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Post by Dirac Sil on Jun 20, 2008 23:35:42 GMT
Dirac takes on the mantle of going for the drinks, walking towards the man known as Greaser, nodding to hi in greeting and making a small motion of the head as if wishing to speak out of the range of his companions.
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Post by Slavemaster on Jun 21, 2008 3:09:59 GMT
Taden:
The wrought iron gate to the churchyard is rusted and crooked. It is open and you very much doubt it can be closed. It is a fine stone church, obviously quite old but in a state of disrepair. But the gravel path that leads up to the door is apparently carefully raked, and some measures have been taken to keep off the weed around the building and the high coloured glass windows are particularly fine, depicting saints and holy men of Ishir. At the top of the church spire sits the sign of Ishir. But the graveyard is overgrown and the tombstones moss-encrusted and weather-worn.
There is no light in the church that you can see from here; but on the side, a smaller path leads up to a hill behind the church, where you can just barely make out a small cottage, a light glowing in the window. Otherwise, it is deserted, except for a raven cawing suspiciously at you from atop a tombstone.
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Post by Slavemaster on Jun 21, 2008 3:29:16 GMT
Dirac and co:
A smell of bad ale, rotten straw, wet clothes and people who work too hard and too much to have a bath hits you as you open the door to the inn. But a roaring fire is going in the big fireplace opposite the door and it is warm. People have been talking but immediately fall silent as you step in, and several pairs of suspicious eyes turn towards you.
There are six roughly hewn tables in the room. At one of them sits three men in chainmail with the baron's black and yellow tabard, helmets on the table and swords resting by their chairs. A small pile of money and cards on the table indicates they are playing taluka, the popular Palmyrian card game. They all give you an unfriendly-looking glance before turning back to the game.
By another table sits a couple of old dwarves with long beards, one of them with a black patch over the eye, the other with a large musket leaning against the wall beside him. They hardly look up at you, engaged as they are in a game of samor and their bucket-sized ale tankards.
The third table, closest to the fire and with an actual tablecloth, is occupied by a plump man, bald but with a very impressive black walrus moustache. He wears expensive but garish clothing, including a plum-coloured velvet vest with a pattern of golden peacocks, and baggy green trousers. A skinny man in much simpler clothes is just pouring wine for him as you step in. The entire table is covered with plates, bowls and bottles with the remains of an obviously large meal, or possibly a dozen large meals. The man gives you a nod and a friendly smile, greeting you by raising his goblet.
At the fourth table sits a half-dozen men in the worn and simple clothes of farmers, all bearded and heavyset. They are being served a round of ale as you steps in. The innkeeper see Dirac motion to him, but just waves at you to take a table while he tends to the other guests, so you have time to make yourself seated.
Soon, the man wipes his hands on his apron and approaches you. He is a tall man with long, black and oily hair in a ponytail, his face a network of scars.
"Welcome, travellers. Ratch has taken care of your horses, yes? What can I get you gents? Hey, haven't I seen you before, sir?"
He squints at Dirac and smiles.
"Dirac, you old scallywag! That wasn't yesterday! What brings you here mate?"
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Soul Spawn
Gamer
Night Born Nad-Adez Konkor
Posts: 183
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Post by Soul Spawn on Jun 21, 2008 7:03:29 GMT
I take a look around the room at the assembled occupants. The simple farmers, the fat man stuffing his face. The guards with their card game. Rather than seem anymore out of place then we already do, I motion to Corwyn and Hawks Bane to take a seat at a table, while we let Dirac go about his conversation with the innkeeper. I glance slightly over my shoulder to the door and frown. Although disheartened that Taden did not join us, I am sure the scribe can look after himself. Besides, it will add weight to the "pilgrim" part of our story. Still, I could always slip out should the need arise....
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Post by Dirac Sil on Jun 21, 2008 7:16:13 GMT
"You seem busy," says Dirac, motioning with both approval and sympathy. "Let me help you carry it, I know what my employer here wants...and his men." The last is said with the subtlest of infections.
