AU: The Ring of Bahamut [Open to everyone]

[Cecil Wathen]

The Templekey Tavern was one of the oldest buildings in the village, its stone carried down from the nearby mountain and its wood harvest from the vast forest that surrounded the community. The tavern had been passed down from father to son for generations, and it was now owned by a man named Cecil. He ran the place calmer than his father before him, keeping out the riff-raff and keeping fights to a minimum, usually by slamming the key offenders head against the nearest table if they got out of line.

The half-orc looked over his little domain as he poured another flagon of ale for the dwarf perched at the end of the bar. The bejeweled dwarf was a regular through the winter and always one of the best customers, quiet and keeping to himself but putting over good coin to line Cecil's pockets. Though they never spoke much there was a quiet understanding between the pair, and the half-orc kept an eye out for the dwarf when the rowdier crowds bustled into the tavern.

With his greataxe strapped across his back Cecil did resemble a warrior with a handle, but he found that few dared to mock him within the walls of his tavern. After delivering the drink to the dwarf Cecil wandered to the other end of the bar where his pet lay snoozing on the ground. The huge canine was bigger than a wolf and her black and tan coat was coarse to the touch, and even though she seemed docile and at peace now Cecil knew that she was alert in her slumber, large ears ready to catch the slightest sound of discontent.

Despite it being a cold day the tavern was bustling and there was a smile of Cecil's lips as he petted his dog before heading out amongst the tables to gather some of the abandoned plates from the evening's meal of rabbit, leeks and potatoes. A snowstorm was billowing outside but the spirits in the tavern were high, stoked by the warm fire, and for now it seemed like nothing would go amiss for the rest of the evening.

[Joshua Bernstein]

The appearance of a village on the horizon had been welcome.

Even without the threat of a snowstorm the air was chill enough, and he was soaked through from the dunking he'd taken. Not on purpose, of course; his mount had slipped on the crumbling bridge and plunged into the icy river, leaving him with neither mount nor any supplies that weren't directly attached to himself. He was sure it was only due to Oghma's blessing he was still alive after that little mishap, and even then without the near miraculous appearance of a village he certainly wouldn't have been alive much longer.

The cleric spurred himself onward, suppressing the weariness and aches of long, hard travel. Smoke from the chimney of a large establishment drew his attention from afar; as he drew closer the sounds of good cheer, and the smell of good food, aided him in his haste. He barely looked at the sign swinging by the door as he swept inside, shivering and dripping water all along the floor.

He was greeted with blessed, wonderful warmth, and he uttered a whispered prayer of gratitude to his deity before stamping as much moisture off him as possible. Well, he wasn't going to be less soaked unless he changed his clothes, and he certainly wouldn't do that in the middle of a tavern even had he any left. He sighed, hoping the proprietor wouldn't mind the trail of water and melted snow too much as he made his way to the bar. At least he had some coin in his pocket; that ought to get him through the night.

[Rhea Hartman]

For better or worse, taverns were places where people of all stripes gathered under one roof to get drunk together. In many institutions this simply led to brawling, but in the better ones it encouraged (or in the case of those tended by well-armed half-orcs, enforced) a certain amount of interracial camaraderie. Your bar mate might have more eyes than are strictly normal or feathers in strange places, but ultimately they were there to cloud their judgement with the same muck-flavored swill you were drinking. Booze could make brothers out of a centaur and a sea-hag.

Even so, the drow had not made people happy. A lone drow ranger, wiry and cloaked in the corner, those could be ignored. Drow bounty hunters, not so much. This one had tromped into the bar bold as brass, the size of a bear and wearing at least 150 pounds of armor, weapons and bags, and asked Cecil if he had any nice rooms left. Nice ones. Drow did not ask for nice rooms. The decent ones just wanted to be left alone. And then, far from slinking into a corner to smoke a pipe, she had pulled over a table near the fire, ordered some stew, and put her feet up.

Soon, hers was the only table otherwise unoccupied. It was hard to say which was the most deterring factor, her race, her size, her extensive collection of knives, the teeth scars on her knuckles, or the bits of dragon skull set into her armor. Whatever it was, people weren't exactly lining up to take the seats next to her. Yet for the last two hours she had done nothing but eat and talk to her sole, very drunk companion about her nephew. And after the drunk companion's liver finally yielded, she just sat back and watched the revelers with a small smile on her face. She didn't even order anything to drink.

