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.