Game Thread Scene 1: The Harvest Festival - RPG Crossing
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  #1  
Old Oct 14th, 2019, 07:40 PM
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Scene 1: The Harvest Festival

Degorod greets youThe early risers (and those who never lay down for the night) watch a wispy fog claw at the windows of the Inn at the day breaks. The sun struggles to punch its red rays through the mist until breakfast has been served, and Ekaterine's weak coffee has mostly been finished before a bright crisp day manages to greet the party. Those accepting the hospitality of the house are served oven-warm biscuits and runny eggs. The fire is newly fed fire warms the room. Were it any colder, frost would lace the windows.

When the group is ready, they set south towards Degorod. As the sun rises, it promises to be a fine day, chilly but bright. The town is the better part of an hour's easy ride from the Inn. The road slopes downwards, and jogs once to switch back over a small ledge - the edge of a flood plain. Soon thereafter, the adventurers come upon the town. It would not merit more than a speck on a map. The road they travel cuts through it and across the river. It is met by the only two dried-dirt cross-streets that comprise the down. Between those two streets lies a small town square, partially paved with rough bricks. In the center of those bricks is a plinth, empty and with an open strongbox next to it. A pair of poles lie at opposite ends, and a pair of townsfolk string a series of lanterns on a rope between the poles. They watch the adventurers approach warily until they see Sylvia among them. They then nod and whisper amongst themselves.

The road from the north meets the river soon thereafter. There is no bridge across the river. The town sits on a wide pool. At one end of the pool, the river narrows and becomes shallower - the road crosses there, through knee-deep water. At the other end of the pool, at the far edge of town, there is a small falls, perhaps five feet high, pouring into the pool. On the town side of the river, there is a mill with a water-wheel turning by the power of the falling water. The river runs more rapidly, churning white over treacherous rocks, both above the falls and below the crossing. This is a natural place to build a settlement. A few huts are visible on the far side of the river, but the town seems contained to this side.

Turning back to the town, the group takes in Degorod at a glance. It is not much to look at. Only three timber-framed buildings rise to two stories. The rest are one-story, and very likely one-room, made of wattle, daub, and the trunks of the pine trees that are plentiful all around. Sheep and hogs are penned near the town square - in such a town, the land has no more valuable use than maintaining the well-being of their herds. Only one general store is obvious, and most of its wares seem to be on display on the wooden planks that serve as a porch. One does not expect to find a weapon more elegant than a wood-axe, or armor more sturdy than a tanner's apron.

For all its humbleness and poverty, there is a bustle to the town. A few folk work at putting up decorations, like the lanterns at the square. A great bonfire is being assembled by a woodcutter nearby. Anyone not preparing for the festivities is buzzing in their own way. They strive to finish a day's worth of chores in less than a day. Despite her misgivings, Sylvia does appear to grant the group some measure of dignity. When a townsperon acknowledges the group, it is with a polite "good day," or "the gods' speed". A few appear to recognize Dagrun, greeting her with a simple nod and the word "mistress".

The festival begins!As the sun begins to set, people begin to rush about, laughing and calling out greetings to folks arriving from the adjacent hinterlands. A few are rolling hefty barrels of ale and cider, which are soon set upright and tapped. The lanterns are lit and raised into the air. The bonfire is set alight and a cheer arises from the crowd. Children shriek and giggle and throw sticks and leaves into the blaze, watching the crackling glowing ashes rise into the darkening sky.

Multiple tables have been taken from the nearby houses and placed around the edges of the town square. They are quickly filling up with chattering townsfolk of all ages, from three to ninety. Vasili is near the kegs at one end of the square, with his bushy beard and scarlet coat. He is drinking some of the bubbling cider and putting out platters of food - breads and fruit and squash and sweet potatoes and puddings. As the group approaches him, the crowd cheers again, Vasili along with them. A whole roast pig is being borne on a spit towards the square.