Dirac walks with Greeban Grey, aka Greasy, back to his bar. Dirac happily motions to some 'Oakton Kicker' - Greasy's famous spirit - while talking in a low voice. "Business seems good, despite the times. I assume the other business is good..." Dirac gives a meaningful look and a wink. "So, how are you doing?" he asks the barkeep, listening with as much sympathy as he can muster, aware of the looks and time taken.
When asked about why he's here, Dirac explains, "Was passing close, thought of you. Can't believe the merchant agreed to see the redeemer's shrine on the way - must want to save his soul from profit gouging war-torn states." Dirac rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "He has two guards - Sommlending I think - that are a bunch of cowards. Why they are so far from home probably. Why they are eager to buy anything you could sell them." Dirac smiles. "No finder's fee, just keep something better aside for me at a reasonable price?"
Dirac ensures he gets three large glasses of the Oakton Kicker spirit for himself and the guards, a wine 'suitable for the high station of a merchant of my position Mr Sil' and a simple fresh water for 'the odd pilgrim we picked up on the way, should he bother to come back'.
Dirac looks around quickly to the man feasting at the table and looks meaningfully at Greasy. "I knew you could take care of my man," said Dirac. "I think you will find he will expect nothing less than to equal the food and attention of that man I'm afraid." Dirac regretfully detaches his own pouch and let's it sit on the bar with a satisfying tinkly. "If you can keep the food rolling and perhaps play up the shrine for me, then he won't miss the occasional drink if you want to take a few for yourself. You seem busy."
Dirac regards the man circumspectly again with a smile. "Who is the man anyway, and is he hiring? He seems almost pleasant!" says Dirac with a smile. Then in a lower voice continues, "no, seriously. I have an out in my contract soon, and in these times I think I want to lay low for a while. The army you serve under this year will be the one with the darklands-allied generals and the whips out next year." Dirac shakes his head. "Not too good for business, I want to see how things are going to play out for a while before commiting. If there is any work going on, let me know."
Ddirac looks around quickly to the table. "I should get back. If the 'master' asks, the spirits for us guards came out of my purse, not his. And the food is that expensive. Because of the herbs you used, if you know what I mean." Dirac winks. "I need some compensation against his personality, that was not mentioned up front I'd have to deal with that."
With that Dirac goes back to the table with the drinks, and tells the rest what he has set up.
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Post by Michael of Eshnar on Jun 21, 2008 12:33:01 GMT
"After the last assassination attempt burnt my throat, I hired you, remember?" says Corwyn, looking at Dirac, loudly enough to be overheard if anyone is paying attention to them. "And then I hired these mugs," he continues, glancing briefly at the two Blood Hunters, "to make sure it didn't happen again. Have you arranged comfortable rooms for us? I am getting old and I don't intend to spend any more of my life lying on hard beds with scratchy blankets!"
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Hawk's Bane
Seasoned Player
Harbinger of Evil who's leaking like a drippy tap
Posts: 107
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Post by Hawk's Bane on Jun 21, 2008 12:37:22 GMT
"Now where has that sage gone off to?", thought Hawk's Bane. It doesn't matter if he got himself into trouble or got lost, less one person to get in his way. He followed the others as they made their way in sat at a table. Hawk's Bane looked around the room and nodded at Soul Spawn as they watched Dirac talking to the man.
While they were watching, the old sorcerer blurted out aloud, going on about someone trying to kill him and they were his guards. "Shhh, old man, what are you trying to do?", Hawk's Bane growled at Corwyn in a hushed voiced, yet clearly irritated. The Blood Hunter sighed, a faint tone of disappointment in his voice. If only he could kill the old man and be rid of him, once and for all.
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Post by taden on Jun 21, 2008 15:15:36 GMT
Taden silently studied the church grounds for a few minutes, and then walked carefully up the rain-slick path towards the cottage.
Upon arriving at the door he knocked, speaking clearly through the door as he does so. "I am a pilgrim and a traveler, and mean no harm tonight."
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Soul Spawn
Gamer
Night Born Nad-Adez Konkor
Posts: 183
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Post by Soul Spawn on Jun 21, 2008 16:00:04 GMT
I do not respond to Hawks Bane at once, instead am content to sit and let the old man rant on his own. If anyone had an objection to voice, they would have done so by now and would be lying with an open gullet on the floor. Still, not the way I would want to proceed.
