Kara and Sigrun had spent the evening at the two-story Splitrock Inn, one of the largest buildings in town, with Steward and Frost after Kara had butchered the bear she had killed on her way there. All signs indicated that Sigrun had spent the night with Steward too. A charismatic, honest, and reliable man in his early 50s. Old enough to be her father. But with dragon scale bracers, a luxuriously carved quarterstaff with richly decorated silver end caps, and a silver band around the crown of his black wide-brimmed hat, he looked wealthy enough to give her a fun couple of days.

Kara had already talked to the butcher whose facilities she had borrowed to butcher the bear and he had paid her for the meat she had provided and promised to make arrangements for the fur, teeth, claws, and whatever other bits and pieces he could sell for her.

They had made particular note of four other foreigners at breakfast this morning. And somehow they had now all come together later that morning after Frost had signed up for the biathlon and made sure that he could use a local bow instead of his magical one.

The ground was comparatively bare as the snow was removed from the streets before it became too thick and unmanageable. Skalavik was a town after all and people had to be able to get around. It also smelled like a town as one couldn't place all the odiferous crafts far away or downwind. But at least both rivers were still frozen. Or partially frozen. Skalavik was located in the Y-space between the Clearwater Stream and the Iron River and a wooden palisade with towers and a single gate protected it on the open side.

Guards were still around, but today was a day of festivities. The Festival of Storms!






[OOC: What do you do?

Do you want to sign up for any of the athletic competitions?

I know that Kara and Sigrun have already seen this, but the rest of you have not. I figure today may be a great opportunity for all of you to get to know each other. All six characters are already here, but characters can only start interacting once their character sheet is completed. For now, that means Kara, Sigrun, and Frode. This also allows for a staggered introduction of characters.




* The Reindeer Race will be determined by the sum of five Dexterity checks, with proficiency bonus if sled is one of your proficiencies. If you are not familiar with reindeer, the roll will be at a disadvantage.
* The biathlon will be running with or without snowshoes through deep snow and fire a bow at a target. The winner will be determined by the sum of five attack rolls with the bow and if you choose to run without snowshoes (or other means of overcoming the difficult terrain it gives) those rolls will be at a disadvantage.
* The skiing race will be cross-country skiing and the winner will be determined by the sum of five Constitution checks, with proficiency bonus if skis is one of your proficiencies.

When those lists are completed, you can bet on who you think the winner will be, if you like. To simplify, you choose what competitor you think will win, and bet as much as you'd like (though you cannot bet more than you have). And if you are correct, you will double your money. And if you lose, the money you bet is gone.]

Frode was trying to understand what is going on, "So people run in the snow and shoot arrows. This is considered entertainment and one can bet on the outcome, even on one's self?" After a moment of thought he said "Sign me up. I wish to bet 150 gold on myself." He wears no snowshoes and must use a borrowed shortbow, yet he seems like this is just another day.

"Ho! Ho!" cries Sigrun with a laugh. "Here's a man with confidence. To wager the cost of two fine horses on the outcome of a contest for which he has neither the footwear nor the weapon at hand.

"Methinks the fellow must be doughty indeed. I will wager ten gold coins that he is the winner as well. This way, if he loses I have a story to tell in which I participated, and if he wins, I have both winnings and an even better story.

"What's your name, fellow, and where are you from? Not from these parts I dare say."

His answer is short but friendly, "Frode. I came here from Nordvärn." He begins stretching to warm up for the race. "Perhaps you wish to make a larger wager."

Sigrun snuggles up against Steward, making it clear that he has dibs on her affections, but she remains flirty with the other men.

"Let's gauge the size of your talent, first, Master Frode," she grins.

OOC: Nordvarn does not seem that far away on the game map. A few day's journey at most (the scale is not clear). These contests seem fairly straightforward for the region. Might she infer that he is not really from there? (Just something about his description suggested that he might not be of Nordic descent -- if Norway is a place in this world!)

The older man wrapped an arm around Sigrun and snuggled up to her too with a big smile on his face. The fact that she was flirting didn't seem to phase him at all. But perhaps his sapphire blue eyes were getting old too. As he wrapped his arm around her, it became clear that his bracers didn't match. The one on his left arm, that now was wrapped around Sigrun, was made of fine red dragon scales. And the one on his right arm was made of just as fine white dragon scales.