"Ah! You're here! Good! Welcome, salud! Please eat, drink! You have work, I know, of course. But such celebrations do not come often." He helps the group to find any food and drink that they find agreeable. A simple band of stringed instruments and drums begins to play near Sylvia's plinth in the center of the town square as the group settles in. A few middle-aged couples take up a buoyant folk-dance, encouraged by more cheering. The elderly watch and smile while children run tireless circles around the bonfire. "So," Vasili says under cover of the song. "Can I help you? You may just want to strike up conversation. Most anyone who you might want to meet - anyone who lives a day's ride from the town - is here. Who knows who might have seen something, or know something?"

OODMIf you want to interject conversation from the previous night, or if you want to accomplish something in particular during the day before the festival, feel free to add that into your post. Just be sure to separate different time frames with clearly-labeled fieldsets.
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  #2  
Old Oct 16th, 2019, 11:55 AM
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At the InnCarew’s sleep is somewhat fitful. The lumpy beds of this Inn are no match for the butler’s quarters at Lord Mateescu’s manor. But he is here in part for the debt he owes Vasilli and Dagrun. Hopefully he will get used to it before the half week is up. He yawns heavily as he rises, and it takes him a good bit longer than normal to prepare for the day. Fortunately there is no pressing matter until sunset so he doesn’t slow down things for anyone else. He chats with whomever is in the Inn that morning then decides it will be a long night, so perhaps a nap would be wise. He is still not accustomed to these lumpy beds, but it does seem to help a little. He rises, shines the gilded coins on his jacket and then heads to the common room to greet the others and head out to the festival.

In the Town
Carew surveys the town fondly as they arrive. Though much of the culture is very different on this side of the Ostvulk empire, he grew up in a town not much larger than this and it brings a sort of familiarity to him. He approaches the musicians and watches quietly as they play, absentmindedly and very gently patting his side to the rhythm of the music. When they take a break, he approaches the lead musician to introduce himself.

“Hello there. That song was so delightful, thank you so much for sharing it. I am Carew Gail, a traveler from the far side of this empire,” he waves his hands in the general direction of Ostvulk in a way that would communicate his distaste for it to any who are keen to pick up on such subtle signals. “I come here accompanying your town guardian, Sylvia. You might also be familiar with Dagrun, to whom I owe my life.”

“Anyways, I was drawn to your music, I’m a bit of a musician myself. As I said, though, I am from far away and don’t know enough about your culture to know which of these songs are sacred and which are common.Persuasion check to be allowed to play some of this music with them:
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1d20+9 (6)+9 Total = 15
I would love to accompany you on something if it is appropriate. I’m interested in learning these songs.”
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Old Oct 20th, 2019, 11:08 AM
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At the InnAfter a night of studying his spellbook and deeply contemplating upon the previous day. Never needing to truly sleep, the exiled wizard watched the horizon out of the inn windows as the sun rose. The ethereal fog shrouded the woodlands in mystery. The fingers of frosty mist held back the sun like cold brambles, but the red sun's rays beyond looked to the light elf like stained-glass windows of distant towers. Gazing at those imaginary towers behind twisting ghost thorns, Sasha never felt farther from home.

Using the Changing with the Seasons racial feature to switch over to Winter mode.Sasha's hair frosted over entirely, and the crown of leaves wilted to bare branches. His rosy cheeks paled, and his eyes darkened. When the others came about the inn that morning, they found a muted Sasha that was gloomily sipping just a cup of weak, black coffee.


At the FestivalWhen the sun went down, the party arrived at the festival grounds. The warmth of the scene was full of warmth, between the families enjoying their harvests and the crackling fires. Cheer was everywhere. The coldness of winter hung on Sasha's heart, but all the excitement ignited warmth in him and brought him his first smile of the day.

Sasha took up Vasili on the offer of drink and collected a steaming tankard of mulled cider while Carew rushed off to meet the band. The wizard gazed after him with curiousity, and didn't take his eyes off the small musician while he spoke to Vasili, "Who would you most recommend to speak to around here, Constable? Being not from here in more than one way... I'm afraid I don't know where to begin." He peered around the crowd, looking for anyone that seemed to have any sort of a magical quality about them. If Vasili didn't have an immediate lead, that'd be a path Sasha would follow next.
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Old Oct 21st, 2019, 01:11 AM
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RestingSylvia didn't rest, and didn't feel the tug of the elements, and so she elected to stay outside.

