Gathering at the Misty

[Sahji]

After nearly a week of traveling, Fyvre Aeltheart returned to Cear and went immediately to the nearest Tavern: the Mistyvale. Greeting her came the warm crackling of a fire, the good-natured laughter of patrons, and a sweet soft tune of a local bard. After crawling around a multitude of slimy dungeons and facing numerous, bloodthirsty creatures, even the glare of a few Varanites seemed welcoming. Unperturbed, the half-elf swaggered to the nearest empty table and plopped down at a seat.

For perhaps the first time since her arrival in the city, Fyvre did not go for the strongest ale. She waited, sipping a light drink, for her companions to show up.

[Alterity]

Firin enters the Misty, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The summer in Cear was much hotter than it was back home. His sword sits in its scabbard on his waist, hardly moving as he steps further into the Misty. His lute is strung over his shoulder. He is wearing his minstrel outfit, something he can only wear rarely since he joined the Ashald Mercenary Company. Firin walks in and noticed Fyvre sitting at a table, and he walks over, flagging for an ale and sits down across from her.

As Roggins arrives with the ale, he takes a sip, and nods to Fyvre.

"Hey Fives, kill any more giant demons lately?"

[Sahji]

Stretched-out in a most unladylike way, Fyvre welcomed the new presence at the table. Rather than greet him like a normal person, she proceeded to hassle him about being late. "Been waitin' fer hours!" She declared falsely, knowing very well he'd be able to distinguish the lie.
"An' anyway, it doesn't matter if I did." She paused to let him absorb the strange assertion. Then, with seagreen eyes dancing mischievously, she continued: "It's 'bout time you told me one of your stories. That is, if you even have any!"

[Alterity]

Firin chuckles.

"Here I thought I was the singer, not the storyteller" he says grinning.

"Very well..." he starts as he leans against the table.

"Several days ago, I led Private Lanehart, Private Thorinwolf, Private Tani and her Uruk into bugbear infested caves. Upon killing the forward scouts and gate guards we noticed something quite peculiar. Amongst the remains was an undead ghoul. It was then that we noticed a most foul odour... That of rot and death. Steeling ourselves, we prepared to venture within the bugbear and undead infested caves. Lanehart took point with Uruk, with Thor bringing up the rear and Tani was on caster slaying duty."

Moving his hands as he talks he continues, almost animating the motions that he speaks of. "We moved forward quickly, slicing down large hordes of undead, slaying bugbears before they could properly arm themselves. We came upon a particularly powerful caster however, that shrouded our minds is darkness. He conjured a most powerful beast of shadow within our minds, one that slew up most of us in moments with attacks that shredded Thorin's armour in half and spells that caused Uruk and Tani to implode. However I struggled free of the magic and managed to find the shaman, slaying him in a single powerful swing that cut him fully in half. The others were free of the magic, although disoriented by it.

We continued further, by collecting a key from the shamans corpse, and met a Kor shaman deep within a Dwarven Temple. The Kor used magics beyond some of the strongest Ordo Magican mages, launching spheres of pure ice, bolts of raw energy and encasing himself in thick stone. As we entered his domain he used his magic to reanimate the bodies of a dozen powerful dwarves wrapped in the strongest adamantine armours. Rushing forward Tani and I attacked the mage, I silenced him with my magic and knocked him over as Tani swung her warmace and smashed it into his face knocking him unconscious. Uruk, Lane and Thor guarded our rear from the dwarven warriors, and together we dispatched them one at a time, striking them repeatedly until they fell. Turning again we found the Kor had regain conciousness and had re-reanimated the dwarves, even as we just finished slaying them. I silenced him once again with my own magics, and all five of us surrounded him. While dodgeing the blows of the dwarven warriors we quickly broke through the defensive enchantments of the Kor and slit his throat, ending him and his magics, including the Dwarven Reanimation spell.

The way out was clear, although I did see a few bugbears hiding in the shadows, scared of us. We left the undead and bugbear infested hole, a hundred bodies left rotting in the heat and went back to Cear, to claim the reward from the Captain, and let him know of the power Kor shaman."

"Have a better story then that one Fives?" Firin says, grinning once more as his story concludes.

[Althalus]

Threecard strolled into the door of the Misty, the cool shade welcome as he wiped the back of neck and inhaled the smell of ale and stew wafting from deeper within the inn. He nodded and grinned at the Talon in the corner - he knew it annoyed the decorated Varanite, but he couldn't help himself. Sometimes a vagabond just had to be a vagabond. Rounding the foyer he took in the sites of the Misty's common room and spied Fyvre and Firin sitting and chatting. His eyes lingered on Fyvre more than he meant them to, and with an almost imperceptable sigh, he turned first to the bar. Someone was talking to Roggins about his family crest, and the bard, not one to waste opportunity, reached over the bar and pulled himself a half pint of Cana Lager then spun around and leaned back on the bar, nonchalantly drinking his brew as if he'd been there for hours. He caught Fyvre's glance over to him while Firin spoke, and paced himself evenly over to their table. Promptly placing and boot on the table top and inspecting it for any dirt or debris, he nodded to each of them in turn.