She had just been thinking of going to bed, in fact, when the cleric slopped through the door. It took her by surprise; people didn't usually show up in taverns soaking wet in the middle of winter. Anyone who fell in the river was found downstream when the snow melted. She watched him shiver his way over to the proprietor, then stretched and began collecting her things. The half-frozen cleric needed the fire a lot more than she did, and she didn't want to start a fuss in case he was one of those wannabe-paladin types who objected to sharing airspace with someone from the Underdark.

[Joshua Bernstein]

The cleric didn't notice the Drow woman at first, intent as he was on the fire. He needed to count his coin to see if he had enough for a room, but drying off shd warming up seemed slightly more imperative.

In fact, although she was decked out in armor and the berth other patrons gave her was almost a visible fence, his attention was only drawn to her when he almost tripped over one of her bags.

"Oh!" He shivered, teeth chattering. "Pardon. I d-d-didn't see you there."

This would have been a laughable statement had it not been entirely true. Even then, it was probably laughable.

He squinted at her, looking her up and down. She was correct about one thing, and that was his discomfort with her race. They had a poor reputation, to say the least, and his god and the spider queen worshipped by the Drow were on opposing ends of the spectrum of morality.

However, she had the look of a seasoned warrior about her, and he had need of one of those. The question was, did he have enough coin to pay for both a room and a mercenary up front?

"Are you a mercenary?"

[Walther Ebersbacher]

Being mistaken for a gnome or for a halfling was one of the various things that Walther grew tired of, living in this world. It wasn't entirely uncalled for, though. Children usually helped their parents in plowing fields or cleaning homes. In taverns, they regularly brought drinks to patrons across the floor, if it was busy enough and the bartender needed to be manning the tap. What kids rarely did was adventure. Though, this kid was a bit different than the usual assortment.

The Templekey Tavern was where he found himself. He wore a battlemage's outfit, a dark green cloak, and some rough-hewn pants, rather than the dress-like robes that would get stuck the moment he tried to run or reposition. On his back was a backpack, and a staff of oak. The design on it seemed like it was passed down from father to son for many a generation.

Instead of casting fireballs or magic missiles, though, he cast things directly tied to sound, instead. Focused beams of sound, balls of the energy that would coalesce towards a group. Or, finally, just direct frequencies that could paralyze or kill single targets. His control over it was impressive, if not very consuming of magical energies.

He knew he'd catch a lot of flak here, but it was always worth trying for the coin. He wasn't rich, so he had to take work where he could find it. If that meant slaying a bandit or two, or even partaking on a grander adventure, he would gladly be available. So, the human child merely sat there, ready to take on almost any job that was given to him. He took a moment to cast his blue eyes around the various patrons. Half-orcs, Drow, nothing that really surprised him. What was next, a Dwarven warrior that was off his rear from too much stout?

[Rhea Hartman]

From the sound the bag made when Josh tripped on it, it sounded like it was full of violin strings and rocks. The Drowess looked at him from under slightly raised eyebrows, but she just shrugged carelessly and lifted the bag onto her shoulder. "No problem."

His continued attention gained hers, and she turned to face the fire and gave him an equal once-over from his hat to the hem of his dripping robe. He didn't look especially happy with what he saw, but nor was he whipping out his holy symbol. The question gained even more of her interest. "Sometimes," she said with a tilt of her head. "Do you need one?" Her dainty mouth curved into a smile. "Or do you have a price on your head?"

The last question was in jest--people with prices on their heads could spot a bounty hunter when they saw one. And she had no intention of touching the man even if he did. People in her line of work didn't live long if they made enemies with clerics. Or hospitals on legs, as she generally thought of them.

[Gunnar Frey]

Sat in silence in the corner of the bar, on first glance he was nothing really worth taking note of. His clothing was beaten and faded, pale brown and grey cloths that had clearly seen much better days. He kept to himself, his haggard short-staff leaning against the table in front of him and the only weapon on his person was the dagger tucked within the frayed cloak bound about his shoulders. The cloak was large and bore a faint leaf pattern upon the dull fabric, and it nestled on the floor where it draped behind him, but anyone who looked upon it would have to focus to be able to see it clearly for it seemed to meld and disguise itself against the background.