I look over at a clearly adjitated Hawks Bane and cath his attention. Fixing his eye I slowly shake my head from side to side, hopefully disuading my colleague from whatever action he would want to take.
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Post by Dirac Sil on Jun 21, 2008 18:48:36 GMT
Dirac gives a look across to Greaser to see if the comment has been noticed, and if so to roll his eyes at the man apparently both giving and looking for sympathy.
Dirac mummers some platitudes loudly about the innkeeper surely giving Corwyn full attention to cut out mis-understandings, and while gently and respectfully depositing the wine, gives a neutral look to the sorcerer. Ddirac gives the two NAK an apparently sympathetic spirit as between put upon guards, but delivers it with a filthy look for their choice of companion on this mission. Dirac spots the shared look between the two NAK and sits sullenly pretending not to look round the room.
He drinks the spirit, tipping the container back hard and letting the liquid sting his mouth without much passing his lip. Curse this mission, already it's robbing him of one of the few pleasures he could get when at rest. The Oakton Kicker is not without it's charms, but is sadly a harsh mistress in the morning. Dirac misses Taden, the man is an arrogant looney sometimes, but...no, wait, Dirac cannot infact finish the sentence any further.
Why do contracts have to be so binding?
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Post by Slavemaster on Jun 21, 2008 18:56:53 GMT
Dirac:
As all of the customers have been served, Greasy Greeban takes a little moment to catch up with Dirac as he pours the drinks. The purse is swept into a drawer under the table, he seems to be able to count the money just by listening to the jingle, and smiles approvingly.
"Hey, you seem to be doing well Dirac! Can't complain much myself. Not about the business anyway. I have a man in Vanamor, and another in Nahsor, and the, you know, ‘stuff’ sells well these days, what with the new army being set up and all. And that fellow” – he nods at the rich man with the large meal – “eats for ten men, and only my best stuff too. Of course, it is war after all, and you get all kinds… Got to be careful.”
His smile fades and he glance at the soldiers playing cards, and at the rich man.
“Seems new people come through here more often these days than I am entirely comfortable with, to be honest. The Elector’s recruiting parties have been through here twice the last month and took away some of the youngsters who were to stupid, and a couple of oldtimers who could still swing a sword but was too slow to hide when they came. They even went up to the baron’s castle and tried to make him send part of his garrison to the front, but word is he just threw some gold at them to make them ‘forget’ about it, so no luck for the Elector there. Ah yes, the baron…”
He seems a bit reluctant to say anymore, but on Dirac’s promting, he takes a swig from the clay jug holding the Oakton Kicker, makes a grimace but seems a bit more cooperative.
“The old baron has never been what you might call Ishir’s best child, but well, he is a nobleman, so what can you expect, eh? At least he pays his folk well, even if the scars on the back of some o’them suggests they have to give a helluva lot of sweat, and some blood too, for that silver. Personally, I blame his seneschal, sir Matino. He runs things up at the castle when the baron is away, and he is a creepy little devil and that’s the truth.”
“Anyway, ‘bout a month ago, maybe more, I heard the baron’s wife fell ill. Dunno what from, but our priest down here at the village offered to come up for her, but the baron refused to let him in. Well, he never attends church, so why should he let the church inside his place, eh? But that’s when things started getting suspicious. The servants stopped coming down from the castle. Instead, the baron sent his soldiers down here whenever they needed to buy supplies. They don’t say much about how things are up there, or how her Ladyship is doing. Not that we mind her much, o’course, nasty old hag, but if she’s caught something she might die from, I wouldn’t mind going to church and give Ishir a few Lune in the collect to push the witch the rest of the way…” He glance once again at the table where the soldiers sit, too engaged in the game to hear anything.
