhaps it is through our collective curiosity and reverence that we may come to know the secrets of this venerable being."

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 101):

During the pause between sets, the bard makes a point of finding the aforementioned Chateau Bleufron and having his midday meal there, looking at the business and environment. Perhaps, if he's lucky, he'll have a chance to hear one of the more famous Tales told in La Halte des Histoires. Perhaps it will provide inspiration for the final set.

Jessica just shrugs at the man next to her. She does not want to get any closer because she does not want to be petrified. It was not worth it. So she asks, "By your estimate how many feathers do you think it has?"

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 99):

Togrirr
As the officiator signals the start of the match, Togrirr wastes no time. With a fierce determination etched across his features, he launches into the bout with a powerful stroke, his arm driving forward with the unstoppable force of a tempest. Racnvaldr's hand moves perilously close to the table in a sudden display of Togrirr's might and the intensity of his opening gambit.

But Racnvaldr is no stranger to the pressures of the final round. With a steely resolve that has seen him through countless challenges, he rallies against Togrirr's onslaught. Matching the bugbear's ferocious strength with his own, Racnvaldr steadies his position, his muscles tensing as he prepares for his counter. In a display of sheer power and determination, he executes a surge of force, pushing back against Togrirr with all the might his storied career has granted him. Slowly, inexorably, Racnvaldr's hand moves back to the center, resetting the contest to a neutral position.

Now locked in a stalemate, both competitors strain against each other, their faces a mask of concentration and exertion. The crowd watches, breathless, as Togrirr and Racnvaldr engage in a battle of wills, each seeking the slightest advantage, the smallest opening that might allow them to claim victory. Their arms tremble with the effort, a physical manifestation of the inner struggle to overcome not just their opponent, but the limits of their own endurance.

Though Togrirr managed an early lead on the scale, Racnvaldr succeeded in resisting and using his only power surge of the round to push the scale back to 0-0. Togrirr, please make three more Athletics (Strength) checks. If you feel like there are other skill checks or saving throws you'd like to try to gain an advantage, roll them, let me know the justification, and I'll decide if the rationale is sufficient.

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 106):

Alaric
Seigneur Étienne listens intently to Alaric's description of the Grandmother of the Wood, his expression a blend of fascination and thoughtful musing. As Alaric speaks of the ancient tree's majesty and the peace of its grove, Étienne's gaze drifts momentarily towards the Iron Tree, as if drawing parallels between the two.

With a soft chuckle that seems to carry both amusement and a hint of philosophical depth, Étienne responds. "Ah, the wonders of nature and the tales we weave around them," he muses, his voice a melody of eloquent reflection. "You speak of the Grandmother of the Wood with such reverence, attributing to her age, size, and even a hint of magic. And yet, I find myself pondering—what purpose do these stories serve?"

He gestures languidly towards the Iron Tree, then to the bustling square around them. "Here stands an oak, remarkable in its own right, yet fundamentally, it is just a tree. Elsewhere, a rock upon the hill, a statue in the square—mere objects, all. And yet, we imbue them with meaning, cloak them in secrets and tales. Why do we seek to ascribe such significance to the natural and the crafted alike?"

Étienne's eyes, alight with the spark of intellectual inquiry, fix upon Alaric once more. "Is it, perhaps, our attempt to find connection in a world vast beyond our understanding? Or maybe it is our way of making the mundane magnificent, of finding the divine in the everyday. Do these stories, these meanings we attach, elevate our existence, or are they but a veil we cast over the simplicity of reality?"

His question, posed with genuine curiosity, invites Alaric into a dance of ideas—a contemplation of the human need to find depth and narrative in the world around them. "In the end," Étienne concludes, his tone softening to a more introspective note, "does the significance we place upon these beings and objects change their nature, or does it merely alter our perception of them? I have my thoughts, but am curious to know yours."

For clarification, Chateau Bleufron is the name of her estate. The La Halte des Histoires is the name of her tavern.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 107):

Trésor
In the heart of Abondavie, where the mirth of the festival fills every nook and cranny, stands La Halte des Histoires—a tavern renowned not just for its libations but as a crucible of tales and songs, a hearth around which the souls of the town and its surrounding environs gather. Its façade, a charming blend of timber and stone, speaks of an age when craftsmanship and beauty walked hand in hand. The windows, paned with glass that catches the setting sun, cast a kaleidoscope of light that dances across the cobblestones, beckoning travelers and locals alike to its welcoming doors.

As Trésor steps inside, the warmth of the tavern wraps around him like a well-loved cloak. The air is thick with the aroma of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread, mingling with the tang of ale and the rich, earthy scent of oak. The interior is a cozy tapestry of wood and warmth; beams crisscross the ceiling, from which hang lanterns that bathe the room in a soft, golden glow. Tables of polished wood, each bearing the marks and memories of countless gatherings, are scattered throughout, surrounded by chairs and benches that invite weary travelers to rest and revel.

At the heart of La Halte des Histoires stands the bar, a magnificent edifice of dark wood that shines under the lantern light. Behind it, a middle-aged woman presides in lieu of Isolde who remains out in the green helping to officiate the music competition. The woman's laughter rings out as she serves her patrons with a deft hand and a kind word. The walls, lined with shelves brimming with bottles of all shapes and hues, also hold a myriad of objects—each a silent story, a memory of adventures past and legends born within these very walls.

The tavern hums with the energy of its patrons, a symphony of voices that rise and fall in the rhythm of shared tales and songs. Minstrels, their fingers dancing over the strings of lutes and lyres, fill the air with music that ranges from the deeply moving to the uproariously festive. La Halte des Histoires is more than a place of refreshment; it is a sanctuary where the spirit of Abondavie, its joy, its sorrow, its undying hope, is enshrined in melody and word.

After a few sips of his drink and bites of his food, Trésor finds himself in conversation with a patron who is crammed into a booth with him. This man of many decades greets Trésor with a warm smile and hearty laugh. Introducing himself as Henri le Doux, owner of Abondavie's Le Mie d'Or (the Golden Crum Bakery), the man excitedly asks, "Are you not the bard who called the heavens down with your lute in the competition?"

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 108):

Jessica
The half-elf's eyes sparkle with amusement at her cautious approach to the feather-guessing game, and a smile plays upon his lips.

"Oh, my dear lady, are we to enter into a partnership in this delightful endeavor?" he inquires, his tone imbued with a playful mirth. "For if that is the case, I find myself at a distinct advantage, not having yet made your acquaintance."

He extends a hand in a gesture that is both gallant and inviting, his smile widening. "I am Alon of Cent-Auben, at your service. And who do I have the pleasure of conspiring with on this fine day?" Alon's approach, disarmingly friendly and devoid of any presumption, mirrors the ease and grace of a well-regarded socialite, accustomed to making acquaintances feel at ease.

In reply to Etienne de Marceau d'Boudin-Lautte (msg # 110):

As Alaric's gaze lingered on the ancient oak, a sense of reverence washed over him. The tree stood as a silent sentinel amidst the bustling square, its gnarled branches reaching towards the sky with an air of timeless wisdom. Beside him, Seigneur Étienne posed his questions, prompting Alaric to delve into the depths of his connection to the natural world.

With a solemn nod, Alaric began to speak, his voice resonating with reverence and conviction. "Respectfully, Seigneur Étienne, I must offer a different perspective," he began, his words carrying the weight of a lifetime spent in communion with the forests of the north. "Trees are not mere objects—they are living beings, each one possessing its own essence, its own story."

Alaric gestured towards the Iron Tree with fluid, deliberate movements, his eyes alight with fervent passion. "Consider this oak," he continued, his voice filled with awe. "It is more than just wood and bark. It is a keeper of secrets, a witness to the passage of time. Beneath its branches, countless lives have unfolded, each one leaving its mark upon the earth."

His words resonated with a deep sense of reverence for the natural world. "To me, trees are not objects to be adorned with meaning," he explained. "They are companions, guides, and guardians of the land. They speak to us in whispers carried upon the wind, offering wisdom that transcends the bounds of human understanding."

Alaric paused, allowing his words to sink in, before continuing with quiet determination. "In my eyes, the significance we ascribe to trees does not change their nature—it merely acknowledges the profound interconnectedness of all living things. For in the language of the forest, every tree has a story to tell, and every story has the power to shape our perception of the world around us."

With a final glance towards the towering branches of the Iron Tree, Alaric fell silent, his heart filled with a sense of wonder and reverence for the sacred bond that unites all living beings in the dance of existence. Then, seizing upon a moment of connection, he ventured further.

"Forgive me for my curiosity, Seigneur Étienne," Alaric said tentatively, his tone respectful. "Have you, by chance, crossed paths with another man bearing the markings of my homeland? I seek a man named Thorald, with hair the color of burnished oak and a crippled hand. He too would have been drawn to this place had he seen the tree."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:45, Wed 21 Feb.

Togrirr grins as his arm is pushed back to the starting position, the stout dwarf seemingly determined to showcase why he is the current champion.

Relentless, the bugbear keeps pushing, determined to win the match.

Gonna stick to pushing, saving the Power Surge for a time of need. Resist is kinda hard to use going first, since I don't get to see what rolls I am against. And Togrirr's poker face is too bad to try a feint.

11:12, Today: Togrirr rolled 26 using 1d20+7.  Push 1. – 26
11:12, Today: Togrirr rolled 20 using 1d20+7.  Push 2. – 20
11:12, Today: Togrirr rolled 13 using 1d20+7.  Push 3. – 13
This message was last edited by the player at 14:19, Wed 21 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 112):

    At the inn, Trésor makes a point of trying a little sampling of the specialties of the house, always looking for new experiences. Moderation is the key in both food and drink, and he sticks to a single tapped beer during his meal. Absorbing the ambiance of the business, he can't help but smile at all the high spirits of the patrons and staff, and he knows this is a place of healing for the soul as was promised.
    When Henri strikes up a conversation, Trésor has no issues and finds himself responding in kind. "Well, yes, I did find some success with my performance on stage today. While I wouldn't go so far as to say I had called down the heavens, I DO hope that the Gods and Goddesses found time to listen to my tune and enjoy it. I hope to do as well for my last song. Either way, thank you for the compliment, friend! A marvelous Inn here, don't you think so?"

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 102):

As they walked through the streets the tension in Erlathan refused to settle. It wasn't until they reached the edge of the town did he feel somewhat more comfortable, the sight of trees a welcome respite from the walls of timber and people. Despite his emotions he couldn't help but admire the structure of the church as they entered it's walls. It seemed to fuse the impressiveness he had seen of civilization with the familiarity of the woods he had called home. Everything about the place, even the scent, seemed to urge him to relax and fought against the fire inside him.

