In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 124):

Erlathan had regained some of his composure when he had entered the church, but the man's casual dismissal of his plight reignited the flame in him. Ignorant and uncaring of who the man was the elf clenched his fists and glared. Before he could shout out his anger at the man the acolyte intervened. It was a brief moment but it was enough to collect his senses. There were more important things than his ego.

So instead Erlathan briefly bowed to the woman and focused his attention on her. Like he had with Sierna before he introduced himself, stated his connection to the Thorn Blades, and displayed the symbol on his neck. "This is no normal corruption, this was an army. They attacked in the dead of night, seeming to rise from the shadows themselves. They were other worldly in appearance, using blades and bows of materials I did not recognize. Their weapons were laced with some substance which poisoned man and nature alike. Their magic decayed anything it touched and replaced it with a blight. My people were slaughtered that night."

"I tried to track them the next morning but the blight they leave has made traversal an obstacle. They are carving some sort of magical symbols into trees to spread their corruption. I have heard that the Lucinic Brotherhood were healers so I have come to request your aid. If something is not done their tainted magic will continue to spread. Please, you must gather forces to fight back against this new threat."

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 123):

     "Amazing! I've never been in such a place where multiple generations have carried forward a tradition of stories and history as this one has! What a wonderful place to spend a few weeks taking in what it has heard in it's foundation and walls. Honour to this place and all it's supporters! I've met the fine Lady at the contest, and she impressed me then, as well. I shall have to come here tonight after all is said and done, and open my ears to what is told."
     Trésor thinks back a bit and adds "And even at the contest she did seem distracted by some personal woe that she didn't tell of. I wonder what sad tale there is, now, if it's been this way for a while and her friends such as yourself have taken notice of it. A heart such as hers should not be having such troubles."

Jessica was not one to be rude. But she is not too trusting either. At least not blindly. Her father always taught her to be friendly and polite to strangers but never truly trusting without such strangers earning her truse. She does not know tha man, so she does not reveal much. As much as possible she tries to gage his intentions, looking him straight in the eye but being discreet and nonjudgemental.

"I am just a wizard who travels a lot. Nothing really special about me other than that. What brings you to Abondavie?"

01:53, Today: Jessica Darcwode rolled 18 using 1d20+4 ((14)).

In reply to Togrirr (msg # 129):

Togrirr
As the back of Racnvaldr's hand met the table with a finality that echoed through Iron Tree Square, a hush fell over the crowd, a collective breath held in anticipation. The moment stretched, a heartbeat where victory and defeat were acknowledged in the quiet before the storm of cheers erupted. Togrirr, still pressing Racnvaldr's hand down, seemed lost in the intensity of the moment, his realization delayed until the crowd's jubilation broke through his concentration.

"Good ma-" he tries to tell the dwarf, but is unable to finish the sentence when suddenly lifted by a dozen or so people, so inebriated with drink and the energy of the moment to realize the size of the person they were lifting. Intoxicated, uncoordinated, and frankly unfit for the task, their attempt to throw Togrirr into the air results in the laughing champion dropping hard to the ground instead.

Getting himself back up, Togrirr returns to Racnvaldr and extends his hand, saying once more, "Good match. I think I might have torn a muscle there"

Racnvaldr, his expression a visible mix of disappointment and respect, accepts the outcome with the stoicism of a seasoned competitor. Grasping the bugbear's hand firmly, he manages a sincere nod of respecting.

The crowd, meanwhile, remains a whirlwind of emotion and activity. Coins change hands with the fluidity of water, as bets are settled amid laughter, groans of disappointment, and the clinking of currency. The air is thick with the aftermath of excitement, the shared experience of the showdown building to euphoria.