The half-elf had seen two generations of half-orcs own this establishment and he had visited often not to partake of the services provided, but merely to observe. The village sat in the heart of his forest and the tavern had always proven to be a good place to learn new pieces of information and survey potential threats to his homeland. Such as the Underdark scum that was currently talking to the drenched cleric over by the fire.

Even though she had done or said nothing wrong since she had arrived, the half-elf had a deeply ingrained prejudice against her type and all the foulness that they represented. He would leave her be for now, but he kept a casual eye on her in between scanning around the room, sipping at the water in the flagon in front of him. He muttered low under his breath, the snake curled around his ankles scenting the air for any fore-coming trouble. Something felt slightly off, not quite right, and the half-elf made sure he stayed alert to what was going on around him.

[Devon Wentsworth]

His mighty steed struggled to find its footing in the deep snow, each step a struggle as it fought against the quickening snowstorm. He clucked his tongue, urging it onwards, for the village was now in sight. It was the first time the wild mage had visited the village in several seasons; the lake had been the home of many young goslings when he had last seen it, and the meadows tucked away in the woodland had been knee-deep in flowers and herbs. There was none of that now, and he found himself cursing the snow under his breath. By Segojan's beard, it was cold!

He clung to his steed's coarse black hair as it shambled the last of the way out of the forests and into the relatively clear footing of the well trodden paths of the village, and he ran a hand down its shoulder and whispered a few words of encouragement in his natural tongue. It had been a long and weary journey, but the end was now in sight. He had items to trade, strapped safely into the magically warded satchels hanging from straps draped over his mount's flanks, and the moment he saw the smoke rising from a building that marked itself as a tavern, his spirits rose as he steered the way towards it.

There was no subtlety as the hulking dire badger shouldered its way through the door, sniffing at the air and giving a low grunt of hunger as the scent of cooking meat caught its attention. The gnome perched on its back was tiny in comparison, wearing elaborate layers of rich cloth, a long woollen cloak that had been dyed blue and a ring through his left earlobe that glowed red when the light caught it. In his hand was a staff that was almost as tall as he was, made of twisted willow with runes carved down its length. Despite his exhaustion there was a bright grin on his lips, and he dismounted from his badger and headed straight for the bar with all the confidence of a man several times his height. Sure it was a little awkward having to quite literally climb onto the stool by the bar, but it did nothing to deter him as he ordered beer and two roasted rabbits. The badger shook off the snow that was clinging to its fur and wandered over to the sitting boy, sniffing at him in the hopes the child would throw some food its way.

[Joshua Bernstein]

The cleric didn't appreciate her joke.

"I'm l-l-looking for someone," he chattered, inching closer to the fire. If he'd salvaged a spare robe he might have suffered the indignity of changing right there simply for comfort. Instead he would have to wait for the fire to work it's magic.

Whenever the door opened he flicked his gaze toward it longingly, only to sigh in disappointment when the newest patron failed to be the person he sought.

"He went missing in the line of duty. He's another cleric, a follower of Ilmater and he --- is that a giant badger?"

[Rhea Hartman]

From the laziness of her demeanor, the Drowess either hadn't noticed or didn't care about the bladed glances coming from the nondescript patron in the corner of the bar. Frankly, she got them a lot. Besides that, a healthy measure of cockiness kept her from being as aware of her surroundings as she probably should be; for example, she felt none of the half-elf's vague unease. She had a fire, food, and a potential job in front of her.

"Well, I'm good at finding people," she said with a sudden grin which was missing several teeth. She set the rock-and-violin-string bag back on the floor. "Look, aren't you going to change? If you don't get warm you're going to be dead by the end of the week."

The cleric turned at the sound of the door; she turned at the sound of snuffling. Her hand went immediately to one of her short swords, then folded across her chest. "Yes, and those things go down harder than a horde of Grimlocks." She had since learned to tell the difference between regular badgers and baby dire badgers with nearby mothers. It looked like it was well-trained though. She watched the gnome swagger over to the bar with no small (no pun intended) amount of amusement. She liked gnomes. Some of her best caravan guard jobs had been with gnome traders, who were famously good-humored, interesting, and rich. This one looked to be all three. It would probably be worth the cost of a drink to chat with the fellow for a bit.