The elf noted the few others but once he determined they were lost in thought he focused on the two people near the alter. Erlathan had mistaken Sirena for a member of the Lucinic Brotherhood but as he observed the symbols of the moon he was confident the woman in front of them was who he sought. Already engaged in conversation he hesitated and glanced at Sirena, curious if she would move forward. He waited a few moments, his foot tapped the floor as his impatience warred against decorum. It wasn't long before his patience evaporated and he approached the two at the alter. "Pardon my intrusion, but I must speak with the Lucinic Brotherhood at once. I bring warning of a terrible darkness that has appeared in the forest. I seek healers who might help stem the tide of blight that grows."

Maria shakes the half elf's hand firmly. Her father always taught her that one of the best ways to make a good impression was to have a firm but not crushing handshake when offered. She looks directly at the half elf and says, "Jessica Darkwood. I could sneak in to get a better look but I don't want to be petrified by the animal. Not worth it."

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 114):

Alaric
Seigneur Étienne listens to Alaric's passionate defense of the intrinsic value and wisdom of trees with a reflective poise, his expression one of genuine intrigue touched by a playful skepticism.

"Ah, my dear Alaric, your words paint a vivid tableau, one rich with the verdant hues of life and the deep, resonant whispers of nature," Étienne begins, his voice a blend of admiration and gentle challenge. "You speak of trees as though they were ancient sages, their stories woven into the very fabric of the land. A romantic notion, indeed, and one that speaks to the heart."

He pauses, his gaze drifting momentarily to the Iron Tree, as if contemplating its silent narrative before continuing. "Yet, permit me to weave a thread of inquiry into the tapestry of our discourse. Do you not think, perhaps, that our propensity to venerate such entities is itself a construct, nurtured by the same societal institutions we so often seek to transcend? Could it be that the reverence we hold for this oak, and others like it, is but a reflection of values imparted upon us, rather than a universal truth?"

"Consider," he adds with a charming tilt of his head, "the myriad cultures across our world, each with its own set of revered symbols and totems. Is it not possible that what we ascribe significance to is less a matter of inherent value and more a testament to the stories we have been told to believe? Too often, things and ideas have power only because we've been told they have power, and so unknowingly we grant them our will and devotion. Take the Horn of Plenty for example. It's a simple enough device, yet its grip over these people and dare I say the whole of the March is nearly inviolate. The March Priest gives her commands, horn in hand, and people move accordingly. But should it be this way? Should you allow your understanding of the world be shaped by stories of things told to you by those who would have your will their own?"

So caught up in his philosophical musings, Étienne only manages a cursory acknowledgement of Alaric's last question. "Ah, a man named Thorald, you say? Forgive me, but despite the many souls that cross my path, no such individual bearing the marks of your homeland and the characteristics you've described has come to my attention."

In reply to Etienne de Marceau d'Boudin-Lautte (msg # 119):

As the nobleman's voice fills the air with its blend of admiration and gentle provocation, Alaric's brow furrows in contemplation, his own convictions tested by the weight of Étienne's inquiry. At the end, though he had anticipated the answer to his query about his father, he couldn’t help but feel disappointment.

With a thoughtful nod, he begins to respond, his voice measured yet resolute. "Your words carry wisdom, Seigneur Étienne," he begins, his tone respectful. "It is true that our perceptions of significance are shaped by the stories we are told, and the values instilled upon us by society."

He pauses, casting a thoughtful glance towards the Iron Tree, its ancient branches swaying gently in the breeze. "Yet, I cannot help but feel that there is a deeper truth to be found in the reverence we hold for the natural world," Alaric continues, his gaze returning to Étienne's. "For me, the connection I feel to the trees and the land is not merely a product of societal conditioning, but a fundamental aspect of my being. I feel more alive, more aware, among the trees of the forest than here in town."

"In the forests of the north, I have witnessed the intricate dance of life and death, the cycle of renewal that sustains us all," he explains. "To me, trees are not symbols to be revered, but living beings with whom we share a sacred bond. They offer us shelter, sustenance, even wisdom, if only we take the time to listen."

Then, a furrow appears between Alaric's brows as he continues, his voice thoughtful. "Yet, if this reverence for the natural world is not rooted in some universal truth, how then do we explain its widespread presence across cultures and civilizations?" he asks, his tone earnest. "Surely, there must be some intrinsic value, some fundamental understanding that transcends the boundaries of language and belief."

Alaric's gaze searches Étienne's face for a moment, seeking understanding. "Could it be," he muses, "that our reverence for trees and the natural world is a reflection of a deeper, innate connection—one that speaks to the very essence of what it means to be human?"

Sorry about that. I didn't think through the ramifications of having you go first every time.

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 115):

Togrirr
In the pulsing arena of the arm wrestling showdown, a spectacle unlike any other unfolds, drawing every eye, every breath towards the center of the storm. Here, under the open blue sky of the late morning, Togrirr the bugbear and Racnvaldr the dwarf continue their bout, locked in a titanic struggle that transcends competition into a battle of wills, a test of the spirit.

The air around them crackles with the electricity of anticipation, the crowd a living, breathing entity that feeds on the drama unfolding. Spectators stand shoulder to shoulder, a sea of faces illuminated by the fervor of the moment, their cheers and cries a chorus that swells with each passing second.

Togrirr, with the wild strength of the untamed forests coursing through his veins, assaults the contest with a ferocity that is both awe-inspiring and intimidating. But Racnvaldr is not a champion of past competitions without reason. With a resolve as unyielding as the mountains from which he hails, he rallies against Togrirr's might. The onlookers roar their approval, their excitement reaching a fever pitch as the two warriors find themselves continually locked in a stalemate, neither yielding an inch.

The battle rages on, a dance of push and pull, of advance and retreat, played out on the stage of their intertwined arms. Sweat beads on furrowed brows, muscles strain and tremble under the immense pressure, yet neither Togrirr nor Racnvaldr falters. They are titans clashing in a world that has shrunk to the span of the arm wrestling table between them.

And then, with a sudden shift in momentum, Togrirr summons a burst of strength from the very depths of his being. His arm moves, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, driving Racnvaldr's hand back, back, until it hovers just a breath above the wood of the table. The square is silent for a heartbeat, the crowd holding its collective breath as the moment of victory teeters on the edge of reality.

Racnvaldr's hand, trembling with the effort of resistance, refuses to yield. His eyes, locked on Togrirr's, burn with a defiance that belies his precarious position. The bugbear's arm, poised to deliver the final blow, is a symbol of his journey, of every challenge faced and overcome.

The air is thick with suspense, the outcome of the showdown hanging in the balance. Will Togrirr's next move crown him as the new champion, or does Racnvaldr have yet another surprise in store? The crowd leans in, every muscle coiled in anticipation, as the saga of strength and willpower reaches its crescendo...

Togrirr, give me one more Athletics (Strength) skill check, with advantage, please.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 116):

Trésor
Henri le Doux, a man whose hands have known the tender shaping of dough and the warmth of the oven's embrace, meets Trésor's enthusiasm with a smile as comforting as the bread he bakes. "Ah, you've certainly caught the ear of the gods with your melodies, if the buzz around town is anything to go by. And this tavern," he gestures expansively, encompassing the warmth and lively spirit of La Halte des Histoires with a sweep of his hand, "is indeed a marvel. A jewel in the heart of Abondavie, it is."

Settling back into the booth, Henri's eyes take on the soft glow of a man about to share a beloved tale. "You see, this place is much more than just a tavern. It's a cornerstone of our history, built by the very founders of Abondavie. Back then, this land was wild, untamed, and our forebears faced threats that would chill the marrow in your bones. La Halte des Histoires became a beacon, a gathering place for those brave souls who ventured into the darkness to keep us safe. They shared tales of their exploits over ale and bread, much like we do now, though the tales have changed."

His hands, rough from years of kneading and shaping, fold together on the table as he continues. "There were no nobles then, no kings or queens. Just a community, bound by courage and the will to survive. This tavern, it predates the Protectorate itself, standing as a silent witness to our growth, our triumphs, and our sorrows."

"Ah, the innkeepers over the years have kept this place true to what it was meant to be. Every owner of La Halte des Histoires has been a teller of history in their own right, each adding their thread to the tapestry of this place. Isolde," he says, a fond chuckle escaping him, "she's a remarkable halfling, that one. She was a partner to the previous owner before she took over. Her marriage brought her a fortune, yes, but it's her heart that's truly made this place what it is. She's loved by all who come here, carrying on the traditions of the tavern with a grace and warmth that's become rare. She's been a bit scarce of late, though. We miss her, but we know she's tending to matters of the heart and home.

"When she was here, the stories she would tell packed the room... being married to Doréan Lumieré has more benefits than just his wealth. Aside from a celestial voice, that halfling has been around the Protectorate more than most and the things he's seen and done..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:12, Sat 24 Feb.

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 117):

Erlathan
Within the hallowed confines of the Sanctuaire de Lunevie, under the soft, diffused light filtering through the stained-glass depictions of the moon's phases, a heated exchange unfolds at the altar. The middle-aged woman, an acolyte of the Lucinic Brotherhood, stands firm and unyielding before the much younger journeyman from the Church of the Eternal Archive. Their argument, though low and contained, carries the intensity of deeply held convictions clashing.

The woman, with her posture rigid and her voice a controlled blend of authority and exasperation, refuses to yield to the man's assertive demands. Her demeanor, reminiscent of a seasoned mentor accustomed to discipline and order, brooks no argument, her every word laced with a finality that seeks to end the discussion.

The man, despite his youth and the venerable air of entitlement that surrounds him, meets his counterpart's refusals with a resilience born of his own sense of purpose. He argues with a confidence that borders on arrogance, his stance suggesting he is unaccustomed to being denied.

Into this weave of contention steps Erlathan, his patience frayed by urgency. "Pardon my intrusion, but I must speak with the Lucinic Brotherhood at once," he interjects, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "I bring warning of a terrible darkness that has appeared in the forest. I seek healers who might help stem the tide of blight that grows."

The sudden interruption catches both of them off guard, their argument momentarily forgotten in the face of Erlathan's unexpected plea. The woman, though slightly perturbed by the breach in decorum, finds in Erlathan's interruption a welcome diversion from the argumentative stalemate. Her expression, while still stern, softens marginally as she turns her attention to Erlathan, her gaze assessing.