Géraud, standing in the center of the crowd near Togrirr and Racnvaldr, wears a sick expression that mingles regret with apprehension. The match's outcome seems to weigh heavily on him, his downcast gaze betraying his inner turmoil. As a member of the crowd approaches, hand outstretched in expectation of payment, Géraud's anxiety became palpable. He fumbles for his purse and begrudgingly hands it over. The recipient tries to rib and cajole Géraud with banter bordering on friendly but mostly steeped in crowing, but Géraud simply walks off, disappearing into the crowd.

In the midst of this, an officiator clambers atop one of the tables, commanding attention with a booming voice. "Let it be known that Togrirr is the Showdown Champion of Abondavie!" The announcement, met with another wave of cheers, solidifies the bugbear's victory, his name now etched in the town's history. "Our champion will receive his well-earned prizes during the supper feast," the officiator continues.

For the sake of moving to the next part of the campaign, Togrirr, let's assume any further mingling you do up to the supper feast is insignificant (at least, story-wise) and takes place "off screen."

In reply to Alaric Ironwood (msg # 135):

Alaric
Alaric, for the sake of moving to the next part of the campaign, we'll assume you remain with the music competition without any additional distractions or things of interest happening, other than what takes place on the stage.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:53, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Erlathan Virrie (msg # 139):

Erlathan
The acolyte of the Lucinic Brotherhood listens to Erlathan's fervent account with a mixture of concern and perplexity. Her brows furrow in concentration as she attempts to untangle the urgency in his words from the unfamiliar context in which they are framed. "I... see," she begins, her voice measured. "We are indeed healers, dedicated to the preservation of life and the nurturing of the land. Yet, your tale speaks of a darkness and a threat of a nature we are not familiar with, yet."

"Where did this attack occur?" the journeyman from the Church of the Eternal Archive interjects, his tone sharp with curiosity. "I've heard no word of such an event. Your story, while distressing, seems lacking in important details, such as who are you and from whence do you hail?"

Geneviève nods in agreement with Thomas's query, turning her gaze back to Erlathan. "Yes, clarity on the location would help us understand how we might offer assistance. The Lucinic Brotherhood's reach is broad in this realm, yet I do not recognize your countenance nor the places that you speak of."
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:16, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 140):

Trésor
The baker, with a demeanor as warm and inviting as freshly baked bread, gives Trésor a knowing look, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Ah, she's one of the good ones, no doubt about that," he says, leaning back against the booth, his hard-worn hands finding rest on the table. "Lately, though, it's like she's got this little cloud hanging over her. Kinda like the faintest crack in your favorite mug—hard to spot, but once you see it, well, it's all you notice."

He grabs his plate and stands up, his eyes drifting off as if following a thought. "Thing is, we've all been there, haven't we? Some days the bread just won't rise, no matter what you do. Isolde's going through her own rough patch, seems like. But hey, that's life for you. And in this town, nobody has to go it alone. She's got her husband, and she's got all of us."

Turning to walk to the bar, he says in parting, "Like you said, be sure to swing by after the Luminal Jubilee. There'll be stories, sure as there's bread in the oven. And who knows? Perhaps a bit of shared laughter and song is just what's needed to lift the spirits, eh?"

Ready for your final round of the music competition?
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:52, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Jessica Darcwode (msg # 141):

Jessica
Alon's eyebrows arch with an affable surprise, a light of welcome curiosity dancing in his gaze as Jessica modestly introduces herself as a traveling wizard. "Indeed? A wizard who traverses the lands?" he exclaims, his voice infused with a cheerful intrigue that sidesteps any hint of disbelief. His smile widens in a manner that renders his scholarly demeanor more approachable, more companionable.

"Such travels, engaging with the very essence of magic," he muses, allowing a brief pause to linger between them, rich with the silent acknowledgment of her unique journey. His eyes briefly wander, capturing the lively essence of Abondavie, before returning to Jessica, now sharpened with a keen focus. "And what, you ask, brings me to charming Abondavie?" he continues, his hands clasping together.

