Words of the Auld Hoose

[Flames of Hyperion]

It's called the Auld Hoose, and it's one of the biggest taverns in town. Not quite the biggest, but it's slightly more spacious and slightly more rowdy than most of the rest. Of course, it's slightly more expensive as well, but that comes with the territory, does it not?

From the outside, it looks just like any other building in Scara Brae; walls of whitewashed stone, supported by sturdy wooden girders. A creaky sign hangs in the wind, proudly proclaiming to the world "The finest wines and ales in all of the land!" Like many such establishments, the Auld Hoose doubles as an inn for weary travellers, adventurers and traders alike, and the upper two floors of the structure are dedicated to this purpose... the owner, being a prudent man, lives in an outhouse round the back. Even at the worst of times, when the winter storms cut off the majority of communication between the island and its neighbours, the inn does a bustling trade both in alcohol and in lodgings.

When entering through the heavy oaken double doors, please disregard the snowy white falcon that eyes you on the way in; his owner is a polite man and somehow thinks that the bird's presence within the building will not be appreciated. Mind the threshold, for many a drunk has tripped over that step only to be thrown back out again, and take a moment or two to allow your eyes to adjust to the comfortably dim lighting. Harken your ears to the sound of the quartet playing on stage, for if you can hear them over the bustle of conversation and the raucous laughter, you've no doubt come at a good time to be served quickly. And try not to dwell too long on the lingering stench of humanity, for the rushes by the fireplace are only changed once a week, and to step in amongst them would be unpleasant to say the least... you really don't want to know what people do there.

Concentrate instead on the good company and the fine ale, on conversation and rumour and opportunity besides. For the Auld Hoose is a crossroad of culture and profession, where people of many trades and many backgrounds mingle together in common harmony. The stories that are told will fill a thousand books, although whether or not to believe them is completely up to you. And, for the quick of mind and nimble of tongue, there is always the chance of striking a lucrative deal or sealing a newfound friendship, almost indelibly over a pint of the Auld Finest.

Whatever your purpose, whatever your past, there is always something for you at the Auld Hoose...

***

Corvyn McManus was a merchant, a minor trader who mostly concerned himself with regular runs between Scara Brae and Corone. His curly grey hair was undoubtedly thinning into oblivion, flaccid jowls sagging around his chin, while his paunch was definitely two sizes above what would normally be considered healthy. He was a naturally florid man, but the current ruddy flush on his face was probably more the result of one too many pints of ale rather than any natural complexion. About his only redeeming qualities were his head for figures (although this could be interpreted in more ways than one), and his remarkable capacity for two completely differing things in life - the first, alcohol... the second, rumours.

"So I was talking to one of the miners at Sess-Teria the other day," he belched as he sat at a fireside table, leering at the pretty barmaid as she flounced past just out of his reach. "Got him talking about some'un they call the Dragon Hermit."

His companion, a slight weaselly man with pasty face, grunted noncommitally at Corvyn's words. "The Dragon Hermit, eh? What kinda title's that?"

"See, that's the good part," Corvyn continued, leaning forwards (or trying to, at least) conspiratorially. "They say he's the spokesman for the dragon on the mountains. They say he's wise and smart beyond belief, and that he'll give ya the answers to anything you ask for."

A short burst of laughter sounded disdain and disbelief.

"Ha! If I had a penny for every such story I've heard, I wouldna have to work no more!" Coincidentally, Corvyn's companion was also a merchant.

The proper thing for Corvyn to do, of course, was to laugh along and to enjoy the humour at the poor miner's expense. When instead his face grew sombre and serious, everybody within earshot (with Corvyn's voice, pretty much everybody in the tavern) knew that they were in for a treat.

There was one last thing about Corvyn McManus. He had a reputation for perfectionism and accuracy; the wines that he drank and the rumours that he gave voice to were more often than not the real deal. Thus when Corvyn McManus spoke, people took note.

"Y'see," he began, and heads instinctively leaned closer to listen. "That's what I thought, at first. Until the next miner I spoke to, and the next, and the next... well, blimey if they ain't all talking the same thing. Every last one of them, I ask about the Dragon Hermit, they reply with the same words... wise and knowledgable as anything in the lands, and willing to share that knowledge to any who makes it to him. If you've got a question that needs answering, or a person that needs finding, or anything of the like... you go to the Dragon Hermit, and you ask nicely, and he'll give you the answer!"

"Pah!" his companion exclaimed in disdain, although the squint of his eyes showed that he too was listening intently. Even the incredulity that he flung into Corvyn's face was half-hearted and calculating, goading the larger man on in his story. "Bunch of miners, who can trust what they say?"

Corvyn McManus rubbed the bridge of his nose knowingly, and that oh-so-superior look crept into his eyes.

"Aye, so I said, so I said," he continued, conscious of his growing audience and the fact that his tankard was nearly empty. If anything, he knew he wouldn't have to worry about drinks for the rest of the night; Corvyn smiled inwardly to himself, warmed by the thought. "But with every last son-of-the-pick and their mother going on about it, well, I thought what's to lose? And you know about my nephew, Calum, so..."

Everybody knew about his nephew, Calum McManus. The young man had gone missing a few months ago after making off with a sizable proportion of the McManus family gold; nobody had been able to track him down or recover the money. The patrons of the Auld Hoose knew about it better than most, since Corvyn had used the sob story to good effect for a long period of time. A manipulative man, Corvyn McManus.

The wise nods from around him confirmed their knowledge of his nephew Calum, and so Corvyn continued with his story.

"So I says to myself, why not, Corvyn, why not... and I heads off to the Falls to see if there's any truth in the rumours!"

A long draught of ale to wet his parched tongue, and then he found himself staring at the empty metal bottom of his mug. Not for long, however, as somebody generously replaced it with a new serving... such were the benefits of story-telling.

"And...?" his companion asked, obviously impatient to get to the heart of the story. "Didja find anything?"

"Well, I goes to the Hermit, and I find him after a couple of days of searching near the falls, sitting on a rock and meditating or something. And so I asks him, Dragon Hermit, sir, I come to ask you a question."

Corvyn fancied himself a good storyteller, and chose that moment to lower his voice and pause for dramatic effect. His friend, however, had no intention of waiting around for such literary devices, and the look on his face (and the looks on the faces of almost everybody else who was listening in) convinced Corvyn that it may be wise to continue quickly.

"And he answers, before I've said anything else, he answers... Look in the barn belonging to Rufus the Miller." The hermit's words were suitably deepened of course, to make them sound grand and prophetic, as all good advice from lone hermits should be.

"And?" The prompt was sharper this time, more eager. Even if it was a fallacy - and with Corvyn's reputation, most likely it wasn't - it was certainly a good tale.

"I goes to the miller's barn, and lo and behold, there's my nephew! Turns out he was hiding away with the miller's daughter all the time, living off my hard-earned money and lazing about like a common mule!" No mention here that a common mule probably worked harder than Corvyn ever did, but that was beside the point. "So I dragged him home by his ears and boxed him about, and now he's working off what he owes me as a common clerk!"

Uproarious laughter from all about. Everybody loved a happy ending, although the notion of notoriously wide-girthed Corvyn dragging anybody home by the ears probably inspired as much merriment as the story itself.

"So... there is some truth behind the Dragon Hermit rumours..." the other merchant mused, stroking his sharp chin as Corvyn downed the rest of his pint and began to expound on the story to even more willing listeners. If you could spare the moment to look around, you would see that he was not the only person thinking along the very same line of thought...