The man, on the other hand, seizes the opportunity to deliver a barbed retort, his tone dripping with a sarcasm poorly veiled as concern. "Ah, and when has the wild forest ever been free of chaos and corruption?" he remarks, his words laced with a skepticism that borders on disdain, his false wonderment a thin veneer over his underlying irritation.

"Your words carry the weight of dire portents," says the Lucinic Brotherhood acolyte with a tone that, while firm, carries an undercurrent of genuine concern and interest. "You speak of a darkness in the forest, a blight growing unchecked. Please, elaborate on what you have witnessed. What exactly is this terrible darkness you mention? And this blight—how has it manifested? Just as important, where exactly."

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 118):

Jessica
Alon returns Jessica's handshake with a grip that is both respectful and warm, his smile broadening in response to her introduction. "Jessica Darkwood, a pleasure indeed. Your caution is both wise and admirable," he begins, his tone light yet laced with an undercurrent of scholarly enthusiasm.

"I once knew a fellow student, a rather bold apprentice, who believed he could outsmart the natural order. Armed with a mirror, he sought to reflect the creature's petrifying gaze back upon itself. Unfortunately, nature often cares little for our academic contrivances. His timing was... less than precise. While he escaped petrification, he did find himself on the receiving end of a rather nasty peck. It took him weeks to recover from the venom."

Alon chuckles softly, the sound rich with warmth and a touch of mirth at the memory. "So, you see, Jessica, your reluctance to sneak in for a closer look is not only prudent but perhaps indicative of a keen survival instinct. Our feathered subject there demands respect, not bravado. And as much as I relish the pursuit of knowledge, I am inclined to agree that the risk of petrification hardly seems worth a closer inspection."

Leaning closer, Alon's expression shifts to one of conspiratorial glee, as if about to share a secret between newfound friends. "You know, Jessica, thanks to some acquaintances here in Abondavie and a bit of nimble conversation with the creature's handlers, I managed to secure an early look at our feathered enigma," he whispers, his voice low and tinged with excitement.

With a flourish, he produces a piece of parchment from within his cloak, unfolding it to reveal a series of meticulous notes and sketches that capture the essence of the cockatrice in surprising detail.

"Here, take a look," he invites, spreading the parchment between them so Jessica can see. "I've noted its size, the pattern of its feathers, even the peculiar curl of its tail. But despite my best efforts, the exact number of feathers eludes me. Perhaps, with your insights and my preliminary observations, we might just unravel this mystery together."

His eyes, bright with the prospect of collaboration, meet Jessica's. "What do you say? Shall we compare our findings? With your keen eye and my detailed notes, I dare say we stand the best chance of arriving at the closest answer without risking the ire of our petrified friend."

Jessica, if you choose to make a team with Alon, go ahead and re-roll you previous Intelligence check, with advantage.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:00, Sat 24 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 122):

As the hands start approaching the table, Togrirr lets out a yell that sounds more like a roar, as he feels the pain in his arm increase because of the exertion. By this point, he is pretty certain that fighting the dwarf is the equivalent of ripping a small tree clean out of the ground in terms of strenght. For a moment, he forgets completely about the prize money and the praise of the cheering crowd. The feat of winning against such a strong oponent would be a reward in and of itself.


14:50, Today: Togrirr rolled 22 using 2d20+7, dropping the lowest dice only ((9,15)).

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 120):

Alaric
Seigneur Étienne listens attentively to Alaric’s heartfelt exposition, the nobleman's expression one of thoughtful engagement, his eyes reflecting a keen intellect that parses each word for its deeper meaning. As Alaric concludes, Étienne allows a moment of silence to pass, a gesture of respect for the depth of feeling conveyed, before articulating his response with eloquent precision.

"You speak of an innate connection to the natural world, a bond so profound that it seems to defy the constructs of society and culture," Étienne begins, his voice smooth and compelling.

He pauses, considering his next words with care. "Yet, consider we must, how the intrinsic value we ascribe to such entities as trees and forests is interpreted and understood within the framework established by those who wield influence over knowledge, over history, over the collective consciousness of our societies. It is they who shape the narratives, they who guide the pen that writes the stories we come to accept as truth. The widespread reverence you mention, present across diverse cultures and civilizations, indeed suggests a common thread woven into the very fabric of  existence. However, the interpretation of this reverence, the meaning we derive from our interactions with the natural world, is invariably filtered through the lens of those who hold sway over our shared meanings. So it may seem that the universal presence you suggest is less about a collective connection to the natural and higher orders, but more fundamentally a universal truth that those in power use our natural inclination toward symbols to exert influence and control."

"Alas." With a graceful gesture, Étienne acknowledges the significance of their exchange. "Your perspective, Alaric, is both refreshing and profound, a reminder of the myriad ways in which we seek to understand our place in the world. It would be a privilege to include you in one of my salon discussions, where minds of philosophical inclination gather to unravel the mysteries of existence."

As though about to take his leave, Étienne hesitates, a new curiosity piqued. "But before I depart, permit me one final inquiry. For what purpose do you seek this man, Thorald? The nature of your quest, it seems, carries with it implications far-reaching and, perhaps, intertwined with the very themes we have pondered."

How do you envision Togrirr's mighty victory over the dwarf?

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 128):

When the back of Racnvaldr's hand touched the table, there was a moment of silence. Togrirr kept pressing the hand onto the table for a few seconds, seemingly unaware that he had won the tournament, until the cheering erupted in the crowd. The bugbear looked back up, and locked eyes with the dwarf.

"Good ma-"

He wasn't able to finish the sentence, as he was lifted by a dozen or so people, too intoxicated and euphoric to realize that they were lifting an entire bugbear. They did their best to throw Togrirr into the air, but without any sort of coordination they only dropped the laughing champion onto the floor.

After the excitement had died down a bit, Togrirr got himself back up and returned to Racnvaldr. "Good match. I think I might have torn a muscle there"

In reply to Etienne de Marceau d'Boudin-Lautte (msg # 127):

As Alaric locks eyes with Étienne, a blend of gratitude and curiosity fills his gaze, appreciating the nobleman's recognition of his perspective. "Thank you, Seigneur Étienne," he responds, his voice humbled. "You honor me with your invitation."

Sensing a shift in Étienne's demeanor as he hints at departing, Alaric's interest is piqued, recognizing a new line of inquiry emerging. "Of course," Alaric answers, his expression thoughtful. "My pursuit of Thorald stems from deep familial bonds and a quest for understanding. He's my father, you see, who vanished to fulfill some mysterious duty, leaving our family fractured. Tragedy followed in his absence, death claimed my sisters and my mother. In her final moments, she charged me: to seek out and bring him back."

Jessica does her best to try and figure out the number of feathers the cockatrice has.

23:43, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 14 using 1d20+5.  Advantage roll 2. – 14

23:43, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 10 using 1d20+5.  Advantage Roll 1. – 10

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 130):

Alaric
Seigneur Étienne listens to Alaric's revelation with an air of detached yet polite interest, the nobleman's demeanor remaining impeccably composed. The depth of personal tragedy conveyed does not seem to penetrate the veneer of aristocratic reserve, yet his response carries the appropriate measure of social grace.

"Ah, I see. A quest of such personal magnitude indeed sheds light on the fervor with which you seek," Étienne replies, his tone maintaining a courteous neutrality. "The bonds of family and the shadows of duty intertwine in ways most complex. I wish you luck in your quest, Alaric."

As he prepares to take his leave, Étienne offers one final piece of advice. "Should you desire to renew our acquaintance or find yourself in need of guidance, speak with my chamberlain, Bentiste, in the town of Marcellin. He will know how to reach me."

With that, Seigneur Étienne de Marceau d’Boudin-Lautte departs, his silhouette gradually blending with the crowd and the shifting patterns of light and shadow in the Iron Tree Square. His exit is as smooth and unobtrusive as his entrance.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:11, Sun 25 Feb.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 131):

Jessica
After pooling their observations and insights, Jessica and Alon arrive at a number that feels just right, a harmonious blend of careful calculation and intuitive guesswork. They approach the master of the competition with a shared sense of accomplishment, their guess submitted with hopeful anticipation. As they step aside, allowing the flow of the festival's participants to continue their own assessments, a moment of calm settles between them, a brief pause in the day's excitement to reflect on their collaboration.

Alon turns to Jessica, his expression one of genuine admiration and curiosity. "You know, Jessica, I couldn't help but notice your keen interest in our feathered conundrum and the intellect you've applied to this challenge," he begins, his voice carrying a note of respect and a hint of intrigue. "It's not every day that someone with your observational acuity and clear reasoning passes through Abondavie."

He leans slightly closer, his demeanor inviting and open, encouraging a deeper exchange. "I find myself most intrigued by your presence here and the path that's led you to this moment. Abondavie, for all its charms, it often plays host to the same familiar faces and tales, or so it seems to me during my times of passing through. Someone of your like, with a mind as sharp as yours, surely carries a story worth hearing. Would you indulge my curiosity and share a bit more of your background with me?"

Jessica, you and Alon are awaiting the rest of the guesses to be submitted before the winner is announced, which in-game appears to be soon.

Smoke chooses to search for a plate painted with five moons first. For this task, Smoke will utilize Insight. While Insight is traditionally used to determine the true intentions of a person, in this context, Smoke will apply it to gauge which vendors or locals might possess knowledge about such a distinctive item or to deduce where in the village such an item might be displayed, based on the behavior and reactions of the festival-goers.

Smoke's keen observation skills and ability to read people make Insight a natural choice. He can observe the crowd's dynamics, noticing if anyone seems particularly protective or proud of their wares, or if there's whispered conversation about a specific stall or house displaying unique items. Furthermore, his background in smuggling has honed his ability to notice out-of-place details that others might overlook, helping him deduce where the plate might be found.

Insight (Wisdom) skill check roll 19+5 (24)

In reply to Etienne de Marceau d'Boudin-Lautte (msg # 132):

Alaric listens to Étienne's response with a mixture of appreciation and understanding, recognizing the polite yet detached demeanor of the nobleman. Despite the lack of overt emotion, Alaric feels a sense of validation in sharing his story, grateful for Étienne's acknowledgment of the magnitude of his quest.

"Thank you again, Seigneur Étienne," Alaric replies, his voice steady. "Your words of encouragement mean more than you know. I will heed your advice and seek you out if ever the need arises."