"This town," he gestures with a casual grace, hinting at the bustling life beyond their conversation, "is quite the study, each visit a new page in my study of life. My interests are rather esoteric and refined, you see, but Abondavie offers many things to me. If for nothing else, I stop in on occasion to pay a visit to Albina, though you may hear her referred to more as 'The Squinter' around these parts. Her collection of knowledge, books, nick knacks, and stories are without boundary."

His gaze, now fully alight with the prospect of shared interest in learning, settles on Jessica with an openness that invites confidence. "But a wizard of your youth, charting such a vast and mysterious course—your story must be one of remarkable adventure and insight."

His tone, brimming with genuine respect and an almost boyish excitement for the tales she might share, encourages a deeper exchange. The soft tapping of his finger, barely audible, seems to punctuate the air with unasked questions, with the promise of understanding and camaraderie.

"In this delightful crossroads of lives and tales, your journey, Miss Darkwood, adds a fascinating chapter," he says, his expression earnest, his invitation clear. "I am most eager to hear more of your adventures and insights."

I assumed you were rolling an Insight (Wisdom) skill check. He seems genuine in his presence and curiosity, without ulterior motive.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:51, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 145):

    Spending the remaining time until the competition at the tavern and soaking up the pleasant warmth, Trésor finishes his meal and drink, then heads over to take his place in the line for the last set of the competition. A bit nervous considering his immense success on the prior rounds, he makes sure his lute is in tune and his voice is clear and smooth.
     Going over the few conversations he has had with the townsfolk, he decides on something to lift spirits and brighten hearts is in order, so he tries "A Hearth is a Foundation" - a song about the memories, history and love that a home contains, and how it's preciousness heals.

08:57, Today: Tresor Ne d'elfe rolled 22 using 1d20+6.  DC 10 Performance challenge

     During the course of the ballad, Trésor emphasizes the passion of the music with tumbles and stunts, twirling his lute at appropriate times. Near the final stanzas, he enhances his performance by making himself and his instrument glow (Faerie Fire). While the spell lasts, he moves around the stage, getting close to the audience and focusing his attention during poignant moments, and dismissing the glow when he finishes.

11:26, Today: Tresor Ne d'elfe rolled 10 using 1d20+6.  Acrobatics .
This message was last edited by the player at 19:26, Wed 28 Feb.

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 147):

Trésor (and Alaric and Togrirr)
As the sun reaches its zenith, bathing the village green in a wash of golden light, Trésor takes his place upon the makeshift stage. The air is alive with anticipation, the crowd a tapestry of villagers and travelers alike, their faces a mirror of the sky's bright clarity.

Trésor begins, his voice a gentle stream that weaves through the crowd, carrying with it the warmth of a hearth's embrace. "A Hearth is a Foundation," he sings, each note a stone laid upon the last, building a home of melody and memory in the hearts of those who listen. The simplicity of the song, its humble origins belied by the depth of emotion it conjures, fills the space between them all, binding performer and audience in a shared reverie of home and heart.

Yet, as the song unfolds, Trésor seeks to elevate his performance with a flourish of physical expression. Like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze, he attempts to tumble and twirl, his lute spinning in his hands—a contestant must not merely sing of passion but embody it for those judging the competition. The crowd watches, breath caught, as the spectacle unfolds, the grace of his movements marred by the occasional misstep, a reminder of the earth from which all leaps must return.

In a moment of transcendent ambition, Trésor casts faerie fire, his form and his instrument alight with an ethereal glow that dances across the visual spectrum. The magic, a visual symphony of color, wraps him in an aura of otherworldly beauty, as if he and his lute have stepped from the realm of the mundane to become emissaries of the fey. He moves about the stage, now a luminous figure against the backdrop of day, each step leaving trails of light that linger in the air like the memory of a shooting star.