One of those who was having trouble concealing their interest was a dark-haired bespectacled young man who sat in the far corner of the room, open book forgotten in his hands.

[FeanBough]

You're post didn't say open or closed, so I figured I'd jump in. If its closed, or not the start of a quest, just let me know. Thanks.

The bookish young man with the spectacles wasn’t the only person at the inn enthralled by Corvyn’s tale. At a table off to the side, well away from the fire, a second young man stared, open-mouthed, at the rotund storyteller. On the wooden table in front of him lay a small glass container, the forgotten spider inside tapping irritably on the walls of its transparent prison. In his hands rested a small notebook and a fountain pen. On the top page of the notebook, written in the neat scrawl of a scientist, one could see (if they cared to look) various notes about the specimen. Web-thrower, family deinopidae, body 30mm, leg to leg 80mm, male…

As Corvyn began his tale the cloaked youth stopped his scrawling, adding only three more phrases: dragon hermit, the Falls, he’ll give you the answer...

While some may have been skeptical, and perhaps rightly so, Fean – as the boy was known – saw only hope. Despite the catastrophic betrayal by The Church in his homeworld, the young Biomancer was still ruled by innocence borne of a happy youth and the unabashed curiosity of a bright mind. He quickly tucked the pen and paper into a pocket on his Kit and motioned the barmaid to his table.

“Yeah,” she said, looking at the spider and the untouched glass of water on Fean’s table. She allowed the faintest hint of annoyance to creep into her voice. “Are you ready to get something?” The annoyance sprang more from disappointment in herself than from Fean’s actions. When she first approached the cloaked youth, little more than a half hour ago, she had been so taken aback by his simple, unassuming politeness that she’d allowed him to order only water. But niceties only went so far; she was there to make money and she intended to do so.

“Yes, thank you.” Fean said. “I’d like to buy that man a drink.” He pointed to Corvyn. “Could you get him whatever he’s drinking and tell him it’s from me?”

The barmaid raised an eyebrow. “He’s drinking fire dwarf ale; it’s not cheap.” She was lying of course, but it meant some extra coin for her if she charged for fire ale and brought the tap lager Corvyn regularly downed in barrels. The bait-and-switch wasn’t something she pulled regularly, the Auld Hoose being a reputable establishment, but she felt confident it would go unnoticed.

“That’s fine, thank you. And a shot of whisky please. Judging by the permanent dilation of his surface capillaries I’d guess he likes his liquor too.”

The barmaid didn’t even pretend to know what that meant. Instead, she disappeared behind the bar to fetch the order. Moments later she returned carrying the drink and shot. She set them both on Corvyn’s table, taking care to avoid his ‘friendly’ hands.

“They’re from him,” she said, pointing over her shoulder to Fean.

[Liquid Ice]

Long ears are excellent for listening. And that was exactly what Liquid Ice was doing in the Auld Hoose. It was what she had been doing in many very similar such establishments for over a week now. The slender figure, who was quite androgynous at first glance to be perfectly honest, took another slow sip of whatever it was the barkeeper had given her. She’d discovered in her hauntings of the local bars, that a quietly murmured “the usual” would get her a drink and set the barkeeper scrambling to remember when she had been in before. He would inevitably decide that she was some actual elf that came in from time to time and gave her whatever that person usually drank. It was a very effective way to keep from standing out to the keepers, who were always terrible gossips in their own right, and covered up her utter ignorance on that subject of local alcoholic beverages. Unfortunately the results were rather… hit or miss. Some of the drinks had been tolerable. Others, like whatever dark swill sat before her now, were utterly undrinkable. So she ran her fingertip slowly around the edge of the mug and stared deeply into the liquid as if she were pondering the very nature of the universe. Hopefully any passers-by would just think she was some world-wise elf lost in thoughts that were best not disturbed by loud, inelegant human voices. Hopefully.

Shifting through the conversations was a simple matter of concentration. Catch a phrase, tune out everything else. If it was interesting it wasn’t too hard to keep that same voice in the forefront, otherwise it was back to wading through the quiet murmurs for something more useful. The music in this establishment, if whatever local noise they were producing could indeed be termed such, was a minor inconvenience but not one that couldn’t be overcome. The person she was listening to at that very moment didn’t require so much finesse, however. He was talking loudly and it seemed that most of the other patrons had fallen silent to either listen to his tale or wait out his boisterous interruption. Liquid felt her lips tug into a faint smile as she listened to the drunken tale. She’d discovered, in her time sifting through conversation on this island that there appeared to be a sort of unspoken challenge to permanent contest as to who could fabricate the most elaborate exploits. The first few had puzzled her, the next set she’d heard had irritated her. A quick glance at the storyteller usually proved they were physically incapable of such actions as they described. Yet, somehow the stories were growing on her. It was obvious that the locals never took such stories serious, so she accepted them for what they appeared to be – local entertainment.

This story, however, quickly proved to be more than simply a tall tale. The people gathered around him seemed to be taking his words at face value. And they were very interesting words, very interesting indeed. She had no idea what in any hell a Dragon Hermit was, but a man who could answer any question just seemed far fetched. Yet, the merchant had cited a specific example of asking where a person was and of being told.

But it couldn’t-. It just could not be that easy. Still, Liquid couldn’t fight down the sudden rise of optimism and the single burning thought: He could tell me where to find Doctor Sakura! She was surprised to find that her hands were shaking as she silently slipped from the bar stool and drifted towards the speaker, doing her best to appear inconspicuous. On the pretense of being near the fire, the young hunter drifted behind the merchant, glancing over her shoulder to taken in the patrons at a glance. Turning her face back towards the fire, she closed her eyes and concentrated on remembering the faces she had glimpsed. It wasn’t the storyteller she was worried about at that moment, but whoever else might be interested in the story. It was never a good idea to take off after some bit of gossip without first taking full stock of any else who might be following the same rumor. Friend, foe, stepping stone or potential knife in the back, it was always best to get a feel for all the players involved.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Good point, I forgot to link to the recruitment thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?p=104968). That said, the quest is wide open, so no harm done ^^

For a while, the tavern buzzed with the story, patrons in various stages of inebriation speculating on the nature of the Dragon Hermit or loudly declaring what question they would ask when they found him. Then, as it was prone to doing in places such as this, the conversation gradually drifted away from the old, inexorably gravitating towards the new. Somebody mentioned offhand that the goblins to the north seemed to be gathering in strength once more, and suddenly all that was left of Corvyn's centre-stage was a few empty tankards, one or two pleasant memories, and the big man himself still seated in his fireside chair, gazing forlornly as the attention turned elsewhere.

Not for long, though, as the barmaid chose this moment to deposit two more presents on his table. The beer... well, there wasn't anything that special about it; it was palatable and affordable, but far from the Auld Finest. The whiskey, however, caught his attention.

Even as he made another pass at the barmaid, failing miserably in the process.

"They’re from him," she indicated before nimbly skipping away from his second attempt, and Corvyn's eyes instinctively travelled to his benefactor. Young, baby-faced, athletic... but an intellectual as well, judging by the open notebook and the specimen jar. The man's trade was beyond Corvyn's comprehension - the merchant had no idea whatsoever what all the outlandish vials and tools indicated - but at a wild guess he was one of those Alerarian alchemists. In any case, a free drink was a free drink... two free drinks even better... and Corvyn solemnly raised his whiskey in a toast before downing the shot appreciatively. It wasn't every day that he was able to taste of a drink as fine as this.