“Then after that, there was this squad of soldiers stopping by here on their way to the castle. Said they were mercenaries hired by the baron, but they seemed ordinary, if well-armed thugs, didn’t wear any company insignia. Their leader, or ‘sergeant’ as they called him – huge bloke, never removed his helmet – asked a few questions about the baron. Couldn’t recognise his accent. But they moved on to the castle, and we thought nothing more of it, assuming they really were hired by the baron. Until one of them floated up in the creek, that is. Throat cut. We reported it to the soldiers next time they came down, but they simply took away the body, said ‘thank you, we’ll take care of it’ and that was it. Later on, we found one of their horses wandering around the forest. Well, it was a fine steed so me and the lad who found it thought, well, there’s a lot of gold walking around there, shame to waste it, and sold it on to the next traveller who looked rich enough.”
“Then last week, another couple of armed riders without insignia came in here and asked about the squad. That’s when the faster thinkers among us realised we might be sticking our foot into something we couldn’t pull out of, so we kept our yappers shut. Well, I did at least. But well… the strangers bought a round of Kicker to ole’ ‘Inflammable’ Flamber – you don’t know him, it’s a local drunk and the village idiot, but he is enough idiot for a city, mark my word! – and I reckon they got to hear everything they wanted to know.”
“And do you know, just the night after that, old Gumders – he’s a charcoal burner, stays out in the woods several nights at a time – saw a man in a black cape and hood riding one of the baron’s finest horses, a pack mule tied behind. At first, Gumders thought it was seneschal Matino, you see him out in the woods sometimes, dunno what he’s doing, but this man was bigger. So Gumders hailed him, but the man just spurred the horse and went on.”
“And finally, night before yesterday, we got that fella over there…” He nods at the fat rich man. “He’s name is Artanian sumthin’, from Soren he says. He makes musical instruments and said he’d come here looking for Nahsorian copperpine to make lutes from. But he had also heard the baron had a particularly fine harpsy… harpis… well, fancy instrument thingy and went up to the castle to ‘pay his respect to the gentleman’ and asking to see it. Got turned back o’course, if the baron didn’t let the priest in to see his sick wife, he certainly wouldn’t let in a total stranger for some harpy thing! But the rich bloke stuck around, spent last night up at the priest’s place. Snoops around too, he does, asking all sorts of questions. But he’s got a full purse – reckon that lute he carries is worth more than this inn alone – and that probably means he has powerful friends too. So, as long as the gold keeps flowing in my direction, I’ve told the local lads to lay off him.”
Greeban leans closer and lowers his voice.
“Now, the reason I tell you all this, Dirac, is because you’re a friend, and a friend with money, none of which I would want to lose. But all these strange folk skulking around sticking their nose in everything has made the local lads… edgy, so to speak. Be careful what you ask here, and who you ask. And tell your friends to tread carefully, especially when the baron’s soldiers are around.”
He slaps Dirac on the shoulder and put the drinks on a tray to take with you – the Oakton Kicker in very small clay cups, and a small jug of wine with a goblet.
“Drink up and relax mate. If you and your party wants to sleep here, I have two rooms free, I’ll get Ratch to fetch some blankets and sheets what had hardly been used at all, and I smoked the lice out of the mattresses only last week! You should be fine.”
At that, one of the soldiers yell for more ale, and Greeban hurry away, giving Dirac a last meaningful nod.
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Post by Slavemaster on Jun 21, 2008 18:57:34 GMT
Taden:
As you knock at the door to the cottage, you hear someone bustling around and a small voice saying “just a moment, just a moment”. Then the occupant of the cottage is just at the other side of the door and you can just make out a whisper. A strange and uneasy sensation comes over you and makes the hair on your back stand, like someone is watching you from above, but there is no one to be seen. After that, the door creaks open just a couple of inches, a chain securing it to the doorpost. A short old man in wispy white hair peers out at you, but then he removes the chain and opens the door.
“Please do step in, good pilgrim. I do apologize, I did not expect visitors at this time of night. Here, hang your cape by the fire. I was just making my dinner, I will be happy to share it.”
The cottage is small, with only two rooms – through the open door to the other and much smaller room you can make out a narrow bed. A fire is lit in the fireplace, and there are two tables, both of them cluttered with all sorts of items. A fine cleric’s vestments in green and white with gold embroidery is hanging on a stand, worn and old but obviously well cared for. The man himself is dressed in a simple brown woollen robe held together with rope. He gets to the fire and starts to ladle up soup from a cauldron.
