Carousing page for G72: When Bugbears Are Mages
Rusty spends several days engaged in what appear to be uncharacteristically serious conversations with Gathring and Odd, much to the relief of the rest of Malinbois. Over what are, even for Rusty and two dwarves, an unusual number of ales, the halfling is heard asking them pointedly about other planes, the smaller races, chess, and juggling. If the gravity of their nods were any indication, this made some kind of sense in context. Rusty, at one point, wonders aloud if he could grow a beard; Gathring and Odd exchange uncomfortable glances.
William of Silence
William arrives at his rented room on the Low Waterside in Glantri City. He has deliberately avoided all the fences and rogues he knows. As the mud laps up to the inn's rickety sides, he removes his boots inside the door; what he has inside needs to be protected, at least as a symbol of something more wondrous. He spins the Sun Globe slowly on the shabby dresser of deal, its warm natural light filling the room and showing every detail of its shabbiness.
He owes money to the Malinbois forces. Got the Larese brothers off his back, but now it's the screws of the propers tightening on him. It never stops. He will, he fears, never get out of this mudhole. Not legitimately. Rubbish is cast downhill, and it keeps bowling over those trying to claw their way back up.
And here is the Sun Globe. Its weight threatens to drop through the balsa flimsiness of this excuse of furniture. This makes him glad.
But what to do? He could gather those silhouette plates and fancy up some shadow-show for children somewhere, make them laugh and cheer his story of elf and warrior against deadly shades in a library-temple below. But does he even like children? More like a race of nonsensical gulls, picking and demanding, sentimental and foolish, yet catered to at every side by parents, also, rich and foolish on their own.
He could find some hidden quarry of dying rich men, waiting in their dying beds, surrounded by curtains. Could he give them a last glimpse of sunshine from this earth?
He could go to a temple, and rent it as an aide to healing. Or could he locate the great plantmasters of the City, work in a magical nursery for a while, sponsoring druidical experiments with the bathing wash of this profound thing he had?
Ultimately, he was uncomfortable with what he had. He felt shadows creep in his veins, drape over his muscles, lounge in his heart. He was used to banging out a living in the ways of darkness and destruction - if, in petty ways. But the Sun Globe represented growth, and burgeoning, if confined, kindness, and resplendent organism and native promise. He felt he needed to respect its essence, how strange it was to him.
William goes into the city to find a way of raising some money with the Sun Globe. This is a reverse carouse, with the globe itself as collateral. He has a Charisma bonus of +1 in any potential interactions.
Groo is really happy to have found such great group. The treasure is burning in his pocket, but not for long. He will pay some rounds in the tavern, eat the best delicacies and gamble the rest. He has whatever gold was gained from the session.
His head throbbing, Groo slowly opened his eyes. He lay upon cold stone. Above, the sun shone into his eyes from a barred window high overhead. The cell had only a single iron-bound door, and contained only Groo himself. Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, and found his hands shackled together.
"Urgh." He winced as he tried to recall what had brought him to this pass. "Did I err?"
"What was that?" came a voice from beyond the door.
Groo raised his voice. "I said, 'Did I err?'"
"Ahaha. If you're talking about setting fire to the inn, then yes, you did err. Now settle down. Bread and water will come around in a few hours."
"When can I leave?" queried Groo.
"As soon as someone pays the fine for you."
(You rolled a 6, so Groo spends 600gp. As he only has 240gp, he only gains 240xp and is 360gp in debt. Your saving throw was a 3: dramatic failure! Groo will remain under lock and key until another party member pays to spring him from Malinbois gaol.)
Pritchard finds himself restless and unable to sleep. Ever since Blanchfleur looked into his mind he's been deeply worried about what she found there. He knows he's been… erratic lately, that his thoughts are not always as well-ordered as they could be and that they've been turning to things he once would have considered questionable. He tries to laugh it off. A mind like his! A paragon of reason and clarity! And yet the doubts won't go away. Did she see something in him that others have not? Does she know, unlike everyone else, that he no longer believes in Lawfulness? He finds himself endlessly twisting Blanchfleur's ring on his finger, around and around. He can't quite bring himself to take it off.
Pritchard would like to visit someone who can identify magic items. Someone… discrete. He'd like to know if the ring operates as advertised (blocking any attempt to read his thoughts), and if it works on everyone or just certain nosy people. He does not wish Blanchfleur to find out that he's doubting her generosity, but he recognizes that this is a possibility. He has 229 gp to spend.
Pritchard visits the sorcerer Panthalion once again, deeming him sufficiently distant from wizardly politics to provide the necessary degree of discretion. The sorcerer brusquely informs Pritchard that his funds are insufficient to warrant a proper analysis of the ring's dweomer. Would Pritchard like to owe Panthalion (or another magic-user) a favor in exchange for the identification, or will he put off the matter until he has more funds and hand?
Out of Character: Did Panthalion name a price, and Pritchard couldn't meet it? He'll have more gold once the loot from Hageater's lair is sold off. I'm not sure I want Pritchard to owe Panthalion a favor if I can help it…