The invitation was made.

And then promptly forgotten as Corvyn noticed somebody else in his immediate vicinity.

"Hello..." he intoned, stretching out the last syllable as he leaned towards the slender woman with the pale skin and the blue hair. In his own mind, at least, he was being courteous and gentlemanly; the alcohol on his breath and the lurid leer he wore probably gave her the opposite impression. Elf he thought to himself as he noticed the characteristic ears of the race, not a very busty one, but Corvyn almost preferred them that way.

Make of that what you will.

***

Unlike Corvyn, Ingwe had a slightly better idea of the young man's profession, seeing parallels in the unique attire and a little-known branch of magical pseudo-science related to biology. The only reason he knew that was because Elerrina had once shown interest in the field, and had adapted some of its techniques for her own. The only reason he noticed the young man in the first place, of course, was because he was keeping a tab on those who showed more than a cursory, drunken interest in the merchant's story.

His initial reaction had been somewhat sceptical, for he knew to always take such tall tales with a pinch of salt (or, in most cases, a whole bag of it). Like many of the adventurers who eavesdropped on the words, however, he soon realised two very important facts regarding the situation.

The first was that the locals were hanging on to every word like it was the gospel. There was no hint of sarcasm, no trace of true disbelief... their eager eyes and their breathless countenances showed that they believed every last word of it.

Could it really be...?

And then Corvyn McManus had reached the point where the Dragon Hermit's words were proven true.

No... way...

The rest of the story seemed to pass him over as his mind attempted to digest the information, one and one combining to form three. A story about a wise-man who claimed to know all was one thing... a specific example of his omniscience was another. And when said specific example happened to have such close resemblance to your own personal quest...

Was it too much to hope? It just seemed too easy, almost certainly there was bound to be a catch...

But he'd hate himself even more if he didn't try.

With a finality that was deafening to his churning mind, the book snapped shut and meandered into the travel pouch on his waist, hidden underneath the folds of his royal blue cloak. Slowly, silently, he began to make his way towards the front of the room.

[FeanBough]

Fean watched the barmaid deliver his gifts to the red-faced merchant, the muscles in his legs tensing as he readied to stand. As she danced away from the man’s groping paws Fean tucked the spider into his Kit and stood, taking a half-dozen quick steps towards his fireside seat. Perhaps he moved too soon, or perhaps it was not soon enough, but either way by the time he closed half the distance between his table and Corvyn’s seat the merchant had already diverted his attention to the lithe elf hovering by the hearth. Unsure of what to do, Fean stumbled to a halt in the middle of the taproom, rocking in an awkward start-and-stop as he tried to decide whether or not to continue.

“Wondering if you’re his type?” The barmaid asked. She was next to him, having melted out of the crowd like oil out of coal.

“What?” Fean asked, forcing himself to focus on the young woman. He honestly didn’t get the jibe, but he could tell by the curl of her lip that she was poking fun at him.

“Never mind.” She stepped in closer and lowered her voice. Fean could feel her breath. “You wouldn’t be trying to leave without paying for those drinks? You owe me ten gold.” Ten gold was a preposterous price for two drinks, even ones so rare as fire ale and whisky, and some part of Fean knew it. But, his attention was focused elsewhere and the barmaid’s suggestion that he was trying to skip out on his tab had the desired effect.

“No…I wouldn’t, I mean…I wasn’t,” he fumbled. The barmaid moved in closer and brushed her arm against his shoulder. His face flushed as he reached into the cloth pouch attached to his belt. He drew out ten gold and placed it in her hand. She smiled and backed away, throwing Fean a saucy wink before linking arms with another passing server. The barmaid that had thoroughly scammed the young man whispered in the other girl’s ear and both shared a good laugh.

With the barmaid gone Fean once again became aware of his surroundings. Some of the patrons were staring at him, which wasn’t a surprise considering the he was standing alone in the middle of the room, and some were simply staring into their drinks or talking loudly with friends. From this vantage point he had a good view of the room and he chose to take the opportunity to get a better handle on the situation. Rushing into things blindly had almost gotten him killed in the past. Here on Althanas, without the aid of friends, that “almost” would become a certainty.

To his left he saw another young man stand and move through the crowd. Over his shoulder hung two exotic-look blades, leading Fean to believe he was a warrior, but his lack of armor and style of clothing spoke of one who practiced the magical arts. Blue and white - an aeromancer perhaps? If that even exists here. Magic on Althanas was much more varied than on Terian. Practitioners here didn’t seem to be limited to the manipulation of a single element, or to elemental manipulation at all.

He turned his attention back towards the merchant, or more specifically, to the elf the merchant was slobbering over. There was something odd about that one. She appeared to be an elf, slender and beautiful, with delicately pointed ears and the relaxed grace inherent in woodland denizens. But there was something…different about her. Perhaps it was her height. Elves rarely stood over five and a half feet tall, yet this one appeared closer to six. Intrigued, Fean extended the tiniest thread of his power, reaching out his senses to detect the vita flowing through the maiden. It wasn’t magic per se, more like empathy for biological life, and Fean released it as soon as her signature was revealed. Humanoid.

At least she’s not some dragon in disguise…at least I hope not.

None of the other patrons gave Fean reason to pause as most had turned their attention back to private matters or newer news, the tale of the merchant largely forgotten. You’ll never get anywhere by standing still, Fean thought, quoting an old Corlish proverb. And stand still he did not. Instead, he followed the lead of the parchment-skinned swordsman and made his way to the fire.

[Liquid Ice]

There were several capable looking figures that showed obvious interest in the tale. One specifically had caught her attention simply because he was already in motion. He was a tall, thick man who wore a heavy coat and full beard. He’d already begun to rise when she’d captured her glimpse of him so she followed the sound of his footsteps as he reached the door. There was a pause and she heard the faint scrape of wood as he retrieved the axe he’d left by the door and settled it on his shoulder before heading out the door. Woodsman, most likely. If she had to wager, the man had a family and wouldn’t be able to waste more than a half day at most chasing silly stories he’d heard in a tavern. His lack of potential success prevented him from being contact material but the slim chances of ever meeting him against outside this building also kept him from becoming a threat.

A sound caught her attention and her eyes alone shifted to see a book being put away. The man who owned it appeared youthful but spirited. Three things caught her attention. Blue cloak, glasses and what appeared to be two nihon-to. A well-armed studious youthful male who wasn’t trying to hide. She had just tagged him as a potential contact when the drunken merchant noticed her presence. Her delicate nose flared faintly at the rank alcohol on his breath, but since her stay on the Katan biodome she’d redefined her standards of intolerable smells. A dozen responses and identities flashed through her mind almost instantly but none of them seemed to offer anything better than her current disguise as an elf. It had been proving itself very useful of late, truth be told.

“Greetings.” Liquid replied, softening her normal tone and adding a faint lilt to it – she’d read somewhere that elves were supposed to have musical voices. She favored the merchant with a slightly superior smile that manage to fall just short of condescending. The man himself was probably far too drunk to grasp such subtleties but his were not the only eyes and ears about. Reaching out for a nearby chair, she spun it about to face him and draped herself into it. Ostensibly to look at him but the angle allowed her most of the room in her peripheral vision. She hooked her elbow around the back corner of the chair and rested her against her open hand and looking at the merchant. It might have been the heat from the fire, which was making the cold-natured Vastian sweat inside her own clothing, but she thought she noticed a flush rise to his cheeks. “I could not help overhear your tale, it is indeed an interesting one.”