“I am father Obran, priest and servant of Ishir. You are safe here. I see to the spiritual needs of my parish, what there is of it.”
He sets a bowl of watery soup, half a loaf of coarse bread and a plate with dried larnuma fruits on the table, with the words “we thank you Ishir for your gifts”. He looks a bit apologetically at you. “I am sorry I do not have more at the moment, but it is still another week until the tithe is due, and I am sorry to say that the few of my flock who are inclined to share their bounty does not in fact have much bounty to begin with.” He gives a weary smile. “But, in the words of the prophet Heeban, ‘a copper from the righteous and poor is worth infinitely more in the eyes of Ishir than a gold from the wicked and rich’.”
He sits down at the chair opposite, with a bowl of soup for himself.
“I take it you are on your way to the redeemer’s shrine further west?”
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Post by taden on Jun 21, 2008 21:27:17 GMT
"Thank you, Father Obran. Peace of Ishir upon you." Taden stepped carefully into the main room of the home. He sweeps off coat and hat, careful not to splatter the rain water sheeting off it, lay both near the fire where they might dry.
Taden then joined the priest at his table. "And thank you for this warm greeting and hospitality. It is a cold night, and your offering means much."
In response to the priest's question, Taden shakes his head. "Truth to tell, I am a stranger in these parts. I hail from the Stornlands, where I was once a wealthy man. My money and prosperity meant nothing, however, and it was Ishir's own grace what saved me from the darkness that descended on the rest of my home and family. I swore myself a wandering pilgrim, bound to help where I can in return for my own salvation."
Taden then chuckles shortly, "To be quite honest, good father, I found myself quite lost in the weather, and only found my way here in the company of some other travelers. I am not at all certain where 'here' might be, in truth. But if the needs of your parish and flock is great, mine is a penance of assistance to others. There seems some common tie of blessing for both of us this evening. Since I am neither righteous and poor, nor wicked and rich, might I offer your good silver for a night upon your good church's floor and this good meal.?"
Taden reaches into a pouch and pulls out four Lune and sets them on the table. "It is not merely charity alone, but gift I feel called to offer."
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Post by Slavemaster on Jun 21, 2008 22:22:11 GMT
Taden:
The priest seems very surprised and happy about your gift and praise you profousley for your generosity. You seem to have gained his trust, and soon he chatters away over the soup, which is soon finished, and he gets up and make you both a cup of huas, the warm refreshing drink that is popular in Palmyrion on cold days and as a cure for hangovers.
"As you can see, I haven't been able to keep the church up to the glory it should have... But I can't afford a servant, except for old Flamber who digs graves for me and do some work as part of his tithe. When he is not suffering from strong drink, poor soul. But I try to do my best."
He sighs heavily.
"It was better under the old baron, bless him. He donated to the church, paid for the bell, even built my cottage. I batpized his son too. But since his son took over a decade ago, things got worse. The donations ceased, and even the tithes became infrequent. He and his wife never attends my sermons, and nor do his soldiery, uncouth lot, most of them brigands and mercenaries of the worst sort that the new baron met during the wars in the Stornlands. As for the baroness... Well, there is a hair of Naar right there. Vain and obsessed with beauty, cruel to her servants. Do you know she used to cut scars in the face of the servant girls who were prettier than her? Which more or less meant all of them? Nowadays, they only hire old women. I hear she has fallen ill, a just punishment from Ishir, I have no doubt."
He takes a sip from his cup and sigh again.
"Of course, even so I went up to the castle and offered to help her, my duty as a sheperd of my flock, such as it is. But I was turned away at the gates. The captain of the guard said that the seneschal would tend to her. Seneschal Matino, that is. I meet him in the woods sometime as I gather herbs, as I believe he does too, but I keep well away from him. Don't know where he is from, but he is another of the wicked lot the new baron has dug up from some den of sin and villainy. So, my friend, keep well away from the castle. You are free to spend the night here if you choose, but I only have place in front of the fire. There is an inn here, I am sure you saw it, and the innkeeper is not too bad, steeped in petty sins though he is. At least, he would not try to bleed you on anything else than your silver."
He laughs a bit and looks a bit happier.