Despite the enchanting display, the intricacies of his performance suffer. Notes stray from their intended path, lost in the whirl of motion and light. The lute, an extension of his soul, falters in its song, the harmony fractured by the ambition of spectacle. Yet, the beauty of his voice remains untarnished, a beacon that guides the song home through the tumult of performance.

As the final notes of "A Hearth is a Foundation" fade, the faerie fire extinguishes, leaving behind the simple truth of a song well sung. The crowd, moved by the sincerity and beauty of his voice, erupts into applause, a thunderous cascade of appreciation that speaks to the heart of what it means to perform. They see not the missteps or the missed notes but the courage to share a piece of one's soul through the art of song.

Alaric and Togrirr, for your situational awareness, you are both present for this performance.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:54, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 148):

Trésor (and Alaric and Togrirr)
As the final notes of Trésor's performance linger in the air, blending with the rapturous applause of the audience, Isolde makes her way onto the stage. Her presence is like a beam of sunlight piercing through the canopy of trees, her smile infectious and her energy palpable. She moves with a grace that seems to capture the very essence of the festival's spirit, her approach to Trésor marked by a playful yet regal bearing.

"Bravo, Trésor! Bravo!" Isolde exclaims, her voice carrying over the crowd, vibrant and filled with warmth. Her eyes sparkle with genuine admiration as she turns to address the assembly. "Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Abondavie, it is my utmost honor and joy to proclaim Trésor, with his heart-stirring melodies and soulful voice, as 'the Silver Herald of Abondavie'—the undisputed champion of this year's music competition at our beloved Silver Festivals!"

With a flourish, Isolde produces a crown of flowers, each bloom a gift from the natural beauty that surrounds the land of Abondavie. She places it upon Trésor's head with a tenderness that belies the ceremonial nature of the act.

"But the celebration does not end here," she continues, her eyes alight with excitement. "Trésor will receive his well-deserved award during tonight's supper, just before the Luminal Jubilee. A feast for the senses and the spirit, heralding the culmination of our day's veneration of the Moon Goddess."

Isolde's announcement is met with another wave of applause, the crowd's enthusiasm undiminished by the passage of the day. She waits for the clamor to subside before sharing the final piece of news, her smile broadening.

"And there's more," she says, her voice tinged with a hint of playful secrecy. "Given the incredible performance our Silver Herald has gifted us today, and the overwhelming acclaim from judges and audience alike, my husband, Doréan, has graciously agreed to perform a duet with Trésor at *La Halte des Histoire* after the Luminal Jubilee."

The crowd's reaction is electric, a mixture of surprise and delight that mirrors the festive atmosphere of the day. "It will be a capstone to our day's festivities, a union of talents under the watchful gaze of the Moon Goddess," Isolde concludes, her words weaving the promise of an unforgettable evening.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:56, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 138):

Smoke listens as the woman explains her reluctance to part with the plate, a flicker of understanding crossing his features despite the setback. He stands there for a moment, his posture relaxed yet poised, embodying a careful balance between charm and strategy. The tap of his finger against the side of the stall ceases, signaling his shift in focus.

He then reaches into his cloak, the movement smooth and deliberate, and pulls out a small, intricately carved wooden figurine. The figurine, no larger than his palm, is a skilfully crafted mythical creature from the lore of the lands he's traversed. It's clear in how he handles the item that it holds value, not just in craftsmanship but in the stories it embodies.

"I understand your concerns, truly," Smoke begins, his tone conveying a blend of respect and earnestness. "And I wouldn't dream of leaving you at a disadvantage. Perhaps this could serve as collateral?" He places the figurine on the counter gently, its presence a silent promise of his intentions to return the plate unharmed.

"This piece has traveled with me through many a twist and turn," he continues, a hint of nostalgia lacing his words, tempered by the ever-present undercurrent of humor. "It's seen more of the world than most, and I assure you, it's worth more than its weight in stories alone."

His smile, disarming yet (apparently) sincere is an offering of trust in a situation where words alone might fall short. "Should the plate find its way back to you, as I guarantee it will, this little wanderer returns to me. A fair exchange, until then?"