The quiet of the evening felt different, now that she was out of the Grey; now it was just regular quiet, with the occasional howl of wildlife to break up the stillness.

She liked it out here; the solitude. But she began to slowly realize that it wasn't the only thing she liked; that company - true company, company that talked to her, was what she enjoyed. And that she enjoyed talking back.

And she felt a twinge of regret once she realized that to go back into the Grey would most likely mean never seeing any of them again.


At the Festival
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Sylvia is ever conscious of her compatriots, introducing them to everyone, with the implication that she vouched for them and their actions. She also entertains a few children by lifting them up over her head, one in each hand, until a concerned parent convinced her not to do that.

She didn't drink, but accepted offers of mead and brew, out of politeness, passing it off to some reveler who could use a little extra cheer.
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Old Oct 22nd, 2019, 10:55 PM
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Dagrún Vanadisdotr
Outside the Inn
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As the evening wound down and the company began to disperse, Dagrún lingered at the table. There were few things indeed that could spur the venerable Vanir to haste, and she felt no urgency to retire. And so it was that as the others one by one trickled up to their beds, Dagrún continued to take her time with her meal, picking clean every bone she came across before depositing them into a macabre pile next to her plate.

The last to leave the table appeared to be Sylvia, though the aged crone raised on eyebrow as she took note that the living statue made her way to the front of the inn rather than toward the sleeping quarters. The Druidic dreamseer gripped her gnarled staff and planted it firmly on the floor beside herself, leaning into it as she slowly, laboriously rose from her. With a heavy shuffling gait, she made her way to the door, stopping to inhale deeply of the cool crisp autumn air.

”So, old friend,” the old crone spoke softly as she approached the marbled form of Slyvia, apparently caught up in her own thoughts. The hard edge of the old woman’s voice softened by the serene calm afforded them by the solitude of the dark night outdoors. ”so yer soul walks free upon the soils o’ Midgard once again, and yet ye thought naught of sending word to an old friend? Albeit one who’ll forgive ye the slight, should ye chance to speak of how it is ye’ve seen this change of late.”

We wish to go to the festivalAs the buzz of activity and merriment at the festival continued to build, Dagrún scowled. She was not a fan of large, social gatherings. She clucked her tongue disparagingly at the sight of the young folks dancing about. Foolish lovelorn little birds, so convinced that their momentary infatuations were grand romances, they things of legend. She scoffed and muttered to herself disapprovingly as she eyed the children running wild about the bonfires. Youth truly was wasted upon the young. Still … at least the drink was good.

Dagrún accepted a flagon of cider from Vasili as she watched Carew approach the minstrel troupe. Still couldn’t quite figure the half-man out. Was he simply making merry himself, placing priority on his own interests over the task at hand? Or had me made the calculated decision to seek counsel from a group who might be more worldly in their knowledge. She then turned to her other companions. Sasha appeared socially awkward, asking Vasili for directions on how to begin a conversation. And poor Sylvia seemed completely at a loss, the years of solitude apparently making it fairly momentous for her to re-engage with society. The venerable Vanir felt a swell of pity for the living monolith. She understood, more than any other here, just how much the world had turned over the centuries. At least she’d had the opportunity to watch the slow march of time enact its designs upon the world; to Sylvia, on the other hand, it must seem as if a caterpillar had shifted to a moth in the blink of an eye.

”If ye’d care to take heed to the words o’ an old friend,” she offered gently, ”Perhaps ye’d do well to speak with the youngsters. Ye’d be the least a stranger o’ us all to them, and they’d be most like to ope their secrets to ye’. Not so with the rest o’ us.”