"Still, it is nice to have educated and Ishir-fearing company two evenings in a row, when usually I could count on that maybe once a year. I had a very prominent guest here last night, none other than Master Artanian of Soren! Have you heard of him, perhaps? He is a jeweller and master instrument maker, and he came here to look for Nahsorian copperpine for his lutes. A great honor! Sadly, I had to tell him that no such trees have grown in this forest for at least fifty years or more. He also said that he'd heard that there was a fine old Nikessan harpsichord up at the castle, and that is true, I've saw it when the old baron invited me to the castle, but I strongly advised him not to go up there - just as I am advising you now! The men down at the village said he did anyway, but was promptly turned away. But he still lives at the inn, so if you choose to go there, please send him my regards."
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Post by Slavemaster on Jun 21, 2008 22:59:53 GMT
Dirac and co:
To the Darklanders, the Oakton Kicker reminds them a bit of the inflammable substances the nadziranim use in their experiements, but it actually tastes good. As you finish your drinks, Greeban comes to your table with a harassed looking serving girl in tow, carrying a huge tray and another jug of wine. He bows deeply for Corwyn.
"I am pleased that you honour my humble inn with your presence, good sir. I promise that our cooking will not disappoint you. This is the finest veniso-" Greeban stops and glance nervously at the soldiers. "Er, mutton I mean. Yes. From sheep. Served with root vegetables marinated in chai-chosan beer, and a jug of scava wine year 5030, imported. And perhaps afterwards, I could tempt you with some larnuma brandy?"
As he fuss around you, the rich man by the other table seems to have finished his meal, looks up and says to the room in general:
"Well now, this fine caravanserai is doing well tonight! Perhaps it is time for some entertainment?" He rise from his chair and flourish an exquisitely decorated and jewelled lute from behind his chair and strikes a chord. "What should it be then? Do you perhaps know the Ballad of..."
At this, one of the soldiers, a man with a red sergeant's sash, looks up from the card game and yells: "Put a sock in it, foreigner! We want to drink in peace here!" Completely unabashed, the fat man laughs jovially while the people in the bar is looking apprehensive. You notice the barkeep lower his hand to a large cosh hangin from his belt and hidden behind his apron.
"Now then!" says the fat man, "Weather is getting to you, good warrior? All the more reason to make things merry!" He strikes a chord again and sings: "'twas a beutiful morning, all in the month of May..." But immediately an apple is thrown from the soldiers's table. The man dodges - you notice that he moves surprisingly fast for his bulk - and the smile disappears.
"Yes. Well. Er... Perhaps something a bit more somber would be appropriate?" Once again he strikes a chord. Now the sergeant is rising from his chair, the innkeeper darts forward... but then everyone stops as the pleasant baryton voice and soft tones of the lute fills the inn.
"I dreamed I saw Lone Wolf last night, alive as you or me. Says I: 'But lord, you're long since dead!' 'I never died' said he. 'I never died' said he.
'In Torgar, lord', says I to him, him standing by my bed, 'they struck you down with blackened steel!' Says he: 'But I'm not dead' Says he: 'But I'm not dead'"
As the song goes on, all of the men in the room listen in fascination. As the song ends, the dwarves and some of the farmers applaud discreetly and raise their tankards to the man. One of the farmers wordlessly puts a fresh drink on the fat mans table and nods appreciatingly.
The spell ends when the sergeant once again speaks up: "'ere, what's so special about that damn northlander, eh? Word is, it was to get him inside Torgar that our army died, and for what? I say..." But he is interrupted by one of the dwarves who picks up his musket. Once again, the situation gets tense, but then Greeban says gravely to the soldiers: "I suggest you and your men leave now, sergeant Hurbert. Your shift starts at six in the morning, right?"
The sergeant looks agitated, but since all of the other customers are staring angrily at him, he gets up, rams his helmet back on his head, and mutters to his men to follow. They get out, and once again the situation is defused.
Greeban waits until the soldiers have gone and then looks sheepily on you all. "Well, er... sorry about that gentlemen. Just let me know if you want something else."
With that, he walks away, but pause by the fat mans table to fill up his drink.
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