With a respectful nod, Alaric watches as Étienne departs, his thoughts lingering on the nobleman's parting words. Alaric takes a moment to collect himself, feeling a renewed sense of determination to continue his quest for Thorald.

Returning his attention towards the musical competition, Alaric feels a surge of anticipation, the melodies beckoning him back into the rhythm of village life. With a determined stride, he makes his way back to the gathering, his heart lighter and his spirits lifted by the promise of music and camaraderie.

As he settles into a spot among the audience, Alaric allows himself to be swept away by the enchanting melodies, finding solace and strength in the harmonies that fill the air. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the crowd and the beauty of the music, Alaric finds a fleeting respite from the weight of his quest, embracing the simple joys of the festival.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 134):

Smoke
Smoke, with the keen eyes of a seasoned observer, sets out on his quest for the plate adorned with five moons. His background as a smuggler has honed his skills in reading people and situations, an ability he now turns to a more benign, though no less challenging, endeavor. The roll of the fate favors him, a gift for his adeptness and perhaps a touch of fortune's smile.

As he moves through the throngs of festival-goers, Smoke’s gaze sweeps across the vibrant tapestry of Abondavie’s village center, where stalls brim with goods ranging from the mundane to the exotic. The air is thick with the scent of spices and fresh bread, mingling with the more subtle undertones of leather and wood from craftsman's stands. Amidst this sensory tapestry, Smoke’s insight guides him with unerring precision.

His attention is drawn to a particular stall, nestled between a boisterous tavern and a quiet bookseller's nook, its presence almost unassuming yet unmistakably unique. The stall is draped in fabrics of deep blue and silver, reminiscent of the night sky, an homage to the Moon Goddess worshipped in these parts. The vendor, a woman of middle years with a gentle smile and eyes that speak of stories untold, presides over her collection of pottery and ceramics with a quiet pride.

With the subtlety of a shadow, Smoke approaches, his demeanor casual yet observant. The plates on display show the artisan’s skill, each piece a canvas for tales rendered in glaze and clay. And there, among the myriad designs, he finds it—a small plate of artful craftsmanship, its surface a dance of five moons in various phases, painted with such precision that they seem to glow with an inner light.

The woman notices his interest, and her smile widens. "Ah, you have an eye for stories," she comments, her voice a melody woven into the hum of the marketplace. "This plate, it is one of my favorites. Inspired by the tales of old, the cycles of the moon, and the ebb and flow of life here in Abondavie."

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 136):

"You've got quite the collection here," Smoke begins, his fingers lightly tapping against one of the stall's wooden poles. "I’m actually in the middle of this scavenger hunt. Finding a plate with five moons painted on it was the challenge. Seems fate decided to steer me right to your stall."

Smoke's demeanor, a blend of earnest appeal and the underlying resilience of someone who has seen much, softens the edges of his request. "Would you be willing to part with it? For the hunt, of course. I will return it, I swear."
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:35, Mon 26 Feb.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 137):

Smoke
The woman behind the stall, a hint of amusement in her eyes, gives Smoke a look that's both appreciative and a tad skeptical. She wipes her hands on her apron. "Well, I'm glad fate's got a sense of direction, at least today," she starts. "And I'll admit, it's a fine choice for a scavenger hunt. You've got an eye on you."

She picks up the plate, examining it. "But here's the rub," she continues, waving the plate lightly in her hand. "If I let every participant in the hunt walk off with my plates, even with promises of return, I'd soon have none left to sell. And a potter without her pottery is like a fish out of water—useless and, frankly, a bit sad."

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 124):

Erlathan had regained some of his composure when he had entered the church, but the man's casual dismissal of his plight reignited the flame in him. Ignorant and uncaring of who the man was the elf clenched his fists and glared. Before he could shout out his anger at the man the acolyte intervened. It was a brief moment but it was enough to collect his senses. There were more important things than his ego.

So instead Erlathan briefly bowed to the woman and focused his attention on her. Like he had with Sierna before he introduced himself, stated his connection to the Thorn Blades, and displayed the symbol on his neck. "This is no normal corruption, this was an army. They attacked in the dead of night, seeming to rise from the shadows themselves. They were other worldly in appearance, using blades and bows of materials I did not recognize. Their weapons were laced with some substance which poisoned man and nature alike. Their magic decayed anything it touched and replaced it with a blight. My people were slaughtered that night."

"I tried to track them the next morning but the blight they leave has made traversal an obstacle. They are carving some sort of magical symbols into trees to spread their corruption. I have heard that the Lucinic Brotherhood were healers so I have come to request your aid. If something is not done their tainted magic will continue to spread. Please, you must gather forces to fight back against this new threat."

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 123):

     "Amazing! I've never been in such a place where multiple generations have carried forward a tradition of stories and history as this one has! What a wonderful place to spend a few weeks taking in what it has heard in it's foundation and walls. Honour to this place and all it's supporters! I've met the fine Lady at the contest, and she impressed me then, as well. I shall have to come here tonight after all is said and done, and open my ears to what is told."
     Trésor thinks back a bit and adds "And even at the contest she did seem distracted by some personal woe that she didn't tell of. I wonder what sad tale there is, now, if it's been this way for a while and her friends such as yourself have taken notice of it. A heart such as hers should not be having such troubles."

Jessica was not one to be rude. But she is not too trusting either. At least not blindly. Her father always taught her to be friendly and polite to strangers but never truly trusting without such strangers earning her truse. She does not know tha man, so she does not reveal much. As much as possible she tries to gage his intentions, looking him straight in the eye but being discreet and nonjudgemental.

"I am just a wizard who travels a lot. Nothing really special about me other than that. What brings you to Abondavie?"

01:53, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 18 using 1d20+4 ((14)).

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 129):

Togrirr
As the back of Racnvaldr's hand met the table with a finality that echoed through Iron Tree Square, a hush fell over the crowd, a collective breath held in anticipation. The moment stretched, a heartbeat where victory and defeat were acknowledged in the quiet before the storm of cheers erupted. Togrirr, still pressing Racnvaldr's hand down, seemed lost in the intensity of the moment, his realization delayed until the crowd's jubilation broke through his concentration.

"Good ma-" he tries to tell the dwarf, but is unable to finish the sentence when suddenly lifted by a dozen or so people, so inebriated with drink and the energy of the moment to realize the size of the person they were lifting. Intoxicated, uncoordinated, and frankly unfit for the task, their attempt to throw Togrirr into the air results in the laughing champion dropping hard to the ground instead.

Getting himself back up, Togrirr returns to Racnvaldr and extends his hand, saying once more, "Good match. I think I might have torn a muscle there"

Racnvaldr, his expression a visible mix of disappointment and respect, accepts the outcome with the stoicism of a seasoned competitor. Grasping the bugbear's hand firmly, he manages a sincere nod of respecting.

The crowd, meanwhile, remains a whirlwind of emotion and activity. Coins change hands with the fluidity of water, as bets are settled amid laughter, groans of disappointment, and the clinking of currency. The air is thick with the aftermath of excitement, the shared experience of the showdown building to euphoria.

Géraud, standing in the center of the crowd near Togrirr and Racnvaldr, wears a sick expression that mingles regret with apprehension. The match's outcome seems to weigh heavily on him, his downcast gaze betraying his inner turmoil. As a member of the crowd approaches, hand outstretched in expectation of payment, Géraud's anxiety became palpable. He fumbles for his purse and begrudgingly hands it over. The recipient tries to rib and cajole Géraud with banter bordering on friendly but mostly steeped in crowing, but Géraud simply walks off, disappearing into the crowd.

In the midst of this, an officiator clambers atop one of the tables, commanding attention with a booming voice. "Let it be known that Togrirr is the Showdown Champion of Abondavie!" The announcement, met with another wave of cheers, solidifies the bugbear's victory, his name now etched in the town's history. "Our champion will receive his well-earned prizes during the supper feast," the officiator continues.

For the sake of moving to the next part of the campaign, Togrirr, let's assume any further mingling you do up to the supper feast is insignificant (at least, story-wise) and takes place "off screen."

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 135):

Alaric
Alaric, for the sake of moving to the next part of the campaign, we'll assume you remain with the music competition without any additional distractions or things of interest happening, other than what takes place on the stage.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:53, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 139):

Erlathan
The acolyte of the Lucinic Brotherhood listens to Erlathan's fervent account with a mixture of concern and perplexity. Her brows furrow in concentration as she attempts to untangle the urgency in his words from the unfamiliar context in which they are framed. "I... see," she begins, her voice measured. "We are indeed healers, dedicated to the preservation of life and the nurturing of the land. Yet, your tale speaks of a darkness and a threat of a nature we are not familiar with, yet."

"Where did this attack occur?" the journeyman from the Church of the Eternal Archive interjects, his tone sharp with curiosity. "I've heard no word of such an event. Your story, while distressing, seems lacking in important details, such as who are you and from whence do you hail?"

Geneviève nods in agreement with Thomas's query, turning her gaze back to Erlathan. "Yes, clarity on the location would help us understand how we might offer assistance. The Lucinic Brotherhood's reach is broad in this realm, yet I do not recognize your countenance nor the places that you speak of."
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:16, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 140):

Trésor
The baker, with a demeanor as warm and inviting as freshly baked bread, gives Trésor a knowing look, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Ah, she's one of the good ones, no doubt about that," he says, leaning back against the booth, his hard-worn hands finding rest on the table. "Lately, though, it's like she's got this little cloud hanging over her. Kinda like the faintest crack in your favorite mug—hard to spot, but once you see it, well, it's all you notice."

He grabs his plate and stands up, his eyes drifting off as if following a thought. "Thing is, we've all been there, haven't we? Some days the bread just won't rise, no matter what you do. Isolde's going through her own rough patch, seems like. But hey, that's life for you. And in this town, nobody has to go it alone. She's got her husband, and she's got all of us."

Turning to walk to the bar, he says in parting, "Like you said, be sure to swing by after the Luminal Jubilee. There'll be stories, sure as there's bread in the oven. And who knows? Perhaps a bit of shared laughter and song is just what's needed to lift the spirits, eh?"

Ready for your final round of the music competition?
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:52, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 141):

Jessica
Alon's eyebrows arch with an affable surprise, a light of welcome curiosity dancing in his gaze as Jessica modestly introduces herself as a traveling wizard. "Indeed? A wizard who traverses the lands?" he exclaims, his voice infused with a cheerful intrigue that sidesteps any hint of disbelief. His smile widens in a manner that renders his scholarly demeanor more approachable, more companionable.

