For whatever reason, for whatever purpose, you each have found your way to the Rising Moon Inn, a rowdy establishment but one much beloved by the locals. It is run by a retired adventurer, a warrior named Gorstag, famed for his skill with the battle axe that hung over his mantle in the inn proper. While few would dare to make trouble in the inn, no few of the locals have looked upon his daughter and wondered her origins. His daughter Shandril is known to be a dreamer, wanting to leave the city of Highmoon for adventures in the real world.

Tonight there is a small crowd of customers, partaking of their evening ales and food, after a long day of work. This is unusual for this time of year, when trade caravans are plentiful from the East and West, but rumors of late have told of raiders and slavers in the lands of the Dales, with shadowy rumors of the dark elves and worse lurking within the deep darkness of the forests.

"Good evening Gorstag," Jarsali greets the innkeeper with a smile, "it seems busy tonight. I would love some of that stew and a glass of the house wine when you can get to it."

She surveys the patrons and the available tables, hoping to find a clear table that is well lit and close enough to the fire for warmth but not so close as to be smoky. Failing that, she'd settle for sharing a table with a familiar face.

Seated at one of the tables a stern-looking half-elf man of middle age in heavy mail adorned with etched eyes watched the room with measured gaze while eating a simple stew. Watcher Aelendil was a staple for the locals, tirelessly patrolling the streets of Highmoon. He often took a simple meal at one of the inns and taverns rather then return all the way to the fortress-temple of Helm. That way he could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the travelers and caravans that would visit the capitol of Deepingdale. The town had its own miscreants, but it was often visitors who thought they could try something and then quickly depart without consequence. It was the town guard who was responsible to keep Highmoon safe from such never-do-wells. That one of them was a Watcher of Helm, the Eternal Guardian, only added to their efficiency. For Armat Aelendil's eye was sharpened by the divine will of The Vigilant One. He was well respected in the town for his unswerving commitment to his duty, and known to be stern but reliable, if a bit humorless..

Elinor wasn't a stranger in the Rising Moon Inn. Not that she came terribly often, but it was a nice enough place to conduct some of her side business. And since it was perfectly legal - no matter what some grumpy people might think about it - she could do so while staying warm, out of the rain, and with a nice meal to boot.

That evening was one such time, though as often she hadn't been paid in gold for her products - her last two smoke bombs in fact - but with a couple of "special" ingredients she had been hoping to put her hands on for some time now. She was now grinning, her eyes twinkling mischievously, almost gleefully rubbing her hands while she thought about what she was going to be able to do with it.

Well, until she noticed Armat anyway. When she did, her expression became a lot more neutral - she might even be 'innocently' whistling - as if she had nothing untoward in mind. Probably not feeling too confident, the young elf looked around then noticing someone she knew, she headed to Jarsali's table and sat. “Hello Jarsali, how are you?”

After a quick glance at Armat, she whispered, “Is he still looking?”

Jarsali looks up to see the elf sitting across from her, "Oh, hello Elinor, I am well thank you. How are you?"

Watching the young elf furtively glance over towards her right, Jarsali overtly turns in her seat to see the Watcher eating his humble meal, the legs of her chair scraping slightly against the floor.

"I do not think that he saw you, but likely he was not looking," a smile crosses her face when he looks up momentarily and she gives him a friendly wave before turning back in her seat.

"Armat is a good man, helped to pull me out of a tough situation once or twice, or did you mean someone else?"

Sariel had been gone the past two weeks. It wasn't uncommon for her to vanish without explanation now and again. It also wasn't uncommon that she often made light on returning, as if she'd never gone. Not always, though. Once or twice she returned in dour spirits and those occasions had her heading straight for a tavern on getting in. Today, it seemed, was such an occasion.

She strolled into the Rising Moon with the weary sense of the road still on her shoulders and the mud fresh on her boots. She politely kicked them out at the door so as not to track her burden through the place. Then made a line straight for the bar. En route she did take note of the pious lawman, which did not brighten her already low spirits.

"Constable," she offered Armat a nod and polite smile in passing.

