15th of Patchwall (Autumn) 579 CY
As the landscape began to give way to open terrain and ancient hedgerows, I realized that we were coming upon the village of Hommlet. It was just a few days journey from the encounter with the goblins. There was a distinct chill in the air marking the advent of Ready'reat. To the west, the distant Lortmils were peaked with the white of first snow.
The holy day of Iuz the Old was upon us and I felt it necessary to seek sanctuary in a house of St. Cuthbert. It was of great comfort that the village we were entering was home to just such a shrine. The place was a gift to Hommlet for the townsfolk's help in routing the forces of evil at the Battle of Emridy Meadows and in memory to the great Serten of St. Cuthbert. It may have been disappointing to my friend Sorin that the nearest temple to Pelor was located in Sobanwych, a full twenty leagues distant. However, I invited the entire group to seek shelter with me in the home of the Cudgeled One. The fellows of the moat seemed much more interested in seeking out the establishment known as the Inn of the Welcome Wench - especially the elf. I could not fault them as the place had a reputation for fine fare throughout the central Flanaess.
We came into town early on the fourth day of our trek. We had recovered fully from our encounter with the bloody goblins. Various townsfolk were up early going about their trades, such is the lot of their lives. We found ourselves approaching the hanging sign of a young buxom woman brandishing full flagons of ale. It was a warm and open barroom with a smiling and jovial bartender named Ostler Gundigoot. The season was late, so there were plenty of other patrons enjoying a drink and a bit of food. We each ordered a small breakfast and something to wash the dust of the trail from our throats. It was then that I noticed the elf eyeballing the other denizens of the tavern. I considered the dancer for a moment. On our journey I saw that Elledan had a certain begrimed demeanor. While the good Knight of St. Cuthbert and the Pelorian were somewhat meticulous about their own personal hygiene, the fay rogue kept very little faith in that regimen. I thought that this was quite anomalous for one of his kind.
I asked, "Where do you hail from?" with a tacit nod to the elf. His wandering gaze focused on me and for just a moment I felt I saw a hint of discomfort instead of the expected twinkle in his eyes. "Fax" he said, referring to one of the cities of the Wild Coast. I nodded and felt it best to let any further questions slip to the wayside. Sorin indicated that he also was from Fax and that his cat was from Elredd. Sir Branden was reared in Courwood and had met these fellows on this very trip, shortly before I had. The nameless mage, appearing to avoid the question, got up to warm his hands at the blazing fireplace. The Pelorian raised an eyebrow asking "And where do you call home, good Aelfric?" I told him of my background on the streets of Hardby and how I've known no parent but Cuthbert, my patron. This brought about a discussion on theology and we spoke at some length on the various minutiae of each another's doctrine. The whole time, Sorin's feline lay curled around his nape, snoring gently.
As I rose for another fine sample of Gundigoot's ales, I realized that one of our number was missing. I found myself unsurprised by the fact that the culprit was the shifty elf. "Where's Elledan?" I asked Sorin. "He does this from time to time," he answered with a shrug. "He just... takes off." I didn't feel that this was the proper way to get to know one another, but again, to each their own.
As the landscape began to give way to open terrain and ancient hedgerows, I realized that we were coming upon the village of Hommlet. It was just a few days journey from the encounter with the goblins. There was a distinct chill in the air marking the advent of Ready'reat. To the west, the distant Lortmils were peaked with the white of first snow.
The holy day of Iuz the Old was upon us and I felt it necessary to seek sanctuary in a house of St. Cuthbert. It was of great comfort that the village we were entering was home to just such a shrine. The place was a gift to Hommlet for the townsfolk's help in routing the forces of evil at the Battle of Emridy Meadows and in memory to the great Serten of St. Cuthbert. It may have been disappointing to my friend Sorin that the nearest temple to Pelor was located in Sobanwych, a full twenty leagues distant. However, I invited the entire group to seek shelter with me in the home of the Cudgeled One. The fellows of the moat seemed much more interested in seeking out the establishment known as the Inn of the Welcome Wench - especially the elf. I could not fault them as the place had a reputation for fine fare throughout the central Flanaess.
We came into town early on the fourth day of our trek. We had recovered fully from our encounter with the bloody goblins. Various townsfolk were up early going about their trades, such is the lot of their lives. We found ourselves approaching the hanging sign of a young buxom woman brandishing full flagons of ale. It was a warm and open barroom with a smiling and jovial bartender named Ostler Gundigoot. The season was late, so there were plenty of other patrons enjoying a drink and a bit of food. We each ordered a small breakfast and something to wash the dust of the trail from our throats. It was then that I noticed the elf eyeballing the other denizens of the tavern. I considered the dancer for a moment. On our journey I saw that Elledan had a certain begrimed demeanor. While the good Knight of St. Cuthbert and the Pelorian were somewhat meticulous about their own personal hygiene, the fay rogue kept very little faith in that regimen. I thought that this was quite anomalous for one of his kind.I asked, "Where do you hail from?" with a tacit nod to the elf. His wandering gaze focused on me and for just a moment I felt I saw a hint of discomfort instead of the expected twinkle in his eyes. "Fax" he said, referring to one of the cities of the Wild Coast. I nodded and felt it best to let any further questions slip to the wayside. Sorin indicated that he also was from Fax and that his cat was from Elredd. Sir Branden was reared in Courwood and had met these fellows on this very trip, shortly before I had. The nameless mage, appearing to avoid the question, got up to warm his hands at the blazing fireplace. The Pelorian raised an eyebrow asking "And where do you call home, good Aelfric?" I told him of my background on the streets of Hardby and how I've known no parent but Cuthbert, my patron. This brought about a discussion on theology and we spoke at some length on the various minutiae of each another's doctrine. The whole time, Sorin's feline lay curled around his nape, snoring gently.
As I rose for another fine sample of Gundigoot's ales, I realized that one of our number was missing. I found myself unsurprised by the fact that the culprit was the shifty elf. "Where's Elledan?" I asked Sorin. "He does this from time to time," he answered with a shrug. "He just... takes off." I didn't feel that this was the proper way to get to know one another, but again, to each their own.
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