"Such travels, engaging with the very essence of magic," he muses, allowing a brief pause to linger between them, rich with the silent acknowledgment of her unique journey. His eyes briefly wander, capturing the lively essence of Abondavie, before returning to Jessica, now sharpened with a keen focus. "And what, you ask, brings me to charming Abondavie?" he continues, his hands clasping together.

"This town," he gestures with a casual grace, hinting at the bustling life beyond their conversation, "is quite the study, each visit a new page in my study of life. My interests are rather esoteric and refined, you see, but Abondavie offers many things to me. If for nothing else, I stop in on occasion to pay a visit to Albina, though you may hear her referred to more as 'The Squinter' around these parts. Her collection of knowledge, books, nick knacks, and stories are without boundary."

His gaze, now fully alight with the prospect of shared interest in learning, settles on Jessica with an openness that invites confidence. "But a wizard of your youth, charting such a vast and mysterious course—your story must be one of remarkable adventure and insight."

His tone, brimming with genuine respect and an almost boyish excitement for the tales she might share, encourages a deeper exchange. The soft tapping of his finger, barely audible, seems to punctuate the air with unasked questions, with the promise of understanding and camaraderie.

"In this delightful crossroads of lives and tales, your journey, Miss Darkwood, adds a fascinating chapter," he says, his expression earnest, his invitation clear. "I am most eager to hear more of your adventures and insights."

I assumed you were rolling an Insight (Wisdom) skill check. He seems genuine in his presence and curiosity, without ulterior motive.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:51, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 145):

    Spending the remaining time until the competition at the tavern and soaking up the pleasant warmth, Trésor finishes his meal and drink, then heads over to take his place in the line for the last set of the competition. A bit nervous considering his immense success on the prior rounds, he makes sure his lute is in tune and his voice is clear and smooth.
     Going over the few conversations he has had with the townsfolk, he decides on something to lift spirits and brighten hearts is in order, so he tries "A Hearth is a Foundation" - a song about the memories, history and love that a home contains, and how it's preciousness heals.

08:57, Today: Tresor Ne d'elfe rolled 22 using 1d20+6.  DC 10 Performance challenge

     During the course of the ballad, Trésor emphasizes the passion of the music with tumbles and stunts, twirling his lute at appropriate times. Near the final stanzas, he enhances his performance by making himself and his instrument glow (Faerie Fire). While the spell lasts, he moves around the stage, getting close to the audience and focusing his attention during poignant moments, and dismissing the glow when he finishes.

11:26, Today: Tresor Ne d'elfe rolled 10 using 1d20+6.  Acrobatics .
This message was last edited by the player at 19:26, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 147):

Trésor (and Alaric and Togrirr)
As the sun reaches its zenith, bathing the village green in a wash of golden light, Trésor takes his place upon the makeshift stage. The air is alive with anticipation, the crowd a tapestry of villagers and travelers alike, their faces a mirror of the sky's bright clarity.

Trésor begins, his voice a gentle stream that weaves through the crowd, carrying with it the warmth of a hearth's embrace. "A Hearth is a Foundation," he sings, each note a stone laid upon the last, building a home of melody and memory in the hearts of those who listen. The simplicity of the song, its humble origins belied by the depth of emotion it conjures, fills the space between them all, binding performer and audience in a shared reverie of home and heart.

Yet, as the song unfolds, Trésor seeks to elevate his performance with a flourish of physical expression. Like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze, he attempts to tumble and twirl, his lute spinning in his hands—a contestant must not merely sing of passion but embody it for those judging the competition. The crowd watches, breath caught, as the spectacle unfolds, the grace of his movements marred by the occasional misstep, a reminder of the earth from which all leaps must return.

In a moment of transcendent ambition, Trésor casts faerie fire, his form and his instrument alight with an ethereal glow that dances across the visual spectrum. The magic, a visual symphony of color, wraps him in an aura of otherworldly beauty, as if he and his lute have stepped from the realm of the mundane to become emissaries of the fey. He moves about the stage, now a luminous figure against the backdrop of day, each step leaving trails of light that linger in the air like the memory of a shooting star.

Despite the enchanting display, the intricacies of his performance suffer. Notes stray from their intended path, lost in the whirl of motion and light. The lute, an extension of his soul, falters in its song, the harmony fractured by the ambition of spectacle. Yet, the beauty of his voice remains untarnished, a beacon that guides the song home through the tumult of performance.

As the final notes of "A Hearth is a Foundation" fade, the faerie fire extinguishes, leaving behind the simple truth of a song well sung. The crowd, moved by the sincerity and beauty of his voice, erupts into applause, a thunderous cascade of appreciation that speaks to the heart of what it means to perform. They see not the missteps or the missed notes but the courage to share a piece of one's soul through the art of song.

Alaric and Togrirr, for your situational awareness, you are both present for this performance.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:54, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 148):

Trésor (and Alaric and Togrirr)
As the final notes of Trésor's performance linger in the air, blending with the rapturous applause of the audience, Isolde makes her way onto the stage. Her presence is like a beam of sunlight piercing through the canopy of trees, her smile infectious and her energy palpable. She moves with a grace that seems to capture the very essence of the festival's spirit, her approach to Trésor marked by a playful yet regal bearing.

"Bravo, Trésor! Bravo!" Isolde exclaims, her voice carrying over the crowd, vibrant and filled with warmth. Her eyes sparkle with genuine admiration as she turns to address the assembly. "Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Abondavie, it is my utmost honor and joy to proclaim Trésor, with his heart-stirring melodies and soulful voice, as 'the Silver Herald of Abondavie'—the undisputed champion of this year's music competition at our beloved Silver Festivals!"

With a flourish, Isolde produces a crown of flowers, each bloom a gift from the natural beauty that surrounds the land of Abondavie. She places it upon Trésor's head with a tenderness that belies the ceremonial nature of the act.

"But the celebration does not end here," she continues, her eyes alight with excitement. "Trésor will receive his well-deserved award during tonight's supper, just before the Luminal Jubilee. A feast for the senses and the spirit, heralding the culmination of our day's veneration of the Moon Goddess."

Isolde's announcement is met with another wave of applause, the crowd's enthusiasm undiminished by the passage of the day. She waits for the clamor to subside before sharing the final piece of news, her smile broadening.

"And there's more," she says, her voice tinged with a hint of playful secrecy. "Given the incredible performance our Silver Herald has gifted us today, and the overwhelming acclaim from judges and audience alike, my husband, Doréan, has graciously agreed to perform a duet with Trésor at *La Halte des Histoire* after the Luminal Jubilee."

The crowd's reaction is electric, a mixture of surprise and delight that mirrors the festive atmosphere of the day. "It will be a capstone to our day's festivities, a union of talents under the watchful gaze of the Moon Goddess," Isolde concludes, her words weaving the promise of an unforgettable evening.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:56, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 138):

Smoke listens as the woman explains her reluctance to part with the plate, a flicker of understanding crossing his features despite the setback. He stands there for a moment, his posture relaxed yet poised, embodying a careful balance between charm and strategy. The tap of his finger against the side of the stall ceases, signaling his shift in focus.

He then reaches into his cloak, the movement smooth and deliberate, and pulls out a small, intricately carved wooden figurine. The figurine, no larger than his palm, is a skilfully crafted mythical creature from the lore of the lands he's traversed. It's clear in how he handles the item that it holds value, not just in craftsmanship but in the stories it embodies.

"I understand your concerns, truly," Smoke begins, his tone conveying a blend of respect and earnestness. "And I wouldn't dream of leaving you at a disadvantage. Perhaps this could serve as collateral?" He places the figurine on the counter gently, its presence a silent promise of his intentions to return the plate unharmed.

"This piece has traveled with me through many a twist and turn," he continues, a hint of nostalgia lacing his words, tempered by the ever-present undercurrent of humor. "It's seen more of the world than most, and I assure you, it's worth more than its weight in stories alone."

His smile, disarming yet (apparently) sincere is an offering of trust in a situation where words alone might fall short. "Should the plate find its way back to you, as I guarantee it will, this little wanderer returns to me. A fair exchange, until then?"

Smoke rolled 22 (1d20+4) for Deception (Charisma) skill check to trick the merchant into believing the figurine has deep, sentimental value to himself.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:23, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 150):

Smoke
The woman behind the stall, her eyes reflecting a mix of skepticism and curiosity, studies the figurine with a discerning gaze. She picks it up, turning it over in her hands, her fingers tracing the intricate details carved into the wood. For a moment, she seems lost in thought, perhaps weighing the sincerity of Smoke's words against her own judgment and experience.

Then, setting the figurine back down on the counter, she meets Smoke's gaze, a spark of respect—or maybe amusement—at his offer lighting her eyes. "Well, you certainly know how to make an argument," she says, her tone carrying a hint of warmth. "And I can't say I've ever had a piece quite like this offered as collateral before."

She leans back, crossing her arms as she considers the proposal further, her demeanor softening. "You've got yourself a deal, but only because you've gone to such lengths. Not many would offer something so precious as collateral."

"Take good care of the plate. I'll be expecting both it and you back before the day's end," she concludes, her words firm but fair, indicating she's willing to trust him—at least as far as the plate is concerned.

With a nod of agreement, she slides the plate across the counter towards Smoke, the transaction sealed.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 151):

After successfully navigating the nuances of the village and its inhabitants to locate the plate painted with five moons, Smoke's attention turns next to an item that could likely leverage his unique blend of stealth and dexterity. The small doll seems like a suitable challenge. For this task, Smoke will use Stealth. This skill would allow him to move unnoticed through the festival or into areas where the doll might be kept, avoiding the gaze of those who might question his presence. His proficiency in Stealth, honed through years of smuggling and evasion, makes him particularly adept at moving silently and unseen. The small doll, likely a cherished item or hidden as part of the game, will require a delicate touch to acquire without causing alarm. His background provides him with an intuitive understanding of how to blend into crowds, use distractions to his advantage, and navigate tight situations without detection.

Smoke rolled a 20 (1d20+6) Stealth (Dexterity) skill check.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 04:40, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 152):

Smoke
As the sun climbs higher, casting long shadows that dance through the streets of Abondavie, Smoke sets his sights on the next item in the scavenger hunt: a small doll. His plan requires finesse, a touch of stealth, and an understanding of timing that only someone of his unique skills possesses.