Smoke rolled 22 (1d20+4) for Deception (Charisma) skill check to trick the merchant into believing the figurine has deep, sentimental value to himself.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:23, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 150):

Smoke
The woman behind the stall, her eyes reflecting a mix of skepticism and curiosity, studies the figurine with a discerning gaze. She picks it up, turning it over in her hands, her fingers tracing the intricate details carved into the wood. For a moment, she seems lost in thought, perhaps weighing the sincerity of Smoke's words against her own judgment and experience.

Then, setting the figurine back down on the counter, she meets Smoke's gaze, a spark of respect—or maybe amusement—at his offer lighting her eyes. "Well, you certainly know how to make an argument," she says, her tone carrying a hint of warmth. "And I can't say I've ever had a piece quite like this offered as collateral before."

She leans back, crossing her arms as she considers the proposal further, her demeanor softening. "You've got yourself a deal, but only because you've gone to such lengths. Not many would offer something so precious as collateral."

"Take good care of the plate. I'll be expecting both it and you back before the day's end," she concludes, her words firm but fair, indicating she's willing to trust him—at least as far as the plate is concerned.

With a nod of agreement, she slides the plate across the counter towards Smoke, the transaction sealed.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 151):

After successfully navigating the nuances of the village and its inhabitants to locate the plate painted with five moons, Smoke's attention turns next to an item that could likely leverage his unique blend of stealth and dexterity. The small doll seems like a suitable challenge. For this task, Smoke will use Stealth. This skill would allow him to move unnoticed through the festival or into areas where the doll might be kept, avoiding the gaze of those who might question his presence. His proficiency in Stealth, honed through years of smuggling and evasion, makes him particularly adept at moving silently and unseen. The small doll, likely a cherished item or hidden as part of the game, will require a delicate touch to acquire without causing alarm. His background provides him with an intuitive understanding of how to blend into crowds, use distractions to his advantage, and navigate tight situations without detection.

Smoke rolled a 20 (1d20+6) Stealth (Dexterity) skill check.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 04:40, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 152):

Smoke
As the sun climbs higher, casting long shadows that dance through the streets of Abondavie, Smoke sets his sights on the next item in the scavenger hunt: a small doll. His plan requires finesse, a touch of stealth, and an understanding of timing that only someone of his unique skills possesses.

The festival is in full swing, the streets teeming with laughter and the air filled with the scent of seasonal delicacies. Amidst the revelry, children play, their joy unabated by the throng of festival-goers. It's here, in this scene of innocence and celebration, that Smoke finds his mark—a doll, clutched in the hands of a child deeply engrossed in the festivities.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 153):

With a rogue's grace, Smoke surveys the scene, calculating the best approach. His steps are silent, his presence barely a whisper as he navigates the space between shadows. To the untrained eye, he's just another reveler moving through the crowd, but to those who know the signs, he's a predator in the midst of a hunt.

Smoke will use his Stealth (Dexterity) skill check to attempt to distract the child with a tossed coin, so that he can take the doll without her noticing. He'll leave a coin in place of the doll, so as to not break the child's heart entirely.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:49, Thu 29 Feb.

In reply to Smoke (msg # 154):

Smoke
Smoke, cloaked in the guise of just another celebrant, approaches his quarry with the stealth of a shadow sliding across moonlit ground. His target, a child engrossed in the wonder of the day, holds tightly to a doll, a prize most precious in youthful eyes.

With the age-old cunning of his craft, Smoke sets his plan into motion—a distraction, as subtle as the changing wind. From the depths of his cloak, he draws forth a coin, its surface gleaming like a shard of daylight stolen from the sun itself. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the coin spinning into the air, where it catches the light, a beacon for wide, curious eyes.