She gently accepted the full mead cup from Sylvia, helping her avoid the awkwardness of being unable to partake of the gift. Now wielding a drink in each hand, Dagrún turned towards the tables where the village elders sat. ”For me own part, ye’ll find me with those as ha’ weathered the most winters in this town. ‘Tis there I see the most faces familiar to meself, and their counsel I shall seek.”
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  #6  
Old Oct 23rd, 2019, 07:15 PM
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Last nightSylvia and Dagrun find a moment together, outside and alone. The crisp breeze cuts through Dagrun's shawl, but fails to ruffle Sylvia's marble hair.
OODMFeel free to have a 'flashback' conversation as part of your next posts
Dagrun and DarinDagrun consults with Vasili and the rest for a moment, sipping her cider and taking in the scene. They watch Carew carouse with the musicians, and then be begins to chat with an animated young woman who was singing and dancing. Dagrun points Sylvia and Sasha towards the youth as she heads over towards the elderly.

The oldest person nearby is a man she recognizes as a long-time resident. He is perhaps a cobbler, or a tanner, or some other kind of worker of smelly animal flesh. His name is Darin, if she is not mistaken. He was never very popular, partly because his work was unpleasant, partly because he was naturally a shy sort. Yet as she approaches, despite a face almost as wrinkled as Dagrun's, he acts like a bashful gregarious boy. He is is talking animatedly to a woman near him. She is hardly a spring chicken herself, but she is certainly younger than him by a good interval.

They sit on some benches as Dagrun approaches. Darin stands as the dreamseer approaches. "Oh! Mistress Dagrun! What timing, your arriving for the festival! And with our stone warrior, did I see? Come, sit!" He invites her to sit next to him, near the roaring bonfire. He sits as well, and bumps the woman next to him playfully. She giggles. He nudges her again, almost shoving her off, before catching her and bringing her close. He says, "Do you know Ora?" Ora nods and gives a bashful smile. Dagrun knows only that she has seen Ora before - she must live somewhere in the countryside nearby.

"Happy Harvest!" Ora says sweetly. "I hope your time in Degorod goes well?"
Sasha and GaylaVasili looks almost as embarrassed as he did last night, when Sasha asked about magical investigations. Now he wants to meet the magic-users of the town. Vasili gives a small scowl, as if Sasha is purposefully pointing out the town's shortcomings. His bristly mustache twitches, and he begins to sputter, "Well, no, I said, that is, no there aren't... well, perhaps the..." Dagrun interjects strategically here, saying that she will talk to the old, while others should talk to the young.

Vasili nods sagely, pretending now to be more focused on serving food than the investigations of the adventurers. "Yes, yes, too true. Nothing more magical than the laughter of children. A good place to start."

Without much more to go on, Sasha heads over to the cluster of children. Two of them are about to hit the bonfire with huge logs (an ill-considered choice) when they see the frost-tipped elf approach, the very personification of the winter that the Harvest fires are meant to keep at bay for a few more weeks. The pair squeals in a mix of fear and joy, and run away, laughing. Their younger playmate, a girl no older than eight, remains. She stands amidst the crowd with a poker-stick aglow with embers at one end (one can only guess what shenanigans she intended to get into with that tool). The stick hangs limply at her side as the Eladrin approaches.

With the brutal openness of a child, she greets Sasha by looking him up and down, then saying in a very clinical manner, "You look funny. Are you here to spoil the Harvest? We're supposed to ward off demons." She holds up her stick, as if to say that this was why she held it all along. She is clearly not sure what to make of Sasha - he doesn't fit any of her pre-conceptions. He appears lithe, though well-armed. He does not present as either strongly masculine or feminine. The girl decides that brutal honesty remains the best policy. "You don't look like a demon. I don't know what you look like."
Carew and MaritzaCarew does not wait at all. As the festival begins, the peals of music ring out, and he is drawn like a moth to flame. At the end of the second song, he introduces himself, presents his references, and asks to join them. The man with a hand-drum, apparently the leader, says, "Of course! A musical guardian! Very good!" He looks to the other musicians and says "A Cry from Far Away! One, and a two, and a..." and the music fires up again. 'A Cry...' must be the name of the song, one that Carew is not familiar with. He works to keep up, and struggles to do so - Carew knows that he could do better, but the key structure changes in such odd ways around here....