The festival is in full swing, the streets teeming with laughter and the air filled with the scent of seasonal delicacies. Amidst the revelry, children play, their joy unabated by the throng of festival-goers. It's here, in this scene of innocence and celebration, that Smoke finds his mark—a doll, clutched in the hands of a child deeply engrossed in the festivities.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 153):

With a rogue's grace, Smoke surveys the scene, calculating the best approach. His steps are silent, his presence barely a whisper as he navigates the space between shadows. To the untrained eye, he's just another reveler moving through the crowd, but to those who know the signs, he's a predator in the midst of a hunt.

Smoke will use his Stealth (Dexterity) skill check to attempt to distract the child with a tossed coin, so that he can take the doll without her noticing. He'll leave a coin in place of the doll, so as to not break the child's heart entirely.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:49, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 154):

Smoke
Smoke, cloaked in the guise of just another celebrant, approaches his quarry with the stealth of a shadow sliding across moonlit ground. His target, a child engrossed in the wonder of the day, holds tightly to a doll, a prize most precious in youthful eyes.

With the age-old cunning of his craft, Smoke sets his plan into motion—a distraction, as subtle as the changing wind. From the depths of his cloak, he draws forth a coin, its surface gleaming like a shard of daylight stolen from the sun itself. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the coin spinning into the air, where it catches the light, a beacon for wide, curious eyes.

The child's gaze, drawn as surely as moths to a flame, shifts, and in that slender slice of time, thinner than a whisper, Smoke acts. His movements a dance, a ballet of fingers swift and sure, he claims the doll and leaves in its stead the coin, a silent one-sided agreement struck.

Retreating into the throng with the doll now secreted away, Smoke allows himself a moment of quiet triumph. It was not the object itself that kindles the flame of satisfaction within him but the execution of the deed, a mark of his skill.

Thus, with his task accomplished, Smoke turns his thoughts to the journey ahead, the doll but one piece in a greater puzzle laid out before him.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 155):

Smoke now sets his sights on the the pipe. For this task, Smoke will use Persuasion. His charismatic nature and his experiences have equipped him with a silver tongue.

Smoke rolled a 14 (1d20+4) for a Persuasion (Charisma) skill check.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 148):

As Tresor Ne d'elfe begins to weave the enchanting melody of "A Hearth is a Foundation," Alaric's consciousness drifts back to the cherished memories of his childhood home. The bard's haunting rendition evokes a poignant symphony of emotions within him, blending the sorrow of his sisters' absence with a longing for the warmth and familiarity of family.

With each note, Alaric's heart swells, aching with the weight of nostalgia and longing. The lyrics of the song resonate deeply, evoking images of laughter and love that once echoed through the halls of his home, now shadowed by the pain of separation. His eyes closed, memories of his sisters flood his mind, their voices and laughter echoing in his ears, their absence keenly felt.

As Tresor's voice rises and falls, Alaric finds solace in the melody, the music serving as a soothing salve for his grieving soul. Despite the heaviness of loss, there is a profound sense of healing in the bard's song, a gentle reminder that the bonds of love endure even in the face of tragedy.

As the final chords of the lute fade away, Alaric is overcome with emotion, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Alongside the rest of the audience, he offers a heartfelt applause, his gratitude for the bard's performance evident in every heartfelt clap.

Afterward, approaching Tresor through the press of well-wishers, Alaric's voice quivers slightly as he speaks. "Your music," he begins, his words heavy with emotion, "it touched something deep within me. Thank you."

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 144):

Having already explained himself earlier the elf was ready for the question they asked. "My name is Erlathan Virrie, son of Athtar Virrie. My people were called the 'Thorn Blades', we were nomads who live in the wilderness." Just as he had done for Sierna he produced the pendant he kept around his neck for them to view.

When they asked for the location the young man furrowed his brow. The location of the blight he knew but his knowledge on landmarks they might recognize was woefully incomplete. "The last time I saw the corruption it was several days from here, deep into the wilderness. If need be I could guide someone to it's location." He tried to recall a nearby river or mountain that might be used as a reference.

In reply to Isolde Lumiere (msg # 149):

Over all pleased by the end result, and resolving to practice his showmanship in the future, Trésor takes his bows and accolades humbly. Accepting the wreath donned on his head, he sports a wide smile that grows wider at the announcement of the upcoming feast. Stepping forward once Isolde is done, he says "Thank you one and all for your praise! I hope that my short time upon your stage has added to the joys in your lives and laid low any sadness so you may fully enjoy the Festival! May the rest of your days, weeks and months ahead be filled with the brightness of the Goddess' blessing! See you at the feast!" and then steps back to exit the stage.

With various hugs, handclasps and the odd kiss or two, the bard moves through the well wishers until his encounter with Alaric. "I had hopes it would, friend. The people I've spoken with throughout the day all seem to have had some thread of sadness, and I wished for my music to soothe and abate that sorrow. If it helped you, then I am content."

In reply to Smoke (msg # 156):

Smoke
Smoke, having secured the doll with a blend of cunning and grace, now turns his attention to the next item on the list: a pipe. The festivities of Abondavie swirl around him, a vibrant admixture of color, sound, and scent. Banners flutter in the breeze, their hues as varied as the flowers that bloom in the meadows surrounding the town. The air is rich with the aroma of roasted meats and sweet pastries, mingling with the earthy scent of ale.

As he weaves through the crowd, Smoke's gaze sweeps over the revelers. The people of Abondavie are a hearty bunch, brimming with life. Males and females, young and old, wear garments ranging from simple linen to the more elaborate attire of those perhaps visiting from afar. Some bear the marks of the town's trades—smiths, bakers, and craftsmen—while others are adorned in the finery befitting a day of celebration, with ribbons woven into hair and brooches that catch the sunlight.

In search of someone with a pipe, Smoke's path leads him to a quieter alcove of the village's center, where the music from the central stage fades to a gentle hum, and the laughter of children chasing each other around becomes a distant echo. Here, seated upon a modest chair at the threshold of a rustic dwelling, there resides an elderly man, his hair and beard like the first touch of frost upon the forest floor. His attire, an assemblage of earthy greens and browns, suggests a life spent under the open sky, perhaps wandering the woods or tending to the secrets of the earth. The coat, sturdy and frayed at the cuffs, drapes over him, a protective shell worn by the passage of countless seasons.

He holds a pipe to his lips, its ember gently glowing, a beacon in the quietude of his surroundings. His eyes, sharp and discerning beneath furrowed brows, carry the calm watchfulness of one who has witnessed the slow dance of the years. He contemplates the world with a serene intensity, a guardian of stories untold, his silent vigil as much a part of the home as the vines that embrace its walls or the fallen leaves that carpet its steps.

Biting down on the pipe, the man looks up to Smoke examining him. After a thoughtful pause, a wide wrinkly smile stretch his face, the pipe still firmly between his teeth.

"Scavenger hunt, eh?"

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 160):

Smoke meets the elderly man's gaze, a respectful nod acknowledging the wisdom and years etched upon the man's face. A smile, slight but genuine, plays across Smoke's lips as he steps forward, the hubbub of the festival a distant murmur compared to the quiet intensity of this alcove.

"Indeed, a scavenger hunt," Smoke confirms, his voice smooth as the finest silk from distant lands. "And not just any item, but one that carries with it the essence of Abondavie's rich history. A pipe, much like your own, which seems to have been a loyal companion through many a contemplative eve."

He crouches slightly to come level with the seated man, his eyes reflecting a storyteller's spark. "I seek your aid for but a moment in time. To borrow the pipe for the game, to be returned to you with stories added to its legacy—stories that it will no doubt share with you in the whispers of smoke to come."

Smoke extends a hand, palm up, in a gesture that bridges the gap between asking and offering. "What say you, sir? Will you entrust me with your pipe and partake in the spirit of this day? For the joy it brings, the tales it spins, and the bond it weaves between strangers and friends."

Jessica lets her defenses down a little. Loneliness was bad for company and since her father died a month ago she had been very lonely and sad of late. She still mourned her father but time heals all. She still isn't too open with the man but she seems to trust him a little more.

"I am a travelling wizard who helps those in need. Mostly through the healing arts even though I am not a fully trained medic. Just your plain old amateur adventuring wizard who can only prepare 4 spells a day and cast twice. Nothing special."

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 159):

Before Alaric could utter a response to Tresor, they were swept apart by the crowd as others pressed in to offer their appreciation. Amidst the bustling atmosphere of the square, Alaric's mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead.

He had three immediate goals: first, to attend to the growling of his stomach, which had been neglected amid his emotional turmoil; second, to make his way to the Luminal Jubilee, an event he had been anticipating since his arrival in the village; and finally, to somehow find a vantage point for the anticipated duet of Doréan and Trésor at *La Halte des Histoire*.

With determination etched on his features, Alaric navigated through the throng of people, each step bringing him closer to his objectives. The anticipation of the day's remaining events pulsed through him, driving him forward despite the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 162):

Jessica
Alon's expression softens, a gentle understanding dawning in his eyes as Jessica reveals a sliver of her story. "I sense a tinge of Loneliness," he muses, "which, I dare say, is often the unspoken shadow that trails every traveler. Yet, it is in sharing our trials, even in small portions, that we find respite. As for your humility, to undervalue one's own talent is common among the gifted. Four spells a day, you say? Even two castings can change the very course of fate."

A smile graces his lips, one that carries both cheer and a hint of respect. "I'm often told a fault of mine is making friends too easily and trusting too quickly. All the same, I do hope our paths might converge once more before I continue my travels through Terra du Aubenois. The festivals here are a rare delight, and it would be a privilege to recount our observations when they draw to a close. There are some like-minded folk, even among these charming rustics, that perhaps I could introduce you to and perhaps, you may find yourself a little less... lonely."

In reply to Alon of Cent-Auben (msg # 164):

Jessica
As the sun reaches its zenith, shortening the shadows in the stableyard, an officiator steps forward, his voice a reedy call that rises above the din of the crowd. He clears his throat, a prolonged and unnecessary gesture that heralds the commencement of his address. "Good folk of Abondavie and esteemed guests," he begins, his words a clumsy cascade that speaks of nervous excitement rather than the grandeur of oration. "We gather amidst the splendor of our beloved town, under the benevolent gaze of the Moon Goddess, to celebrate the keen insight of our festival participants."

He pauses, shuffling a small sheaf of parchments as if they might contain the eloquence he lacks. "And so," he continues, "it is with a mixture of joy and... and administrative pride that I announce the victors of the Guess the Number of Feathers competition. Let us all offer our accolades to Jessica Darcwode and Alon of Cent-Auben, who have earned the annual title of 'the Lamp of Neomas.'"