Liquid started to form the next word and paused for a heartbeat. She felt a faint tingle along the back of her neck, the hair there rising to stand on end. It wasn’t a true sixth sense, or danger sense of any kind. Just a spy’s natural knack for knowing when she’s being studied. Her eyes gave the room a swift sweep and settled on a second youth who appeared to be heading towards the merchant. He didn’t seem to have the bodily confidence of a warrior but he did seem to be in acceptable physical shape. Brown cloak and clothing in shades of green could either be a personal choice or an attempt to blend in. He wasn’t as brash as the other warrior but something still made Liquid tag him as a potential contact as well. Her eyes never left his face as she tilted her chin towards the merchant and finished her words, the pause only noticeable to someone who had been watching the exchange with their full attention. She doubted the merchant would even care that she wasn’t looking right at him, since her body language seemed to indicate that he had her full attention. “Please, tell me more.”

[Feed The Machine]

(For Galyl, this takes place directly after Girls of Combat (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=9726))

Galyl took hold of one of the clean, luxurious, and freshly scented towels that the Auld Hoose inn provided for all of its guests. The soft linen was applied gently to his face as he finished drying himself off from the shower that'd cleansed him of the day. Each inhabitant was treated almost on the level of royalty since everything within the room, from the wooden desks to the linen of the bed comforters was of a quality that was extremely difficult to find on Althanas if one didn’t sacrifice an arm and a leg to the Thaynes in order to get it. The young elf was sure that some underhanded method of chicanery had been used to acquire such material, especially since the room he’d paid for was just a few gold pieces over the price set for rooms at other inns located in shadier sections of Scara Brae city.

At any other time, the spirit of justice that came tightly packaged in the Bladesinger might’ve inspired the youth to investigate this, but he was simply too exhausted to care. It hadn’t even been a full four hours since he departed from the presence of the Scara Brae Queen after he'd ran around the city with Jame, Cloverfield, and Twyla, evading enigmatic mercenaries, brawling in the Zirnden, and almost being eradicated by City Guard soldiers. Luckily though, since Queen Valeena had called him from Raiaera in hopes of capturing a high-ranking member in the Scourge crime syndicate, the stern government officials spared his life, as well as the lives of those who were accompanying him after they’d hauled away the criminals that they were looking for. That however, wasn’t the exhausting part, as hard as that was to believe. It was the energy that had to be spent just trying to ward off the Machine’s influence.

The horned Raiaeran took a seat on the foot of his bed, letting the slight sinking remove some of his tension. The palm of his right hand opened. There was nothing unusual about it, yet rather what it had once become……what the Machine had made it become.

“I can’t let it take control of me. Otherwise, Raiaera and the people that I care about will……..”

The Galoriand quickly closed his hand and shot up. To think about the possibility of loosing all control was frustrating as well as frightening. He knew how much power Xem’zund’s Machine had, having spent nearly his entire life researching and maintaining it. However, to ponder any longer over it would be pointless since there was nothing he could do about it at the present time. Thankfully, he had some tranquility from the invasive efforts of the Machine.

The sky displayed a faint reddish yellow hue, indicating that late afternoon would soon turn into night. The elf really didn’t want to waste another minute conscious, but the noise of the tavern dwellers prohibited him from falling gracefully into the dream world. “What is going on downstairs?” He didn’t say this as a curious inquirer, but instead an irate traveler that would’ve appreciated some form of respect from the drinkers below, especially since he was sure that they were aware that the facility was just as much of an inn as it was a bar.

Groaning, Galyl slid on his chocolate colored shorts and shirt, his chain mail, his green cloak, and finally his trusty wooden sandals. In such a situation where the risk for confrontation should be low, the elf was aware that rowdy bars often turned out brawls and thus preparation for such events had to be at the forefront of any warrior’s mind. Therefore, Galyl marched angrily down several flights of stairs. When the dim light of the tavern splashed against his milk white face, he was all set to blast the boisterous partiers with a trumpet-like rebuke. But much to his surprise, nearly all of the people were surrounding someone.

The young Bladesinger sat down on the steps and listened to the fellow’s tales about the Dragon Hermit. It was odd that Galyl had stormed downstairs to reprimand the inconsiderate screamers but found himself ensnared in the story like everyone else. He was certainly familiar with the tale of the Dragon Hermit, having read about it in a library in Anebrilith. From the moment his eyes crossed the words of the book, which poured the story into his mind, he always wondered if such a man existed. It wasn’t that Galyl was skeptical, but there simply wasn’t any evidence to prove the existence of such a man. However, for the sake of his beloved Galoriand family, he hoped that the Dragon Hermit existed since he would certainly be able to tell Galyl how to lift the wretched curse that Xem’zund had placed on the Galoriands long ago during the Wars of the Tap. For too long had his people struggled with nothing but hope and prayer to rely on. The High Bard Council was useless, which was a true shame considering the magical prowess they possessed.

The thought alone filled the Obsidian Spire native with immense rage. “This Dragon Hermit might be my only chance to save the Galoriands. If he knows the answers to everything, then he’ll be able to tell me how to cure the Galoriand illness.”

The time was now. The olive haired soldier rose up from the stairs and walked over to the storyteller, suppressing whatever insecurities he had with regard to his physical appearance. By this time, only a remnant of the once interested crowd surrounded him, as the others lent their ears to yet another orator with an adventurous tale. “Is what you say really true?” The Galoriand had pulled up a chair, turning it opposite of its conventional direction so that he could lean forward against its backrest. “Did this Dragon Hermit really tell you where your nephew was?”

Galyl had already known the answer to that question, but wanted to hear it again. To him it was reassurance that perhaps if this man’s dream of finding his relative could come true, so could his.

[Flames of Hyperion]

"I do not lie!" Corvyn protested, indignant at the slight upon his honour as a trader. He eyed the newcomer in what he hoped was justified hurt but which probably came out as something a tad more comical; nostrils flaring, jowls quivering, and eyes bloodshot with too much alcohol. Torn, the merchant wavered between continuing to impress the young elfin female and hotly rebuking the upstart who had challenged him, but instead was forced to settle for draining his tankard in one long draft in an attempt to buy himself precious time to remain "composed". Thankfully, his drink-befuddled wits belatedly reached an appropriately alcohol-fueled compromise... he could do both at once!

"As I said, I heard about the Dragon Hermit from the miners at Sess-Teria." Corvyn leaned over the table, engulfing it in the bulk of his upper body, peering close at the male elf. Was it just him, or were those branches jutting out of his face?

... he must have had too much to drink. A heady grumble, for Corvyn knew that he was too old for such binges and would pay for it the next morning... but, for the moment being, he was happily and pleasantly inebriated. A shift of gaze around the table, so that it once more settled upon the beautiful elven lady, and all was well again.

"So I went searching for him at the Falls... they're... they..."

He fumbled helplessly for the correct words, somehow deducing even in his current condition that his female companion was not of these lands and would require some background. His wits failed him, however, and his tongue flopped helplessly like a fish out of water as he grasped for the correct words to describe the land to the lady.

"The Mountain-Tear Falls," a new voice supplied, quiet but firm. Cultured would probably not quite have been an apt description, but definitely educated. "A set of waterfalls perhaps two day's easy walk to the northwest. They're known throughout Althanas as the Gems of Scara Brae for their beauty."