"Dragonborn and human," Steward said. "Ranger and whatever you are. Adding whatever locals and other visitors who will compete. This may be more difficult than you think."

Steward looked at the silver scaled dragonborn with both wings and tail! And frosted white-blue edges around his scales. He wore a white, gray, and black camouflage that would help him hide very well in snow if the terrain wasn't completely flat. With a magical bow on his back and a snow leopard walking next to him with a sinously tail flowing lazily in the breeze. And then to Frode who easily was a foot shorter then the huge and freakishly abarrent dragonborn.


[OOC: I just realized that I only gave Frost's name in the first post, I didn't say anything about his race or what he looked like. Sorry about that.

And yes, dragonborn in this setting normally are PHB dragonborn without wings or tails. But this one does have both.

]

Devron walks around the town taking in the various activities, chatting with a few passers by, and munching on some pastry he had been enticed into purchasing.  In his other hand he carries a fresh ale.  Overall, a good start to the day.  His first time in the town, Devron felt a combination of excitement combined with a dose of being stifled by the mass of visitors who seemed to have descended on the town for the celebration.

The strong voice of Sigrun carried from a nearby group.  "Ho! Ho!  Here's a man with confidence..."

Curious about the woman associated with the voice and what might be happening, Devron wandered over to the edge of the group which seemed to be preparing for one of the contests.  Sadly a man was draped over the woman, but Devron was curious about the betting which seemed to be taking place.

"Is the dragon allowed to fly?" Devron says to no one in particular.  Devron calls out to Frode while hoisting his flagon, "I salute your bravado friend.  10 gold on the Dragonborn."  A drink from his ale is quickly followed by a bite of his pastry.


Description:

Devron is a young adult human man standing just under 6 feet tall with an average build.  His black hair extends to his shoulders and although he is normally clean shaven, it appears he not shaved in several days.  Devron has the brown tan of someone who spends the majority of his time in the outdoors.  His ash grey eyes show a sharpness one might except from a bird of prey.

Devron’s chest and shoulders are clad in black scale mail with black leather bracers on his forearms.  A tribal tattoo of dark flames dominates his upper left arm.  Strapped to his back is a battle axe and a short hunting bow.  The ax appears to be well crafted with numerous runes etched into its blade and handle.  Devron does not appear well muscled, so such a heavy weapon would seem an unusual choice.

"Grilka, always find time to enjoy the light and life." came the voice of Grilka's mother on the wind. Even though she had been lost for some fifteen years, Grilka's mother's voice never failed to motivate her, nor did it fail to pain and swallow her heart with the dull ache of sorrow.

"Yes, mother." Grilka said to herself, always the dutiful daughter. A smile dawned across her face as she stepped onto the bustling streets and the Festival of Storms. It wasn't an expression that Grilka wore often, in fact-she wasn't exactly sure when the last time she smiled was. The smile faltered as she thought, but as sudden as a cloud disbursed by the sun's rays she banished the thought of, "When was the last time she smiled" and sought contentment in the moment, in life.

On the street Grilka strolls by the Splitrock Inn and gave her greetings to a guard whom she once fancied. The guard, a man now married smiled and offered a greeting in return as the two passed each other. With a smile Grilka allowed her mind play at the possibilities of what could have or what might have been before she is brought from her reverie by a strong bold voice.

"Is the dragon allowed to fly?"

Hmmm, who is this stranger? Grilka thought. "And an additional 5 gold on the Dragonborne." Grilka said as she stepped through the crowd and scattered her coins into the receptacle for the wager.

Description
Grilka is a striking woman whose presence commands attention. Standing tall with an air of confidence, she carries herself with the grace of a warrior accustomed to both battle and diplomacy. Her raven armor, as an odd combination of ceremonial and functional and has been crafted with meticulous detail and adorned with intricate patterns that speak of both tradition and her devotion to the Deathkeeper. Grilka's demeanor is one of silent resolve, standing straight as a spear Grilka's chestnut brown head is clean shaven and her right eye is a piecing brown while the left is white and clouded. Instead of being cold and icy Grilka radiates a warmth and kindness that belies the strength of her character.

Frode did not seem to mind, except he did ask, "This is a foot race, not of wing correct?" He gave Sigrund a sharp eyed look of distrust. His dad was fond of many sayings, such as "Never trust a woman who flirts first, they are likely after something."

He shrugged at her, "Suit yourself." He continued his warmup.

OOC: He chose his words carefully for truthfulness.