A ripple of reactions washes over the crowd. There is applause, genuine and robust, from those who delight in the success of others. Polite nods and murmurs of acceptance emanate from the majority, who recognize the skill—or fortune—that guided the winners. Among them, a murmur of disgruntlement skulks, borne by those who envy the accolade or dispute the contest's outcome.

Unfazed, the officiator plows ahead, determined to complete the ritual of his duty. "Our champions will receive their awards this very eve," he declares, gesturing broadly as if to bestow a blessing upon the supper to come. "Before the Luminal Jubilee, we shall all partake in honoring their triumph. We--um, also thank everyone for their care and diligence. We're proud to announce that ill instances with the cockatrice amongst spectators and competitors alike were few. We, ah, wish Kévin the speediest of recoveries and offer our condolences to his family."

The officiator riffles through his parchment notes once more, licks his lips, and then unceremoniously departs. As he retreats, the crowd begins to disperse, the moment of proclamation fading into the patchwork of festivities that have made up the Days of Silver.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 148):

Togrirr's presence at the event was merely to kill time until the Luminal Jubilee. He had more than his fill of food and drinks during the aftermath of the hand-wrestling tournament, and while he didn't dislike music, he had not the same connection most civilized folk had towards it. However, when Tresor performed 'A Hearth is a Foundation', the bugbear found himself being glad he had come here. Sure, the lyrics didn't exactly speak to him, and the song was in general a bit mellow for his taste, but it was beautiful regardless. He hadn't seen the rest of the performances, but he was not surprised to hear the half-elf would receive an award tonight.

He briefly thought about congratulating the man, but discarded the thought as he saw the mass of people gravitating towards the bard. He could probably push his way through without much effort, but Togrirr had had enough attention for the moment, so he remained sitted at his table trying to stay out of the way.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 161):

Smoke
The elderly man's eyes twinkle with mirth as he contemplates Smoke's request, his smile broadening beneath the snowy canopy of his beard. "Well now, young master," he begins, his voice rich with the timbre of aged oak and as comforting as a well-tended fire. "The name's Eroh LeCharpentier, and I must say, your words are as finely crafted as the carvings on my old pipe here."

He lifts the pipe from his lips, holding it aloft as if to appraise it anew, the curling smoke painting fleeting portraits in the air. "This piece has been with me through storms and sun, witnessed seasons turn and fortunes tumble. It's heard more tales than a minstrel and seen more years than a tome," Eroh muses.

Setting the pipe down upon his knee, Eroh leans forward, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile. "To lend it to you, ah, that's a venture. But how can I deny such a request, when it's spun with the promise of adding to its legacy? But then, how can I deny any such request? You see, Achille the Bailiff would have this pipe, thinking it his, have once belonged to his father. But it was given to me, as recompense many years ago and I'll not part with it. So every year, he asks scavengers to find a pipe, hoping that I'll be taken by a fancy and give it away and that he, an officiator of the hunt, may gain it."

With a shoulder rumbling laugh, Eroh taps the pipe's stem against his bearded chin. "Ah, old tales and bellyaching are not what you're hunting. And I wish you the best, which is why I carry on this day of the year spares." He removes a plain wooden pipe from under his cloak and proffers it to Smoke. "Aye, take it with you, and let it be part of your tale. Just remember, young master, return afterwards and warm this old man's heart with company and drink, and I'll share with you some of the best tobacco you've yet to behold."

He hands the pipe to Smoke, his eyes following the tabaxi with the quiet contentment of one who knows the value of life's simple pleasures.

Jessica beams with excitement and joy. She turns to Alon and offers to shake his hand in congratulations. Her mood turns sour when she learns about Kevin. Shaking her head she says, "Like I said it's not worth 25 gold if it means being petrified."

She starts to wonder if she has read or heard anything about how to cure being petrified by the cockatrice.

01:57, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 18 using 1d20+4.  Knowledge of Cockatrice Cure(Medicine Check). – 18

She turns to Alon, "Do you know where Kevin might be taken to be helped due to being afflicted by the cockatrice? I have some knowledge and skill in Medicine."
This message was last edited by the player at 07:00, Mon 04 Mar.

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 158):

Erlathan
"Several days..." the woman mutters, tapping a fingernail against her thin lower lip. "By the landmarks you speak of, that is some distance northeast of here, in the wildlands, outside of the Protectorate. We have contacts who move about in those areas, though I'm not personally familiar with them. What you describe sounds serious. There may be something we can do, but it'll have to wait until tomorrow morning, when those who know the area you speak of will be available for a more proper meeting."

The agent for the Church of the Eternal Archive folds his arms and measures Erlthan with a studied glare. "What is your role in this? Why come here to Abondavie in search of aid?"

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 168):

Jessica
Alon replies first with a solemn nod, and then lights up with a confident smile. "Indeed! Yes, the poor fellow would have been taken in by the Lucinic Brotherhood and tended to. They are storied healers. I have not the slightest doubt in his speedy recovery." Unsure if he was successful in easing Jessica's concern, he clears his throat and hurriedly follows up with: "Ah, yes. If you are absolutely insistent on helping, the brotherhood are based out of the church, on the other side of the town. But again, with all sincerity, I tell you, he will be fine in their keeping."

This message was deleted by the player at 16:35, Thu 07 Mar.

It isn't until the woman confirms her aid that a measure of hope returned to Erlathan. His anger and stern expression lessen considerably he offered a short bow to the acolyte. "Thank you for listening. Tomorrow sounds fine to me, I shall return then to discuss the next steps and do anything I can."

Having accomplished the goal he set out to do, his emotions were not as volatile. Thus when the agent continued to probe the elf managed to return his stare with a more composed bearing. "My role you ask? I seek vengeance for my people who were slaughtered without warning. If I could I would hunt them to the ends of the earth, however I am not so foolish to think I could do this alone."

"These shadow creatures pose a threat to everyone as long as they live. I was taught to fight with a sword and bow, but nothing I can do will touch the corruption that is spreading through the land. So I sought to warn others, so that they could rally against my enemy. I sought to find healers, so that they could cure the land my enemy hides in. The Brotherhood was the first place I heard that might be able to help and heal."

Jessica seems to relax a little. She supposes that Lucinic Brotherhood were better at tending to injuries caused cockatrices than she was. The girl decided to let it pass. But what to do next?

"You said that Albina has a library and you occasionally visit there. Maybe we can go there for a bit until it is time to receive our prize?"

Reynald

As the sun near its zenith and Abondavie's activities begin a slow ebb from the highs of the morning's activities to preparations for the festival's supper, Seignour Reynald de Valrenard de Clairmont-Petitefleur, a man marked by lineage and burden, his visage etched with the gravity of a nobleman beset by urgent matters, strides into the town. The jubilation of the Silver Festivals, with its radiant banners and bursts of mirthful music, seem distant to his preoccupied mind, the vibrant tapestry of celebration a stark contrast to the somber shades that color his thoughts.

The clamor of the town, a symphony of revelry to most, registers as a distant cacophony to Reynald, the laughter and chatter interwoven with his own inner disquiet. The aromas of succulent roasts and sweet confections, floating on the air like the town's own culinary heralds, fail to tempt his senses, muted by the pressing weight of his quest. Around him, the townsfolk of Abondavie are a blurred mosaic of lives untouched by his own tribulations—joyous, carefree, their faces turned towards the sun and away from the shadow that clings to Reynald's solemn countenance.

With every step towards the heart of Abondavie, Reynald's eyes scan the faces, seeking the one man whose presence here is as crucial as it is elusive—Seignour Étienne de Marceau d’Boudin-Lautte. The town unfolds before him, its streets a labyrinth of laughter and commerce, children weaving through the legs of adults like threads of life darting through the fabric of the day. Stalls line the pathways, merchants hawking wares of every kind, from the exotic to the homely, their calls a din that Reynald tunes out in his pursuit.

Reaching the town's center, where stands a tall stone monolith carved and etched to venerate the Moon Goddess, Reynald pauses. The pillar's outstretched top pointing to the heavens, a symbol of mortals reaching out in supplication to their goddess, mirrors the disquietude urging him onwards, despite his tiredness. The village center is a pulsing heart, the throng of the crowd ebbing and flowing like the tides of the sea, yet in this moment, Reynald feels an island unto himself, isolated amidst the press of life.

Under the watch of the pillar, Reynald steadies himself, the enormity of his task crystallizing with newfound clarity. He must find Seignour Étienne de Marceau d’Boudin-Lautte, for within that encounter lies the key to resolving the dire straits that ensnare his family's fate. With a deep breath drawn from the depths of his lineage, Reynald readies himself to plunge into the revelry.

Reynald, as you start, we'll assume along the way your able to quickly secure a place to store your things and a place to sleep--for the sake of expediting the process--so go ahead and mark down your payment and notate what equipment you leave or carry.

Smoke nodded and gave a wry grin, as best as a Tabaxi could do in any case, to Eroh. “There is a saying in my homeland. The smart man knows how to spend his coin but the wise man knows how to spend his time. I think I shall count you among the latter, no? It shall return to you with at least a story. Farewell, señor,” Smoke said as he took the pipe.

Smoke departed the company of Eroh and set about his next task. The scarf was likely the hardest to spot, considering that its distinction would make it a prime target for the contest. He followed his first instinct; he needed the high ground. Many situations required the high ground and smuggling was no different. High ground let you see ambushers or avoid patrols and numerous other scenarios.

Smoke searched for the perfect perch. In a crowd, details could get lost but on a roof or in a tree he would be able to deftly eliminate false leads from flashes of color that he would see on the ground. The scarf would be his! Of course, he also didn’t want to cause a stir by climbing where he shouldn’t, so he made sure to be on the look out for any signs or notices that forbade trespassing.

Action Summary:
Use Perception and high ground(if able) to find the scarf.
12:33, Today: Smoke rolled 22 using 1d20+5.  Perception vs Scarf.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:38, Thu 07 Mar.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 173):

Jessica
“It would be a great pleasure to introduce you to Albina,” smiles Alon. “You know, I can’t think of a happier time in my life than those spent with her. But see, the supper will begin soon. It would be best if we waited until after the Luminal Jubilee. Have you seen the Jubilee before?”

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 172):

Erlathan
Erlathan's warnings hang heavy in the air, carrying the chill of shadows yet unseen. Standing before him, the Eternal Archives journeyman holds himself with the upright grace of a man accustomed to the weight of important matters.