Ingwe certainly hadn't wasted any time after acquiring his new books, having already committed a large amount of the information contained within to memory. He smiled in greeting, bowing deeply to all, murmuring a gentle "Elen sila lumenn omentilmo"* towards the two Elves and directing a polite nod in the direction of the young scientist.

"Yes, the Mountain-Tear Falls," Corvyn grumbled, slightly annoyed at the interruption. However, he welcomed the latest newcomer with open arms; this may have been largely because Ingwe had thoughtfully brought along another helping of the lager that the merchant had just drained (although how much he'd paid for it was anybody's conjecture; mere observation of his rather glaring insecurity was enough to see that Ingwe rarely bought drinks at all, if ever). In fact, the warrior-mage even found the time to locate a seat within conversation range before Corvyn had finished taking an appreciative sip.

"So, as I was saying, I found the Dragon Hermit at the Mountain-Tear Falls, and before I even asked him where my nephew was, he'd given me the answer. Like magic," he nodded, a wise and sage nod. "Like magic."

Note that the four adventurers seated around the table probably knew a lot more about magic than Corvyn did. The merchant was virtually ignorant about the matter despite his years and experiences, and would make liberal use of the term to describe literally anything beyond his mathematically-inclined comprehension. Yet, in this case, the wording was probably apt, and Corvyn was satisfied by the knowing and/or hopeful gleams that crept into his audience's eyes.

"So," he sank back into the chair with a content belch, causing the wood to groan and buckle beneath him. Tipsy gaze once again swept his audience, dismissing the three males almost preemptively but lingering on the Elf lady. "Is there anything else you want to know?"


* Regional Elvish greeting roughly translated as, "A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting".

[FeanBough]

Fean locked eyes with the female elf even as she turned her words toward the merchant. The directness of her gaze made him blush faintly, but it wasn’t enough to slow his gait. He took a chair at the fireside table as if invited, which – he told himself – he was, even if the merchant’s attention had been turned elsewhere. As he sat the spider in his Kit jolted angrily, reminding the scientist to put his back to the flames in order to afford the creature some protection from the heat. Despite the odd composition of the group none in the taproom paid them any mind, which was probably for the best. Fean could feel an adventure brewing and adventures had a way of causing trouble for those unfortunate enough to be involved.

The oddity of the convergence only increased as the second elf joined the conversation. Fean didn’t even hear the newcomer question Corvyn’s tale, his attention so focused on the plant life growing from the elf’s body. Instinctively he reached for the polished wooden box strapped near his right shoulder, dexterous fingers unsnapping the cradle and withdrawing the container in one smooth motion. Next to Fean, though it seemed far away, Corvyn defended his story, his red face growing even redder as the branch-studded elf suggested it might be a lie. The scientist heard something about waterfalls, but the mahogany box was now open on his lap and all hopes of divided attention were lost.

The box, which seemed much larger open than closed, was full of vials, rectangular pieces of glass, strips of paper, and an assortment of powders, colored liquids, and well-cared-for tools. From a narrow compartment Fean drew a metal slide-rule, extending the callipered head with a push of his thumb. “How are you manifesting those branches without a cloak?” He asked as he lifted the ruler toward the elf’s jaw. “No, you’re not manifesting them. It’s like they’re permanently interphased. Who did this to you?”

Elen sila lumenn omentilmo…

The robed swordsman’s greeting snapped Fean out of his single-minded daze. He realized, to his horror, that he was literally about to measure a stranger’s face in the middle of a crowded tavern. “I’m sorry,” he sputtered, his face turning redder than the alcohol-fuddled merchant’s. Quickly he replaced the slide rule and returned the box to its compacted form. Fean clutched the testing kit on his lap as he looked into the faces around the table. They were all staring at him. Were they simply surprised? Confused? Angry? He saved the wooded elf for last, looking up into his face and then quickly down again. “I’m sorry.”

After a long, painfully awkward moment, Corvyn spoke again. “So, as I was saying, I found the Dragon Hermit at the Mountain-Tear Falls…”

Still cursing himself for a fool, Fean waited quietly for the conversation to play out, thinking it better for someone else to answer whether more information was needed.

[Liquid Ice]

Actual Elf, branches growing out of his face not withstanding, and a man who spoke Elvish. Problem. Liquid was still struggling with Tradespeak, and couldn’t even begin to try to master all the myriad Elvish dialects. Just like that she discarded the story she’d be planning to use. She’d heard enough of the sob stories the locals had in her drifting, so a new story formed quite fluidly. She was now a half-elf bastard child raised by a pirate whose ship had sunk and she was now struggling valiantly and with all due angst to overcome her criminal upbringing. No, that wouldn’t do. Like most creative ventures, the first idea wasn’t always the best. Half-elves seemed to invite scorn and cultural hatred from both sides. Pure Elf child kidnapped at an early age by some properly evil human splinter group and raised as a slave. The sinking of their ship had finally afforded her the opportunity to escape and she was now trying to build a life of her own. That might also explain away her furtive and secretive nature. The splinter group might want their slave back. As well as cultural blunders. Who taught slaves table manners?

It was also a story full of holes that wouldn’t stand up to careful questioning. Which meant she needed to get everyone thinking forward. They all obviously had the same desire, to ask some burning question to this Dragon Hermit. The two potential contacts were fine but the Elf was a liability. Though it was always good to have one less useful person in any group when shit hit the fan. As these thoughts ran through her head she observed the actions of the timid contact from the corner of her eye. His enthusiasm for anything usual was somehow endearing. And useful. Scientists so impassioned with the purity of study that they were blind to any immediate practical or monetary advantage were always a welcome addition to any military endeavor. They supplied raw data that a military analyst could then use to the best possible use without having to deal with the scientist’s own ulterior motives. His tag was elevated from timid contact to science contact.

The last piece of the puzzle was the almost mindless commanding nature of the bold contact with the nihon-to. He had a natural air of command and had no trouble charging in and finishing another man’s sentence. He was also well learned, enough to know greetings in other languages at least. Unfortunately he kept his distance from the table, taking a chair in range but not at the table like the rest. A loner, it seemed. Or at least cautious. It could but a good thing but he might need some prodding. It made him more of a wild card but Liquid didn’t have the best to work with here. Though, she had to suddenly remind herself that she didn’t necessarily have to double-cross these people. The treasure wasn’t solitary and they could all get what they wanted out of the situation. But old habits die very, very hard.

Deciding it was time to get things moving, Liquid shifted to sit forward in her chair. She favored science contact with a faint indulgent smile, the branch elf with the oddly cool glance of one subspecies specimen to another and finally turned to look squarely at the bold contact. “It seems all of us have an interest in discovering the truth of this tale. Perhaps we should travel together?”

She allowed a small pause. The selfish natural of most intelligent creatures gave them the natural thought that whoever made the suggestion of forming a group also had the ulterior motive of desiring to lead it. Liquid wanted no such thing. There was far too much scrutiny placed on a leader of a group of strangers. Besides, she’d already tagged the group leader, even if he didn’t know it yet. So she continued to look directly at the bold contact in his confidant white and blue garb. “Perhaps this knowledgeable gentleman could lead us to the falls?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

His seat was a little further away from the conversation than Ingwe would have liked, but since the table really was only designed for four, it was probably the case that the warrior-mage had little true choice in the matter. In addition, it allowed him to disguise somewhat his awkwardness with such situations under cover of subtly studying the other adventurers. Thankfully the onset of the witching hour had led to a substantial reduction in the number of patrons within the tavern as they retreated one by one to the comfort of their homes, and this meant a greater deal of privacy for the huddled groups that still remained.