At the bar she heaved a sigh as she dropped herself heavily into an empty stool. Sariel leaned both arms onto the bar, even laying her head upon them. It had been a long two weeks she was eager to put behind her. Bad timing off bad information. Not that no good came of it. She salvaged some from her efforts. They just fell far short of the goal.

"Gorstag, I'll have a draft of your worst Dwarven ale," she said, then her head popped up a little. "Actually, make that two. And some of that lovely, meaty stew you make. Aaand then a third ale."

Every drink had it's purpose. If she were drinking for pleasure and cheer, she certainly wouldn't turn to the Dwarven rotgut she'd just ordered. That was the sort of drink you ordered to bury a memory or some frustrations. Frustrations, she decided, as she may need to recall the memory in case she ever pulled information from the same source again. Or ran into that lot again. Not that they knew her face, but she knew theirs.

One of the more common figures sat at a table behind the elf and half elf with a smile, her eyes on the troublesome Armat. In truth, she liked the man, but his constant morales often put a kink in the views of her employee's - and he looked at her more often than not in the same light. When he looked at her, she smiled and winked.

In truth, none of them had seen Celeste for a few weeks, and even since she'd been back, there was a change - she seemed more thoughtful, cautious and a bit more fearful....of something. She, unusually, had what looked like bandages down her arms, stopping at her hands.

The half orc woman sighed as she heard Elinor and Jarsail - not as subtle as her, but in this place, that was hard.

When Sariel entered, she smiled, and let out a whistle. Nodding, she smiled, the slight point of her lower tusks popping out. "SAR - While your at it, get me an ale!"

“Great!” The young elf was almost bouncing, though she quickly bent over on the table, trying to disappear. “_Shh! After a glance in Armat's direction, Elinor relaxed a bit, then grumbled. “No no, I meant Watcher Armat, follower of He Who Is Ever Watchful.” One could almost hear the capitals in there, and it was said in a sing-song voice as if she was repeating someone who had told her to call him by his proper title. And if Elinor didn't roll her eyes…it probably was a close thing. Probably due to whom she was talking to more than anything else in fact.

“I'm not saying he's bad.” Though she did pause there as if the question deserved to be thought about for a bit. “Just a bit, uh, rigid, you know? I'd just rather he didn't come to ask questions. Again.” This time, she did roll her eyes and wrinkled her nose. The latter might have been caused by a snif of the wine glass though. She grumbled, “His questions are never fun.” Which, as far as she was concerned, might be the worst thing of it all.

Jarsali laughs gently, "Yes, his questions can make you think about our thoughts and actions which might be uncomfortable but does help learn..."

Her ears tweak a little at hearing Celeste call out "Sar", perhaps initially hearing it as "Jar". Looking over, she gives Celeste a nod of acknowledgement when she meets her gaze, remembering her from the market.

The half-elf makes an arcane gesture over her food and wine when it arrives for about 18 seconds, apparently causing the scent of the wine to shift from the almost vinegary smell to the fruity bouquet of a much finer elven wine. Her eyes twinkle was satisfaction as she tastes it and picks up her spoon to make a start on her stew.

"Have you eaten Elinor? The food is basic but quite filling."

Gorstag nods to Jarsali as she enters, sending a tavern maid over with the wine. As more arrive, Gorstag yells into the back room. "Shandril, get another bowl of stew, and two ales for our guest!" He said, wiping mugs for use later.

Shandril rushes forward, a bowl of stew in one hand, the handle of two mugs in her other, to serve Sariel. Her curly blonde hair is wild and free, with her simple blue dress and apron swishing through the inn. "Sorry, sorry, cook's feet are like lead tonight! I swear, how hard is it to fill a bowl of stew and fill a few mugs!" She spoke, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

As you meet up with acquaintances, you begin to notice the inn room filling up with travelers in darkish cloaks. It must have really been a busy day on the roads, as they all start ordering ale and stew.

Gorstag begins counting the amount of people in his inn, his face looking pale for a moment as five robed and hooded figures step through the door. He moves towards the mantle quickly, laying his hand on the shaft of the battleaxe as the middle-hooded figure speaks up.