The child's gaze, drawn as surely as moths to a flame, shifts, and in that slender slice of time, thinner than a whisper, Smoke acts. His movements a dance, a ballet of fingers swift and sure, he claims the doll and leaves in its stead the coin, a silent one-sided agreement struck.

Retreating into the throng with the doll now secreted away, Smoke allows himself a moment of quiet triumph. It was not the object itself that kindles the flame of satisfaction within him but the execution of the deed, a mark of his skill.

Thus, with his task accomplished, Smoke turns his thoughts to the journey ahead, the doll but one piece in a greater puzzle laid out before him.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 155):

Smoke now sets his sights on the the pipe. For this task, Smoke will use Persuasion. His charismatic nature and his experiences have equipped him with a silver tongue.

Smoke rolled a 14 (1d20+4) for a Persuasion (Charisma) skill check.

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 148):

As Tresor Ne d'elfe begins to weave the enchanting melody of "A Hearth is a Foundation," Alaric's consciousness drifts back to the cherished memories of his childhood home. The bard's haunting rendition evokes a poignant symphony of emotions within him, blending the sorrow of his sisters' absence with a longing for the warmth and familiarity of family.

With each note, Alaric's heart swells, aching with the weight of nostalgia and longing. The lyrics of the song resonate deeply, evoking images of laughter and love that once echoed through the halls of his home, now shadowed by the pain of separation. His eyes closed, memories of his sisters flood his mind, their voices and laughter echoing in his ears, their absence keenly felt.

As Tresor's voice rises and falls, Alaric finds solace in the melody, the music serving as a soothing salve for his grieving soul. Despite the heaviness of loss, there is a profound sense of healing in the bard's song, a gentle reminder that the bonds of love endure even in the face of tragedy.

As the final chords of the lute fade away, Alaric is overcome with emotion, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Alongside the rest of the audience, he offers a heartfelt applause, his gratitude for the bard's performance evident in every heartfelt clap.

Afterward, approaching Tresor through the press of well-wishers, Alaric's voice quivers slightly as he speaks. "Your music," he begins, his words heavy with emotion, "it touched something deep within me. Thank you."

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 144):

Having already explained himself earlier the elf was ready for the question they asked. "My name is Erlathan Virrie, son of Athtar Virrie. My people were called the 'Thorn Blades', we were nomads who live in the wilderness." Just as he had done for Sierna he produced the pendant he kept around his neck for them to view.

When they asked for the location the young man furrowed his brow. The location of the blight he knew but his knowledge on landmarks they might recognize was woefully incomplete. "The last time I saw the corruption it was several days from here, deep into the wilderness. If need be I could guide someone to it's location." He tried to recall a nearby river or mountain that might be used as a reference.

In reply to Isolde Lumiere (msg # 149):

Over all pleased by the end result, and resolving to practice his showmanship in the future, Trésor takes his bows and accolades humbly. Accepting the wreath donned on his head, he sports a wide smile that grows wider at the announcement of the upcoming feast. Stepping forward once Isolde is done, he says "Thank you one and all for your praise! I hope that my short time upon your stage has added to the joys in your lives and laid low any sadness so you may fully enjoy the Festival! May the rest of your days, weeks and months ahead be filled with the brightness of the Goddess' blessing! See you at the feast!" and then steps back to exit the stage.

With various hugs, handclasps and the odd kiss or two, the bard moves through the well wishers until his encounter with Alaric. "I had hopes it would, friend. The people I've spoken with throughout the day all seem to have had some thread of sadness, and I wished for my music to soothe and abate that sorrow. If it helped you, then I am content."

In reply to Smoke (msg # 156):

Smoke
Smoke, having secured the doll with a blend of cunning and grace, now turns his attention to the next item on the list: a pipe. The festivities of Abondavie swirl around him, a vibrant admixture of color, sound, and scent. Banners flutter in the breeze, their hues as varied as the flowers that bloom in the meadows surrounding the town. The air is rich with the aroma of roasted meats and sweet pastries, mingling with the earthy scent of ale.