The scientist he saw to be much like his younger self, up to and including the inadvertent social faux pas. Dedicated to his studies, scholarly almost to an extreme, the tools of his trade and the interest he showed in everything new served to confirm Ingwe's earlier prediction as to his profession. There was a certain purity about him, a certain innocence or naivete that surpassed even his own, and the shell that he withdrew into after his apology was also oddly familiar. A thinker and an intellectual; the type of person who would be good to have along on a long journey.

The Elf male he observed to be almost druidic in nature, calm and stoic. Ingwe caught a hint, however, of a darkly burning fire deep within his soul that drove the man on. Something almost as powerful, if not moreso, as the quest that he himself undertook. The branches that wreathed his face disturbed Ingwe little, for the warrior-mage had seen far odder creatures in his lifetime; in fact, they led to the tentative conclusion that he was a Silvan Elf of sorts, who didn't merely live in the forest, but symbiotically with it. The type of person you would be glad to have by your side in a tight situation.

The Elf female, on the other hand, was more of an enigma, a mystery in every sense of the word. Something about the way she questioned the merchant for information gave him the impression that she was used to such methods of procuring information; not quite manipulative, perhaps, but definitely prepared to do whatever it took to get what she needed. He wondered what had shaped her into such a personality, innocent curiosity rather than honed suspicion, but he had no doubt that she could hold her own in a pinch. She certainly held herself confidently enough.

As for Corvyn...

Ingwe turned back to the obese trader just as the man finished reciting the tale for the second time, and nodded once to confirm that he indeed had been listening. To be honest, deep inside he was beginning to have faint but fresh doubts about the overall veracity of Corvyn's tale. Perhaps it was just the fact that the merchant favoured drink like fish favoured water, or perhaps it was the nagging voice in the back of his mind warning him that the story was still almost too good to be true.

On the other hand, there was only one way to be sure, wasn't there... The fire behind him jumped and flared, reflecting a decision made.

"I would be honoured to show you the way," he inclined his head gracefully towards the woman, a bow that came off courteous even though he remained seated. She probably needed all the gentility she could find, for the merchant was now (not so) subtly edging towards her, drinks forgotten and visibly fighting to keep his hands in check. One sign of her distaste, Ingwe resolved to himself, and he would be forced to politely ask for the man to refrain from his actions.

Note also the slight emphasis on the "show", as opposed to the word "lead" that she had used to ask it of him. Ingwe knew that he was not a leader - he most certainly lacked the self-confidence for that - and would have been happy in most circumstances just to tag along with the others. Since it seemed that he was the only person who knew the way (and he went over the map in his mind once more, just to be sure), he would be more than happy to be of service... but to actively take the leading role?

The wry smile on his face, cast in gently dancing shadow, probably said it all. He meekly fingered his glasses, suddenly uneasy beneath her continued appraisal.

Back to the table, however, and Corvyn was by no means out of the conversation quite yet.

"Ya thinkin' about going to the Falls?" the merchant asked, slurring the words slightly but still managing to sound remarkably coherent and clear considering the circumstances. In fact, was that a gleam of sobriety that entered his eye? He turned back to his assembled audience, his overtures towards the Elfin lady forgotten for the moment, and his voice took on an ominous tone that seemed to echo the rumours of the past hour or so. "I'd be wary of the goblins, then," he intoned, again nodding his sage and wise nod. "They're becoming more and more reckless nowadays, as if someone's... or something's... given them a collective kick up their rears. Heard they were even spotted just outside Sess-Teria, though they were wise enough not..."

Corvyn's voice trailed off, and he leered at the woman once more, all pretence of manners abruptly forgotten. Just a little bit closer...

[Feed The Machine]

The world seemed to come to a screeching halt the instant the robed inquisitor broke loose the latch to his toolbox, rummaging with peculiar excitement through an assortment of contraptions, gizmos, and other foreign items that the horned Bladesinger had never before in his life laid eyes on. Receiving such a forthright query was awkward but Galyl was willing to offer an answer. However, the extraction of the individual’s ruler curtailed the first of his words that’d soared off his tongue, leaving the elf uttering a brief and incoherent statement. His lips remained slightly separated for a few moments, a physical expression of how shocked and horrified he’d become. Yet when the initial astonishment had ceased, his mouth close and his eyes drifted downward.

It’d been this way since as long as he could remember. The Galoriands were always considered outcasts, having been cursed with a disease that nobody cared to cure. Influential and powerful High Bards shunned their existence; sweeping them underneath the carpet of elven society like dirt that one had been too lazy to clean up. The response of those from other countries was similar, especially toward Galyl. His wooden protrusions always captivated eyes, but never was he looked at with respect. Finger pointing most often came equipped with people leaning into their oblivious friends, drawing their attention to the strange appearance of the Bladesinger. The Galoriand never let it bother him outwardly, but internally his heart beat faster than a frightened mouse awaiting eminent death in the cage of a boa constrictor. At times of extreme nervousness, cold sweat fled Galyl’s pores, falling onto the leaves of the wood his body projected.

“It’s….it’s….alright.” Galyl had finally constructed a comprehensible sentence. He used his hood to wipe his face clean of the inconvenient sweat before hiding his discomfort behind a smile. The elven language spoken by the cloaked adventurer put him at ease, but what he actually said left a foul taste in the Obsidian Spire’s mouth considering that such a phrase matched the kind of esoteric and almost mythical idioms that many pompous nobles used. The Galoriand was far from nobility.

The evening seemed to be drawing to a close as drunkards made their way out of the tavern either sloppily on their own, or with a partner for the night in arm. Spilled alcohol seeped into the wooden floor which left a slippery surface or a sticky one depending on if it’d dried or not. There was a hint of attitude that Galyl detected in the glasses wearing adventurer’s tone when he addressed the elven woman’s suggestion with regard to leading the small party to the Dragon Hermit. His appearance gave off one with the confidence to lead, but his statement displayed otherwise. Had this been a group of Bladesingers, Galyl would’ve felt more than comfortable to assume the role of leader. But he wasn’t familiar with the portly orator, the cloaked man, the enigmatic elven female, and certainly the robed inquisitor. However, getting along with the motley crew would have to be a priority since dangers would accompany the length of this journey.

Turning towards the drunken storyteller, the Bladesinger took notice of his wandering eyes setting concretely on the elven woman. “If you’re going to watch her that closely, then I imagine that us men will have to look out for ourselves on this adventure.” Galyl held a certain level of disdain for men that treated women like objects and hoped that the inebriated fellow would catch his drift.

[FeanBough]

Though Fean’s curious nature often manifested itself in awkward ways, the young Biomancer was far from inept, and far from oblivious. Even with his eyes cast down toward his lap he noted the male elf's discomfort. He thought he knew the root of that discomfort, but reminded himself that thinking creatures were a deep well of emotion and experience. What manifested itself as embarrassment over his form may well be something else entirely – something sprung from the cultural mores of his homeland or even from a simple preference about personal space. Still, the reaction was true and Fean filed it away somewhere in the encyclopedic recesses of his mind. Perhaps when the pair knew each other better Fean would ask about it; or perhaps they would never know each other that well.