"Your revelations are deeply unsettling," the young man addresses Erlathan, his voice firm, imbued with the authority of his station. "Such threats to the natural order demand attention. I will not stand in your way further."

As Marcus turns to the acolyte, his posture remains impeccable. "Be assured, our dialogue regarding the Horn of Plenty remains at the forefront of my thoughts," his tone a blend of commitment and subtle insistence. “The Eternal Archives will not be denied our request. We will discuss this further later.”

Excusing himself with a courtesy that skirts the edge of formality, Marcus makes it clear his exit is but a temporary retreat from their debate. "Well met strangers. I am Marcus Valeer, and I wish you blessings of the gods on your quest. I shall take my leave now, yet this is not the end of our discourse."

With that, Marcus departs the chapel, his receding presence never faltering in its command of the space around him.

Jessica nodded, understanding what Alon was saying. Like most teenagers she was a bit impatient at times. But now that she thought about it she realized that it was getting late and very nearly dinnertime.

"No I have never seen the Luminal Jubilee. What is it about?"

Erlathan
Is there anything else you want to do before we move to the supper? If so, let me know and I'll do a montage post; otherwise, we'll just move Erlathan to the supper.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 178):

Jessica
Alon, ever a figure of unguarded warmth and affable elegance, offers a bright smile. "Oh, the Luminal Jubilee! It's quite the event, you know. The entire village comes together in a manner most splendid at the close of the first day of the Silver Festivals."

His bright eyes alight with the splendor of memory. "We all join in a procession, quite a sight, led by the March Priest to that magnificent obelisk, the Argent Pillar, dedicated to the Moon Goddess by the founders of Abondavie. It's a tradition that binds all together, a moment of unity and reverence that I find utterly delightful."

"As the evening gently gives way to the night and the moon rises, marking her path across the sky," Alon continues, his voice tinged with anticipation, "the March Priest blesses us all by sounding the Horn of Plenty. It's a call to the Moon Goddess herself, you see, seeking her benevolence for the land. The sound—it's quite moving, really. Fills you with a sense of hope and gratitude."

He leans in a bit closer, his expression earnest. "And would you believe, every year, without fail, these lands are more fruitful, the stores more plentiful? It's a testament to the strength of community and the grace of the Moon Goddess. Truly, it's a wondrous thing to be a part of—to witness such a sacred tradition that assures prosperity and togetherness."

Drawing back slightly, Alon's eyes sparkle with a mixture of pride and joy. "It's one of those times where you truly feel the connection with everyone around you, bound by something greater. I must say, it's a great fortune to experience such harmony with nature and neighbor alike."

Holding out his elbow in a show of sincere gentlemanly character, he offers: "We'll be seated next to each, along with the other winners of the day's competitions, during the supper. May I escort you there?"

In reply to Smoke (msg # 175):

Smoke
From the embrace of Eroh's camaraderie, Smoke ventures forth, his parting words lingering in the air like the final note of a well-played lute. With the wisdom of his homeland guiding his steps, he embarks upon the search for the penultimate jewel of his quest—a scarf of white embraced by trim of vibrant yellow, a treasure hidden amidst the revelry of Abondavie.

The town, alive with the spirit of the Silver Festivals, unfolds before him like a tapestry woven from threads of joy and community. Yet, amidst this vibrant backdrop, Smoke's gaze is drawn upwards, towards the vantage that only the high ground can offer. For in the art of the hunt, as in the shadowed dance of smuggling, perspective is paramount. It is from above that clarity emerges, where the many become one, and the sought-after can be distinguished from the sea of the plentiful.

Navigating the cobblestone arteries of Abondavie with the grace inherent to his kind, Smoke finds his perch upon the roof of a quaint storefront facing the town center. From this eagle's nest, the festival sprawls beneath him, a living mosaic vibrant with motion and color. Yet, his eyes, sharp and unerring, are not swayed by the spectacle. They seek only the whisper of white and the shout of yellow.

And there, among the stalls that cluster like chicks near the warmth of their mother store, Smoke's vigilance is rewarded. A stall, one of many lined in front of what appears to be the busiest store in the town center, presents a scarf that dances in the gentle embrace of the breeze. White, pure and unstained, bordered with the golden hue of freshly harvested wheat—the very item Smoke seeks.

Reynald de Valrenard, or Val as those who loved him had called him, felt like a character in a book. Thrust upon this merriment was a cruel joke. He stared at the statue and smiled mockingly, someday Abondavie's enemies would come to claim the horn and where were their defenses? They didn't even have a castle.

His knees ached more than usual, but as the music quickened his smile became real. He could use a good stretch.

I've paid the 5gp and just have normal walking around gear. I'd like to go to the dancing!

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 181):

Smoke felt his eyes narrow as the scarf came into focus. Despite the urgency he felt to jump down and whisk the item away, Smoke took a moment to appreciate the crowd itself. Smuggling had always meant avoiding crowds, darting past guards before their conscience overwhelmed the bribe in their pocket, or lingering in festering alleys to complete a deal or deliver goods. Here there was just folks enjoying themselves.

Smoke took a moment to close his eyes. To focus on what surrounded him. The smells of baked goods and treats. The sounds of laughter, shouts, and everything in between. The feel of the breeze on his fur. Opening his eyes, Smoke made to descend and stalk his quarry. He felt invigorated from this scavenger hunt. He felt like his younger self when he first started to scrape and scrap for every coin.

Weaving through the throng of people, he made casual haste to the stall. His fingers ran along the fabric to both confirm its existence as well as feel the quality. Its appearance left no doubt he needed it. His demeanor quickly fell into that of meeting a client for the first time. Compliment the goods and express interest to make them feel at ease. “What material is this? The colors are quite beautiful and vibrant. White is so hard to do well,” he mused.

Jessica genuinely smiles at the prospect of attending this Luminal Jubilee. She had not done so in a long while. Given the recent death of her father she still was grieving inside. But again personal needs and wants started to take over as again time heals all. And for the time being she seemed happy and safe. So she takes Alon's arm and allows him to guide her to whereever they need to go next.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 183):

Smoke
A woman stands on the other side of the stall arranging items with a careful eye for presentation. She notices the tabaxi's approach and offers a sincere smile that deepens lines of wrinkles of her not-so-youthful face. Before the woman can respond to Smoke's compliment and question, a strong feminine voice cuts in.

"Your words are well received," says a female elf stepping up beside the woman with a poise that speaks of centuries, if not more. Her eyes, sharp and luminescent, seem to pierce through veil and shadow of the world. She is a figure of ethereal grace adorned with silver-gold hair and attired in garments that whisper of wealth and taste. Her presence, like a rarefied melody, alters the very atmosphere. The older woman nods politely and steps away from the stall.

With a delicate hand, the elf takes the scarf and runs it through her long fingers. "White, the color of purity and potential, holds many secrets," she says, her voice a harmonious blend of knowledge and enigma. "A color desired by many for it is akin to the dawn's first light—it reveals not just what is, but what might be. Some may even go so far as to think that within each thread are woven the possibilities of many paths and they find comfort in that, as though holding such a scarf means they are the chief weaver of their own future."

Her gaze upon Smoke is not invasive but perceptive, as if she can perceive the contours of his soul just as readily as the hues of the scarf he wishes to hold. "Beauty, in its most vibrant forms, often conceals depth," she continues, her words dancing like light on water. "Just as a well-crafted fabric belies the complexity of its creation, so too does a keenly observed detail unveil the grand tapestry of intent and consequence. Like the surreptitious placement of a coin in place of a doll."

Smoke, in the event you don't remember, you stole a doll from a little girl, leaving a silver coin in its place as payment. You did so with a Stealth (Dexterity) skill check of 22.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:42, Sun 17 Mar.

"Your words hold much wisdom, señora," Smoke replies in his husky, accented voice, his eyes never leaving hers. He raises a paw, gesturing to the scarf. "And such a scarf holds not just secrets, but also the promise of future tales yet to be woven." He pauses, his eyes flicking to the scarf and then back to the elf. "A wise choice for any who understand its true value, don't you agree?"

He did nothing to acknowledge the subtle implication that she knew his deed. Such was the game. No matter the location or the subject, the game remained the same. She had leveled an accusation at him but as such it was upon her to deliver the proof. Still, he felt the sting of being suspected. None should have seen him nor even put him under suspicion.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 186):

Smoke
Lysaundre’s eyes hold a glint of amusement, a silent recognition of the performance before her. Her head tilts ever so slightly, an almost imperceptible arch of a delicate brow.

“Your words, they dance charmingly around the truth, señor,” she says, her voice a gentle chime that cuts through pretense. “A scarf such as this is indeed a repository for tales untold. But let us not veil our intentions under the guise of metaphor.”

With the precision of a seasoned tactician, she lets her gaze linger on Smoke for a heartbeat, reading the unspoken chapters written in his stance, the calculated ease of his manner. “You seek this scarf not merely for its stories, but for the game afoot—the scavenger hunt that has set many an eye keen and many a mind racing throughout Abondavie today.”

A corner of her mouth lifts in a knowing smile as she delicately holds the scarf up, the yellow trim catching the light like a glimmer of dawn. She extends it towards him, her hands steady and her intent clear.

“I offer this scarf to you, not for coin, but for a pledge of goodwill during your stay here. May it serve you well in your hunt and in turn, may you serve the people of Abondavie with the honor such a gift deserves. These are good people who deserve no harm. Wear it as both a participant and a protector in our Silver Festivals.”

In reply to Lysaundre the Nimble Mind (msg # 187):

Smoke's gaze narrowed slightly, his eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and caution. He couldn't help but feel intrigued by Lysaundre's perceptiveness and her ability to see through his carefully crafted words. "Your insight is as sharp as a dagger, señora," he replied, his voice laced with a hint of wariness.

Smoke's lips curled into a sly smile as he met Lysaundre's gaze, his own eyes revealing a glimmer of cautious excitement. "Indeed, the scavenger hunt, among other things, has set the town ablaze with a fervor. And I have to admit, I was drawn to the thrill of the game and the challenge it presented."

He watched as Lysaundre delicately held up the scarf, the sunlight catching the golden trim. The offer was clear, and Smoke knew that accepting it meant more than just receiving a gift. It was payment, a commitment to this woman and the people of Abondavie during the Silver Festivals.

"Your generosity is unmatched, señora," Smoke said, his voice filled with a wary gratitude. "I cautiously accept your gift and the weight it carries under a condition. A name from my benefactor. I am called Smoke,” he said as he made a short bow.