Yet when the song is over, the band cheers. The performance might not be up to Carew's high standards, but frankly neither is the band. It's just a group of locals. Even caught musically wrong-footed, his skill shines through. "Ha ha! Very nice!" says a beaming young woman. She is flushed already, and her auburn hair falls loose. Carew has no doubt that there must be heated competition for her favor in the countryside all around. "Let us take a faster one yes? Do you know The Flying Carriage?" Of course he does! An old fanciful staple with a story of peril and rescue and mystical travels across the world. The song begins, starting slow and speeding to a frantic pace. The woman sings the song of love and danger. When a verse ends and the and the band cuts loose, she dances a spinning dance of intricate footwork. Her skirts swirl and twist in the frenzy. When the song ends, she is panting, and grinning a toothy smile.

"A small break now. A drink! A pleasure to meet you, I am Martiza," the young woman introduces herself. to Carew
Sylvia and PashkovThe other adventurers disperse. That leaves Sylvia alone by the table with food and drinks, holding an ale that she doesn't want. She hands it to a man leaning nearby on a post near the kegs. He accepts it. Sylvia has been getting the impression that the villagers would accept almost anything she gave them with a nervous smile, be it bad news, personal insults, or a bag of dung. Through whispers, they all agree that there is some holy mission that must be accomplished, and Sylvia must be part of it. It makes them very compliant, if not entirely friendly. It is a somewhat distant and grudging, but whole-hearted and earnest respect.

Yet this man she gave her drink to is different. Sylvia has heard his name - it is Pashkov. He simply grunts in accepting the drink. He does not have that nervous smile - he only gives her a still silent glare. It is hard to know what he is thinking. He takes a large swig of the drink Sylvia gave him, then he turns to watch the bonfire, and the actions of Sylvia's compatriots nearby. Pashkov does not look like he trusts Sasha (he was right there as Vasili took umbrage), but he also seems keen to watch Maritza dance around Carew.
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Old Oct 24th, 2019, 12:15 AM
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-Sasha's brows furrowed at the mention of children having magic. Magic in their laughter no less? He knew not of such a power on this world or any! It was worth the investigation. He approached them, and some of them scampered off- leaving just one behind. At first he considered that she was like the short member of their party - but upon closer inspection, she was simply young, not simply short.

He took a step back, as if she'd slashed with the fire poker rather than her words, "Funny?" He winced again, "Spoil?" His frigid cheeks darkened like thinning ice. Sasha raised his hands, palms facing out, showing he was no threat, "I'm not that at all. Quite the opposite, really."

The girl agreed that he wasn't a demon, and the elf nodded, "Quite correct.". The exile got down onto one knee, facing the fire, and reached out his clammy hands to warm them from the billowing hot hair that came from beneath the heavy logs, "I just... come from a place far, far... very far away." He gazed into the fire; it didn't warm him.

"I'm not familiar with these lands. Do your people speak of a place called Álfheimr?" He rubbed his hands together and held them out again, "That's where I'm from... That," he began, patiently, "Would make me a light elf. We call ourselves Ljósálfar."

"As for the way I look, well... sometimes when a light elf is feeling sad, they look like I do." Sasha pointed at the trees in the town that had yellow and orange leaves, "Usually, I look more like those trees." He then pointed at a woman spinning in the middle of a crowd of dancers, "When I am, my hair is redder than hers. Mine used to be longer than her's too, before I left home."

Last edited by Inuvash255; Oct 24th, 2019 at 01:23 AM.
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Old Oct 24th, 2019, 01:55 AM
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The Night Before
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"Tough, but fair, Dagrun. It's good to see you." The living statue smiles at her. "It's been a long time, and I apologize - initially things were confusing upon waking. I was aware of time's passage - which is how I can speak the local tongue - but adjusting to the hours feeling like the hours of the flesh, still took some time for me. And I wasn't entirely sure if you were still around... or how to get in touch.