As he weaves through the crowd, Smoke's gaze sweeps over the revelers. The people of Abondavie are a hearty bunch, brimming with life. Males and females, young and old, wear garments ranging from simple linen to the more elaborate attire of those perhaps visiting from afar. Some bear the marks of the town's trades—smiths, bakers, and craftsmen—while others are adorned in the finery befitting a day of celebration, with ribbons woven into hair and brooches that catch the sunlight.

In search of someone with a pipe, Smoke's path leads him to a quieter alcove of the village's center, where the music from the central stage fades to a gentle hum, and the laughter of children chasing each other around becomes a distant echo. Here, seated upon a modest chair at the threshold of a rustic dwelling, there resides an elderly man, his hair and beard like the first touch of frost upon the forest floor. His attire, an assemblage of earthy greens and browns, suggests a life spent under the open sky, perhaps wandering the woods or tending to the secrets of the earth. The coat, sturdy and frayed at the cuffs, drapes over him, a protective shell worn by the passage of countless seasons.

He holds a pipe to his lips, its ember gently glowing, a beacon in the quietude of his surroundings. His eyes, sharp and discerning beneath furrowed brows, carry the calm watchfulness of one who has witnessed the slow dance of the years. He contemplates the world with a serene intensity, a guardian of stories untold, his silent vigil as much a part of the home as the vines that embrace its walls or the fallen leaves that carpet its steps.

Biting down on the pipe, the man looks up to Smoke examining him. After a thoughtful pause, a wide wrinkly smile stretch his face, the pipe still firmly between his teeth.

"Scavenger hunt, eh?"

In reply to The Chronicler (msg # 160):

Smoke meets the elderly man's gaze, a respectful nod acknowledging the wisdom and years etched upon the man's face. A smile, slight but genuine, plays across Smoke's lips as he steps forward, the hubbub of the festival a distant murmur compared to the quiet intensity of this alcove.

"Indeed, a scavenger hunt," Smoke confirms, his voice smooth as the finest silk from distant lands. "And not just any item, but one that carries with it the essence of Abondavie's rich history. A pipe, much like your own, which seems to have been a loyal companion through many a contemplative eve."

He crouches slightly to come level with the seated man, his eyes reflecting a storyteller's spark. "I seek your aid for but a moment in time. To borrow the pipe for the game, to be returned to you with stories added to its legacy—stories that it will no doubt share with you in the whispers of smoke to come."

Smoke extends a hand, palm up, in a gesture that bridges the gap between asking and offering. "What say you, sir? Will you entrust me with your pipe and partake in the spirit of this day? For the joy it brings, the tales it spins, and the bond it weaves between strangers and friends."

Jessica lets her defenses down a little. Loneliness was bad for company and since her father died a month ago she had been very lonely and sad of late. She still mourned her father but time heals all. She still isn't too open with the man but she seems to trust him a little more.

"I am a travelling wizard who helps those in need. Mostly through the healing arts even though I am not a fully trained medic. Just your plain old amateur adventuring wizard who can only prepare 4 spells a day and cast twice. Nothing special."

In reply to Tresor Ne d'elfe (msg # 159):

Before Alaric could utter a response to Tresor, they were swept apart by the crowd as others pressed in to offer their appreciation. Amidst the bustling atmosphere of the square, Alaric's mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead.

He had three immediate goals: first, to attend to the growling of his stomach, which had been neglected amid his emotional turmoil; second, to make his way to the Luminal Jubilee, an event he had been anticipating since his arrival in the village; and finally, to somehow find a vantage point for the anticipated duet of Doréan and Trésor at *La Halte des Histoire*.

With determination etched on his features, Alaric navigated through the throng of people, each step bringing him closer to his objectives. The anticipation of the day's remaining events pulsed through him, driving him forward despite the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future.