In any case, all attention was now turned back to Corvyn. His mention of Goblins didn’t seem to phase the elven male, who was more focused on the merchant’s treatment of the female elf. The moment of tension between the two was palpable and Fean, anxious to move things forward and to avoid any unnecessary conflict, reached his hand across the table and placed it over Corvyn’s in a friendly gesture of farewell. Despite the outward appearance of civility, the strength of his grasp sent a clear message: the meeting was at an end.

“Thank you for your help,” he said, all traces of uncertainty gone from his voice. “I think we have enough information to find the Dragon Hermit.” He allowed his hand to linger a moment longer, flexing his strong fingers like a vice as his eyes darted to the female elf then back to lock gazes with Corvyn. “Good night.”

Fean graced the man with a broad smile and released his grip. Not sparing another glance at the merchant, Fean leaned his left elbow on the table and slid diagonally in his chair, his right hand still resting on the mahogany box in his lap. The motion served to move his shoulders and face toward his three new companions while turning most of his back to Corvyn, sending another subtle, yet not-so-subtle message that the man’s behavior would no longer be tolerated.

“Saesa omentien lle,” he said to the three, speaking in oddly-accented yet understandable elvish. “My name is Fean.” He smiled widely and with considerably more sincerity than before. “It looks like we’re all going the same way, so we may as well go there together. And I think the lady is right - if we’re going to reach the falls, the person with the most knowledge of the area should lead the way.”

His tone made the declaration sound like a simple statement of fact, which it basically was, but the distinct change in his attitude added a sense of finality that, while unintentional, was present nonetheless. Just as the young man was prone to social faux pas, he also had a tendency toward single-minded determination that some found unsettling, especially when it surfaced on the tail of some naive gesture. To a keen observer it could appear as if an internal battle between youth and adulthood had not yet been decided. Past loss and danger had forced him to become a man before his time and now, as a man, he still longed for the youth left behind. Balancing on the edge of change was a complicated dance to perform alone. Perhaps three new partners would make the footwork a bit easier to understand.

"Saesa omentien lle" translates into "Pleasure meeting you."

[Liquid Ice]

Liquid was honestly surprised by the protective tone of the elven male. The Emdarian Empire was a much different place and it had been many a millennia since such things as chivalry had died out. Men were for brute combat and women were for subtlety. That was the only difference. Yet this male seemed to be standing up for her simply because she was female. Her estimation of him bumped up a notch. It also played along with the back story she had been working with. If he ‘discovered’ she was a fugitive slave she had the feeling that he would become even more protective. Usefully so. But, it wasn’t a card to be played yet. That one stayed safely in her sleeve for now.

The pressing concern was the merchant. Normally she would have bought the man a few more drinks and played along, albeit hard to get, until he simply passed out. The reaction of the males in the room seemed to suggest that he was out of line in his forward behavior, however. Playing along with it might make it appear to them that she was some kind of prostitute or of some other lowly profession. That wouldn’t do, they needed to believe that she was the same kind of stalwart wandering adventurer as they were. She needed their respect. Right now she was being treated as some that needed to be protected. What was the phrase she’d heard earlier that day? ‘The fairer sex.’

She needed an excepted response, and fast. Luckily, this was the kind of thing she was good at. She was just an ordinary elf woman, not used to being in taverns who had been so absorbed in the tale that she hadn’t noticed that the man wanted to do unseemly things to her. She gave a start at the smell of alcohol on his breath that she didn’t quite have to fake. She sat back in her chair a little and gave a fragile smile, glancing around the gathered males with a sad sort of what-do-I-do-now look. They all seemed set on going and the curious boy had even announced they knew all the needed to know, so she slid out of her chair and took a half step back from the encroaching merchant, pulling her cloak tightly around her.

“It’s getting late. I’m not familiar with this area and I’m not sure I’d feel safe setting off on a journey at this hour. Perhaps we could retire until the morning?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Corvyn spluttered and coughed indignantly, as first the Elf and then the younger man had the temerity to insinuate that his advances were ill-advised. And after all he'd done to help them...

When the woman also withdrew from his reach and the robed man bade him farewell from behind a firm grip, the drunken merchant seemed to realise at last that he'd overstayed his welcome. Affecting a sense of forlorn dignity and wounded pride, he drained the final dregs of beer from his tankard before lurching to his feet with an unsteady "Pleshure talkin to ya" to the assembled adventurers. One last glance, analogous in intent (if not in execution) to a hurt puppy, was directed towards the young Elfin female.

But they could all see that despite the facade, he was having trouble concealing a smile. After all, there were other women in the world to chase, other stories to tell and young 'uns to impress. He'd milked the evening for all it was worth, had gained a few free drinks and some beautiful company in the process; for when all was said and done, Corvyn McManus was first and foremost a merchant, and there was nothing quite like a small profit. Perhaps it was best summed up by the fact that, as he staggered his way through the low-slung oaken frames, he finally managed a pinch on the young serving wench.

His chortle of success - cut short by the heavy-handed slap across his face that sent him out the door - echoed vibrantly throughout the Auld Hoose.

***

The quiet murmurs of individual conversation swelled as one, the soft rumble of the tide on a moonlit beach. For all the cramped confines and alcohol-fuelled indiscretions, however, those who sought privacy in the Auld Hoose were often able to find it; the tavern's respectable reputation was not quite for nought. Thus it was as the candles flickered low and the embers smouldered in the hearth, nobody paid too much attention to the foursome who had been left behind by Corvyn's departure.

Ingwe discreetly manoeuvred into the gap at the table that the previous occupant had abandoned, his slender frame barely an adequate replacement. The shadows danced playfully over his youthful face, flames reflected in dark brown irises and hair glinting copper in the dim lighting. He wasn't much to look at, slim-toned in a white tunic and trousers beneath the royal blue cloak and not exactly the best-looking in Scara Brae; the lines on his forehead and the pits beneath his eyes were somewhat accentuated by the fire and painful to behold, but his smile was genuinely warm and his gaze firm and strong.

"My name's Ingwe," he introduced himself to the table with yet another courteous nod, and only the very inspective would have noticed that he still stumbled slightly over the pseudonym. His voice was gentle, almost tender in the sensitive darkness, but just a hint of unintentional steel suggested that he was still a warrior at heart. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

His eyes met Fean's, in acknowledgement of the young man's sincerity and determination, and thanked him for his vote of confidence and for taking the initiative in addressing the group as a whole. They then travelled respectfully over the chivalrous Elf, the barest tinge of wistfulness perhaps wishing that he'd had the courage to speak up as the Elf had done, before they finally settled upon the lady beyond.

"I'd be honoured to lead the way..." - note the singular lack of confidence in his voice, if you may - "... but I agree with the lady. I suggest we retire for the night and set off tomorrow morning." Ingwe reached up and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose as he spoke, his smile turning sheepish as he did so. It was obvious that he wasn't really used to this "leadership" business.

"What does everybody say to meeting at the west gate, tomorrow at dawn?"

[Feed The Machine]

The sound of the woman’s hand connecting with the storyteller’s face was equated the outcries of liberated Eluriand, back when they’d broken the shackles of the necromancer Xem’zund. Had it been a performance, Galyl would’ve rose from his backward turned chair and gave a standing ovation. The act was justice. When one sought in doing wrong, justice and righteousness had to be exacted. Yet in a world ruled by injustices, such an scene was something that one just simply didn’t see everyday.