"As for how I've changed, I'm not sure. I sensed something was amiss, and it stayed with me, calling me back from the peace of the Grey."


At The FestivalSylvia seems actually happy to meet someone who isn't reverent towards her - while she knew everyone, there was the sense that she wasn't used to them as conversationalists, and so often they talked at her as much as to her.

But Pashkov was different, and different engaged Sylvia. "Enjoying the festival, then? This time of year is wonderful for it."
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Old Oct 25th, 2019, 06:29 PM
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Carew,Carew stumbles his way through the first song, the rhythm seems unintuitive to him. He knows it is from his lack of familiarity with the traditions of this region. He does his best to keep up and not fumble things too much. And the others are at least gracious in the way they receive his efforts.

The next number, though, is one which almost every musician would be aware. He wonders if they chose it because of his obvious inadequacies with the local music. This song is from a people who no longer exist, but whose greater works have influenced all the cultures that yet remain. He wonders if Sylvia might have come from that time. He looks towards her to see her response to the tune.

As always, his place in the song is not front and center. His notes fill the space and leave room for even the drummers to mark out staccato rhythms. As the dancer makes her moves, he adjusts faster and faster in resonance with her footwork, the rhythms anticipating and then accentuating her movements. This is perhaps her finest performance ever, and Carew takes some pride in knowing his work was behind whatever adulations that she will receive for it. If there is anything more than the happiness from the shared musical experience to her own smile, he is completely unaware of it.

“Excellent work, my dear,” Carew responds with a tip of his own goblet. “These crowds adore your work. And they certainly have good taste in music. Alas, I wish I was so joyful. It is sad news that brings me to your fine town. I’m sure you’ve heard the fate of Dmitri. I don’t know what to think of it myself, but I am happy to see that so many can still find happiness in spite of such tragic news.”

 
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Old Oct 28th, 2019, 11:31 PM
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Dagrún Vanadisdotr
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”Feh,” Dagrún snorts dismissively as she slowly lowered herself to the bench in the place she had been offered, ”’Tis scarce enough a coincidence. Yuir constable, Vasili did invite me here. I dinnae oft receive an invitation from yuir folk that dinnae involve delivering babies nor tending to the sick. ‘Twas hard indeed to pass up this one.”

Looking at the twin tankard she carried with her, Dagrún evaluated quickly offered one to Darin in return for his generous offer of the seat. As she witnessed the childish flirtation before her eyes, the old crone cocked one slim eyebrow quizzically and nearly allowed the ghost of a smile to flash across her face.

”Tell me, Darin: as I gaze across the faces familiar to me here, I see many that have withered and aged since last I laid eye upon them. How is that you appear to be rejuvenated?”

***

As she is introduced to the bubbly young Ora, Dagrúnnods simply, ”I feel we’ve likely met before, lass, but this old mind spins with for more effort than it once did take. Tell me, might I know of yuir parentage? ‘Tis more than likely I have met them if not yuirself."
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Last edited by rhaiber; Nov 7th, 2019 at 06:36 AM.
  #11  
Old Oct 29th, 2019, 10:11 PM
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Dagrun and DarinDarin blushes at Dagrun's question. "Well, this little minx keeps me young!" He gives a playful slap on Ora's leg. "If I wasn't able to keep up, she'd put me in my grave!" The old man laughs and takes a drink of his ale. Ora takes over the line of conversation. She is clearly the less gregarious of the pair, but she seems just as smitten as Darin.

"I know you, of course, Mistress. But I don't think we've been introduced, proper. I am daughter of Mstislaw, who was son of Vojislaw. From the Jastrow line, though few of us are left. Our family plot is downriver a few leagues, then uphill. There was... I think my great-aunt Sobena... must have been 90 years ago, oh it was well before I was born... some merchant, I can't remember his name, he saw a vision of Auntie Sobena dead in child-bed. You came to her - so they say - 8 months later. She lived! That would have been uncle Dargruslaw born that day."