"Get the girl, kill the rest!" It hissed its orders, causing a wave of movement from the travelers around the room as daggers, shortswords, and clubs are drawn. The five robed figures remain at the door.


OOC: Roll your initiative, Armat, Jarsali, and Sariel are able to act in the surprise round. The room is about forty feet by forty feet, with tables, chairs, and other patrons providing difficult movement. Your group is on the opposite side of the building. There is only the door to the kitchen to your left to escape.

Surprise Round! Go!
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:13, Wed 06 July 2022.

Jarsali stands up immediately, causing her chair to fall over and add to the sudden chaos of sound and movement in the inn.

"Get behind me!" she calls to the other patrons while her hand takes her whip from the loop on her belt and unfurls it.

The half-elf's pupils shift to the telltale silvery colour as she concentrates on a blessing, "Angharradh guide us."

Whip at the ready, Jarsali moves towards the apparent threat, putting herself between them and the door to escape through the kitchen.

OOC: AC is 15 without her shield, Casting Bless on Elinor, Armat and Jarsali.
12:22, Today: Jarsali Galendodel rolled 6 using 1d20+3 with rolls of 3.  Initiative.

Sariel lifted her head enough to wave in Celeste's direction. It dawned that she saw other faces she knew. One more so than the other, but she hadn't truly come for cheer. She'd come to drown the past two weeks. Or some of them, at least. She feared she would only be bad company in the moment if she joined her friend Jarsali. And any wisdom she might have for that precocious youth with her today would likely be far too dim and grim as to be unwarranted. Celested was someone she could perhaps drown her sorrows with.

These were thought barely processed and fully unrealized as the night took a turn in line with her mood. She counted five as they strode in and all at once caught the entire inn tense to their presence. As if they'd been expecting it. Sariel knew this tune. She'd once been a key instrument in it's symphony. Her eyes counting the blades being drawn perhaps dulled her response. Had she lost a step in her absence from the craft, a blink of an elve's life though it was?

As everyone else was springing to their feet and simply drawing arms Sariel was moving with purpose. She spun from her stool, spinning it away to the floor. One smooth motion all, her bow was in hand with arrow notched just as she came to face the door. Her arrow flew before her eyes even came round to track her target. A strike, deadly and true, would have been a delightful and decisive result but it was not the point of the effort nor the display.

Sariel's arrow flew with such speed and force that it whistled threw the air as if to pierce the ears of all who listened. She doubted it would connect with the man who gave the order that set off the chaos. She had not fired for accuracy, but for effect. If it struck, no ordinary man would remain on his feet from the blow. If not, it would deliver the message intended as her arrow struck the door beside the man. Struck and drove through the thick heavy door near to the fletching as if she'd been shooting cloth targets.

The message was clear. To cross her bow was to court death. She stared the man who gave the arrow down, eyes narrowed. He had picked a poor day to cross her path.

OOC: guessing I don't have advantage vs the guy who gave the order to kill everyone.
01:41, Today: Sariel Iilphelkiir rolled 14 using 1d20+4.  initiative roll.
01:46, Today: Sariel Iilphelkiir rolled 12 using 1d20+3.  attack vs leader.
01:47, Today: Sariel Iilphelkiir rolled 22 using 1d8+14.  sharpshooter damage.

Little escaped the notice of the Watcher of Helm. He had stopped spooning his stew when the hooded men had begun to file in and Gorstag's seemed alarmed. His trained eye saw the tension in the visitors. There seemed to be trouble brewing. He readied himself. Thus, when the men in charge bellowed their order, he stood quickly and drew his shield. Unfortunately, the crowd was in the way. The miscreants were brutal however. An order to kill innocents? Such vileness was normally only seen in the Drow.

"GUARD! STOP IN THE NAME OF THE LORD OF DEEPINGDALE!"

He turned to the window, drew his horn, and blew the alarm to the city guard in a long blasting note.

---

09:35, Today: Armat Aelendil rolled 12 using 2d20+1, dropping the lowest dice only.  Initiative (Vigilant Blessing advantage).
This message was last edited by the player at 07:46, Wed 06 July 2022.