"Lieutenant. Lieutenant." He flashed them both a grin and a wink before pullling his chair up and leaning into the table. "Well? What are we talking about?"

[Bellamy]

Descending the stairs from the upper quarters of the Mistyvale Jacques stretches and glances at nearby mirror. He pauses and gives himself a once over making sure his mustache is perfect. Satisfied he turns his gaze toward the rest of the Mistvale, scanning the room until noticing familiar faces. Seeing his three friends at the table he waves and walks over. He bows "Bonjour mademoiselle." Pausing to nod at each of the men he says "Good day messeiurs, what is it you are all discussing?"

[triangles]

Click, Sil'ueth, Tree Lady, or whatever she's called these days, is quick to home in on company of rogues and heroes. Ever treading the line between sobriety and drunkenness, she eagerly soaks in the atmosphere and tales of derring do.

[Sahji]

Quiet for once, the half-elf eagerly listened to Firin's tale. Throughout, she was very expressive, either smiling in excitement or blinking in wonder. She didn't make side-comments, didn't even move very much (save for leaning on the table, propping her head up with fists), but listened, carefully, honestly. But behind the silence, her eyes were working complexly.

Bugbears she was familiar with. Ghouls, somewhat. A shadow beast? Nothing could compare with the one she had once faced. But to say so many of them were ravaged by it--shredding Thor's overwhelming armor no less--that must've been one great fight. (She smiled) One hundred bodies--at least!--along their path. And the story ends, with gold and every body part accounted for.
Good story.

She leaned back, nodding an approval, when suddenly THUNK! A boot dropped beside them. Fyvre glanced at it, then followed it's attached leg to a recognizable face.
"Sam!" She greeted with a grin, filled with energy from the tale. "You JUST missed Firin's bugbear story." And then, as he was pulling up a chair: "Sit, 'fore I make you." Her ridiculous, random threat, just to tease him.

With that said, Fyvre turned her attention back to the first storyteller. "Not bad; I got some good'uns too." But she wasn't yet willing to part with them. Not a big enough audience for her tall tales...
It was as she opened her mouth, either to demand some food or say something obnoxious, when Jacques's voice came.

She waved him down to a seat, making brutal movements to suggest he didn't have a choice in the matter. "Stories. Tell 'em if ya got 'em." Said the fencer strongly, glancing from Jacques to Sam and back. As her eyes traveled, she caught sight of a wild figure in the shadows, and upon recognition ordered a drink for it. "Yer welcome t'the table, Click." Fyvre offered, holding up her own bottle as a means of emphasis.

Finally, with some company assembled, Fyvre visibly relaxed. She slouched into her chair and waited, expectantly, for one of the two newcomers to start talking. After a moment, she thought a bribe was in order. "Alright, I'll buy whoever tells the next story a brew. One fer Firin, too."
And she wondered why her gold pouch was always empty...

[Maxdc2]

"Shall I reiterate the tale that got us all into this mess, then?" Max walks sullenly into the Misty, patting at his somewhat depleted gold pouch. "Why is it everytime I walk past the Gaol, there's at least one outstanding fine against one of you? At least this time no one was hurt, but let's keep our intoxicated revelry inside the taverns, eh?" Max emits his trademark sigh and sets himself on a stool.

[Malekyth_Bloodmane]

The white form of Malekyth Illithana enters the Mistyvale, his garbs splattered with blood as his twin blades rattle against his greaves. Fashionably late he approaches the table, removing the cloak of the White Dragon to reveal his Ashald Mercenary Company tabard, ceremonailly placing it on the tabletop. Without a single word he regards those present with a nod, simply standing by to listen to the commander.

[Lanehart]

As the door to the Mistyvale opens quietly, a Varanite male human makes his way inside. His plate mail has meticulously been polished to a bright sheen, and the symbol of the Ashald Mercenary Company can be seen on his bright yellow cloak, recently taken to the wash. A silver holy symbol of Tharon can be seen fastened to his neck with a leather cord. With a smile he casually makes his way over to a table laden with several people but pauses for a moment when he sees Fyvre Aeltheart. Never knowing where his lieutenant might be, Lanehart Lightstone makes a fierce salute. Holding the gesture for several moments he sits down in chair with back straight and wide attention to everyone. He is rigid, and would be the epitome of what a drill sergeant would look for in a recruit.