Darin listened to her story intently. Both Ora and he have lived long lives already - despite only living a few miles apart, there is still much they do not know about each other. He turns back to Dagrun. "If it's not an accident that you are here, it is for a purpose. Are you here to save another life?" A sudden flash of fear strikes his face. "Is Ora in danger? Do you bear tidings? How can we help?"
Sasha and GaylaWhen Sasha speaks of Álfheimr and Ljósálfar, the girl mostly gapes and shakes her head: no, she doesn't know. But she shoots more than one gaze over to Dagrun, so she is apparently making some connection to their shared heritage. She looks to the red leaves of the trees and then nods affirmatively: yes, you change colors.

"You are a magical wanderer. From the north. Are you learning the evil eye and the doom-saying?" She again looks over to Dagrun, speaking with the eldest participants of the harvest festival. She looks to his blades. "A soul-harvester? I heard.... I heard that in the north, if they catch you asleep they slit your throat and drink your blood. I heard that their vanir priestesses sing songs of death, so no one is allowed to sing or play, and if you sing or play, you must either kill or be killed. I hear that they don't know how to farm, so they send spies to steal our food. I hear... I hear..."

She pauses to consider Sasha again. "I hear they summon ice demons." But Sasha says he's not an ice demon, which she seems to readily accept, so she admits, "I don't know what I hear. I'm Gayla. Will my mom be angry that you're talking to me?"
Carew and MaritzaMaritza smiles and breathes hard, wiping her forehead with a cloth and saying hello to a number of passers-by ("Hello, Grigory" and "Oh, Konstantin!" and so on) as she walks with Carew. She accepts his complements with a humble self-assuredness, and takes a drink from a nearby cask.

Then Carew abruptly changes the subject. "I... what? Dmitri?" her smile fades, as she tries to mentally navigate the sudden shift. "Old Man Dmitri? The one who died a few days ago?" She looks confused, as if it's absurd that someone like her would have this sort of an issue press on her mind. "Yes. Of course it's sad. But... he was just an old lonely man who kept to himself. He hardly came to town. I don't think he had anyone to mourn him. That's sad, I suppose. But..." she gives a shrug. Trying to change the topic from the fresh corpse of an old loner, she pivots, "Life goes on! Would you like to join us for another song or two? You play very well! Tonight is a night to sing and dance!" She adjusts her blouse to be more form-fitting and her skirts to sit low on her hips.
Sylvia and PashkovSylvia makes the conversational gambit of making small talk with Pashkov. He gives her a stern look, then looks her up and down skeptically. He looks for a moment that he will make some scathing response, but then re-considers exactly who Sylvia is. He instead takes another long drink from the mug, all the while giving her another stern silent look.

Finally, he simply responds, indifferently repeating her word back. "Yes. Wonderful."

There is a long pause as he again watches the three outsiders mingle among the crowd while the long-time hero of Degorod stands here, animated beside him. Pashkov decides to add, "A long winter comes."
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Last edited by Wynamoinen; Oct 30th, 2019 at 02:51 PM.
  #12  
Old Oct 30th, 2019, 10:34 AM
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Inuvash255 Inuvash255 is offline
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Sasha and GaylaSasha watched the girl making connections. He and Dagrun were related in some way, as different variations of elves. She made some assumptions, and they were wrong... but Sasha found himself hearing things he'd never heard of before. Beneath her assumptions were local folklore, likely rooted in a nugget of truth. Sasha learned two things then. First, the north was dangerous and he should remember that if his quest to return home ever sent him that way. Second, that knowledge could come from the humblest of places.

"I am a wanderer, and I am magical, in my way. Where I come from, magic isn't for casting evil eyes or saying dooms. I've never heard of a soul-harvester, and... I'll be honest with you, I hope that I'll never meet one." He shivered, "They sound downright scary. Not my kind of people at all."