It took all that the Bladesinger had to contain his laughter. Luckily, the individual designated as the leader of the soon coming voyage had taken his rightful seat and introduced himself. “Ingwe……” The name resonated power to Galyl, for it was a heroic moniker that could invade the vocal chords of the masses and coerce them to chant it from the top of their lungs. Whether or not Ingwe was a hero from another land who acquired such fame already was unknown to Galyl, but it wouldn’t have surprised him if that were the case. The fellow emanated a vibe that strangely drew the horned elf in, despite his quirky movements and gestures.

“That sounds good to me,” Galyl smiled, already growing excited over the looming adventure. “I’ll will see you all tomorrow at dawn.”

The Galoriand rose from his seat and bid his new companions farewell, heading back upstairs to his resting quarters. The stress of his last escapade had just about stripped him of all of his energy. If he was going to be even remotely useful, then slumber was an absolute must.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Please read here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=113527) for details...

"I look forward to it," Ingwe replied in farewell as the elven male retreated from the table. A sudden quaint yawn fought to escape his lips as he watched his new companion make his way up the stairs; the thought of bed beckoned to his mind, far more appealing than it should have been. For it had only been a couple of days since he'd made his arrival in Scara Brae, and the fatigue of the long sea journey still occasionally threatened to overwhelm him - especially in the sleep-inducing confines of the dimly lit tavern, a soporific environment as any as business began to wind down.

"I think that I, too, shall take my leave," he continued, nodding apology to the two remaining adventurers at the table, slightly rueful at the knowledge that it would be rude for the designated leader to leave before everybody else. On the other hand, he seemed consummately unable to shake the onsetting lethargy, and mindful of the fact that his room for the evening was two blocks down and entailed a short walk through streets with even more shadows than the interior of the inn, retiring for the night seemed like the best decision. "I hope to see you tomorrow morning... until then, I bid you a good night."

A simple bow, honest and true, before he backed away from the table and melted into the thinning crowd.

Slowly and with an awkwardness that a lenient observer would attribute to the late hour and his unfamiliarity with such surroundings, Ingwe made his way through the darkness to the front door, acknowledging a brief polite farewell to the barkeep as he left. Apart from the need to sidestep an attention-seeking drunk, the trip was blessedly uneventful; a glimmer of the stars beyond and a faint trill as Ingwe called his falcon from its perch, and then the heavy oak swung shut behind him as the young man disappeared into the light mists.

All in all, he thought to himself as he marched down the wanly moonlit cobblestones, it hadn't been a bad night. A priceless piece of information, an excuse to go gallivanting around the Scarabrian countryside, and newly-made acquaintance with some good company.

No, it hasn't been a bad night at all.

[Breaker]

Words of the Auld Hoose
Quest Judgement

There wasn't any specification as to how much commentary you wanted in this quest, so I'll just touch on things that could be improved. In general this was a good thread, but a few things- the nature of the thread (being a prequel), the semi-incomplete ending, and a few others dragged at the score a bit. Don't be discouraged though; I have faith that the sequel will be very good.

STORY

Continuity ~ 4/10. While Hyperion did a good job of setting it up with the storytelling, Machine is the only one who really told me why he was there. The rest of you just sort of happened to be at the inn. Liquid gave me a little implied reasoning, but I could have really used some backstory. Fean seemed particularly out of place; if he isn't going to drink or eat anything and all he wants to do is write about spiders, why not find a quiet diner, a library, or a private room? Remember, how and why your character got to where they are at the beginning of the story is important.

Setting ~ 7/10. Generally, you all did well here. This thread is a good examle of how a tavern can become more than a tavern. But Machine, please be careful to read the intro posts, especially if you're going to jump into a thread late. Your description of Galyl's room really didn't correlate with Hyperion's overall description of the inn. Aside from that, all of you did well, but remember to not repeat yourself to often, and try being a bit more concise so those describing paragraphs don't become long-winded.

Pacing ~ 4/10. Well... it was a prequel. There was very little tension. The story developped in a rather boring, predictable manner. Some drunk tells a story in a bar and four intelligent people automatically believe him and start buying him drinks? To be honest, it dragged. You all repeated each other's actions a little too much. Have faith in your RP partners to carry their portion of the story. If four people are going to remark, one after the other, on the same event (i.e. Corvyn's behaviour towards Liquid), you'd better all have unique, interesting perspectives on it. If someone else has already described something, consider devoting a single, well placed line towards it rather than an entire paragraph.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 5/10. There was good stuff, and then there was not-so-good stuff. This started off very strong, with Corvyn's story, Fean's interaction with the waitress, and Liquid's internal conflict. Unfortunately, by the end of the thread the dialogue became a little cliched and boring. Liquid, your character clearly knows how to lie, so she should be dropping details about herself, misleading the others from the beginning rather than just mentally preparing a story. You all could have generated a lot of interesting dialogue by talking about why you want to see the Dragon Hermit. This would have also helped with the continuity category.

Action ~ 6/10. There was lots of good, character-defining action. I commedn Hyperion's NPC work and Fean's actions in particular. Despite this, the thread felt incredibly static, and I would have liked to see it move somewhere. Aside from a rather gentle reprimand of Corvyn's lustful advances, there was absolutely no tension. Four people don't just come together and automatically become friends. How come Galyl, an actual elf, didn't recognize Liquid as a fraud? Your wrote your characters' actions well, but... not much happened.

Persona ~ 5/10. As I mentioned in prior categories, I had a problem with a few things. Firstly, the fact that four seemingly knowledgable travellers believed every word that came out of a drunk's mouth. The justification some of you used, that it was a specific account, just seemed silly. Every story a drunk tells is specific, because they generally make up details as they go. Liquid in particular didn't seem like the type to believe purely anecdotal evidence. Individual portrayal of characters was good, and saved you from a lower score here, but the premise of the thread was based on character work that, to me, seemed unrealistic.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 4/10. There wasn't much here. A few metaphors now and then, but not enough to really bring the scene to life. When you're writing, try not to get so adjective heavy. Try alternating between describing things with just words, and then using comparisons. Also, this is a prequel quest, there should have been some foreshadowing. All I got was "there are goblins", and that didn't seem to worry anyone. It really seemed like the hardest part of this impending adventure would be the two day walk.

Mechanics ~ 7/10. For the most part, well edited. There were a few errors in most posts, but nothing major. Hyperion, you tend to have several sentences a post that just read awkwardly. All of you could probably benefit from proof reading your posts out loud. Also, Hyperion, please work away from using brackets so often. There are other ways to add in the thoughtful details.

Clarity ~ 7/10. The only reason you didn' get an 8 here is that this thread dragged me down a bit. It was a slow read, for a relatively short thread. Try to be a little more brief, focus on writing in active voice and not repeating yourself/others.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 7/10. There were a lot of little things I liked. Fean's interactions with the waitress were funny, Corvyn's sorrow at no longer being the centre of attention, Liquid's constant inner remodelling of her story, and Machine's chivalry.

TOTAL ~ 56/100. Not a bad score, for a prequel thread that a few people didn't conclude. I think the sequel to this will be very good, especially if you take note of the suggestions I mentioned ;)

EXP and GP Rewards

Flames of Hyperion receives 500 EXP and 200 GP
FeanBough receives 375 EXP and 100 GP
Liquid Ice receives 375 EXP and 100 GP
Feed the Machine receives 500 EXP and 50 GP

Keep up the good work!

[Zook Murnig]

EXP/GP added!