"Where I'm from, there's actually a lot of playing and singing. We have festivals like these for each of the seasons you see, but even all the ones you don't. At this time of year, we have so many. We have a special celebration for when the summer goes long and stays past its due, called the... err... in your language, it's roughly 'days were we say goodbye, but the guest won't leave'. It flows better where I'm from. After that, we drink wines and sing to the First Frost. Then there's the Festival of the Final Bloom, where we say so-long to trees before they sleep for the winter. Unlike the summer- the trees are weary and never overstay their welcome. There's one for the beginning of the harvest, and then the end. And when the winter draws close, one for lighting the winter hearth for the first time - and for the person you want to sit next to the fire with."

With some pride, the traveller added, "They're always spontaneous, just like the event. Never planned, always chaotic - but we always manage to put on a proper festival that everyone wants to attend."

Sasha stared wistfully at the flames as they licked around the timbers, remembering the many Hearthnights' Eves he had spent with Prince Boris in his private royal lodges out in the wilderness; how they'd banter and joke about whimsical things into the early morning hours. Even when the cloak of winter covered everything in a cold gloom, it was always spring when they were together. Companionship warmed the soul greater than any fire.

"It's nice to meet you Gayle. My name is Alexandr, but I prefer Sasha. I would hope your mother doesn't get angry, but if she does- she can be angry at me."
  #13  
Old Nov 1st, 2019, 12:16 AM
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Sylvia
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"I've seen many a winter," says Sylvia, with uncertainty. "Why do you say that this will be a long and harsh one, then? Are there signs, that I'm not seeing?"
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Old Nov 2nd, 2019, 01:07 PM
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Carew“Oh, I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t have brought up such a sad topic on a day for celebration such as this. It’s that I’ve just become aware of the news myself so it was on my mind. But you are absolutely right we should think of more joyful things on a night like tonight. Yes, let’s get back to the performance. Maybe one of your many friends will stop by,” he says without the slightest hint of sarcasm. It seems she is grooming herself for one of those friends, he just isn’t sure which one. And he hopes that his music can help her to look good in the eyes of whichever friend she is the most interested in.
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Old Nov 7th, 2019, 06:47 AM
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Dagrún Vanadisdotr
Quote:
Originally Posted by Wynamoinen View Post
"I know you, of course, Mistress. But I don't think we've been introduced, proper. I am daughter of Mstislaw, who was son of Vojislaw. From the Jastrow line, though few of us are left. Our family plot is downriver a few leagues, then uphill."
Dagrún nodded slowly to the introduction. ”Well met Ora Mstislawyevna. ‘This many winters ha’ come and left since last I laid eyes upon yuir family’s lands. Tell me, how fare yuir forebears?”

Quote:
He turns back to Dagrun. "If it's not an accident that you are here, it is for a purpose. Are you here to save another life?" A sudden flash of fear strikes his face. "Is Ora in danger? Do you bear tidings? How can we help?"
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”Heh, a poor auger I’d be if I’d come all this way to deliver ill tidings to a lass whose name I struggled to place on me own,” the old crone cackled to herself as she raised a flagon to her lips and tilted it back, swallowing a great mouthful of ale with an audible gulping sound in her throat. After a moment, she lowered the ale and met Darin’s gaze once more, all mirth now melted away by the sobering fire that lit her grey eyes. ”Would that I could tell ye this was naught but a pleasant visit to partake in yuir festivities, but I’m afraid I can nae do so. I’ve come to Derogod to see about Dmitri. I’d a hand in delivering some of his line much as I had in yuir own, young Ora. I like not to see the twilight of any line I’ve touched.”

The old hag cast her eyes down to stare into the tendrils of foam that spiraled about as she slowly swirled the tankard in her hands. Though the endless march of time had little effect on the long-lived Vanir, she had yet surrendered many a friend to its unyielding call.

”Feh,” she scoffed softly, though she was unable to muster the sort of dismissive tone that typically permeated her snorts, ”Tell me lass, since yuir family lands do lie outside this village much as did his, saw ye Dmitri of late? Can ye speak to his demeanor in his final days?”
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