But for the moment, it was the cleric who had her attention. "What kind of line of duty?" She didn't know much about Ilmater (frankly the surface dwellers had too many gods for her to keep straight) except the vague impression that most of his followers were masochists. "Do you want help finding him, or do you just need a bodyguard?"

[Cecil Wathen]

The appearance of a hulking great badger caused the large canine by the bar to stir, a low rumbling growl leaving her body, but she did not move for now. The tavern saw a large number of animals pass through the doors, pets and familiars alike, and as long as they were kept under control they were never turned away. The large size of the badger made the dog less at ease than she normally would be, but a sharp hush from her master quieted the growling for now.

After clearing down some of the tables the half-orc owner of the tavern served up another ale for the dwarf that was silently keeping to himself. Business was good and the coin was flowing as freely as the alcohol, and he had not yet had reason to introduce any faces to tables at high speeds.

The dwarf fidgeted idly with the jewelled rings on his hands while they chatted briefly, swapping stories of adventures in the woods surrounding the village. All seemed to be well, right up until the moment the previously silent druid who had been sat in the corner barked out an order to draw weapons.

---

The words had barely left the half-elf's lips when the tavern was plunged into magical darkness. Every light in the place went out and the windows let in no light, and any illumination spells cast fizzled and died before any light could be formed. Anyone who tried to stumble around would find the windows sealed shut, the door firmly stuck in place, and no other way out.

Then suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps seemed to appear from nowhere, scampering around the tavern and surrounding the unseeing patrons within.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh shrugged out of the bag on his back. "I don't have a room to change in." He shivered, glancing toward the proprietor. Maybe he ought to count up his coins and see if he had enough to buy one; but he wasn't entirely sure that he valued his own health over hiring help finding Sean.

However, before he could even look through his belongings to see if he had a spare robe, let alone answer any of the Drow's other questions, the tavern was plunged into darkness. Magical darkness, as he soon found out when no spell he cast did more than illuminate the tips of his toes before sputtering out.

He wondered if he should be grateful that the Drow was close by. The UnderDark probably meant she was better prepared than anyone else to deal with this, but he also had no connection to her beyond a vagu and unfulfilled offer of a job.

This was not going to go well.

[Rhea Hartman]

If there was any sure sign that the Drowess was a hardened warrior, it wasn't her armor, scars or swagger, it was that when the half-elf shouted 'weapons,' her hands shot not to her swords, but for her helmet.

She had barely jammed it over her brow when the tavern plunged into shadow. As Josh observed, normally this wouldn't be a problem. A Drow's darkvision laid out even the blackest tunnels of the Underdark in achromatic focus. But this darkness lay in the air like smoke, and even Rhea's flashing violet eyes were unable to pierce it.

Rhea wasn't used to being blind in the dark, and a moment's panic spiked in her chest. Her first instinct was to attack, but what? The sudden stomping, the nearest bar patron, the cleric? She could hear him fumbling with spells underneath the uproar of the tavern, and she made a split-second decision.

"I hope you've got decent healing spells," she shouted as she grabbed for the cleric's arm to push him behind her. Blind though she was, her ears were still elven-sharp, and the man was hardly a master of stealth. Then she pulled her shield off of her back, drew one of her short swords and, for good measure, kicked the table out of the way. If a Drow couldn't see, at least she knew their attackers couldn't see either.

[Cecil Wathen]

Unskilled as he may have been in the arts of warfare, the half-orc had seen (and participated in) enough carnage to hear a very real threat when one was yelled; even if it was from a soft and weak tree-urchin. The large waraxe was drawn with practised ease, even though he had no current visible target, and the sudden commotion had the large canine on her feet and scanning for the closest thing to attack.

As the tavern was plunged into darkness the half-orc uttered a stream of curses enough to make a demon blush, the dog snarling in defiance and barking into the darkness as the pair tried to locate their quarry. It quickly proved to be impossible though; with no spells to pierce the inky blackness and no way of telling friend from foe, the pair stayed planted still in the darkness and tried to listen for any clue about what was happening around them.

There was no panic flooding through the half-orc, only a mounting rage. How dare anyone try to disrupt the peace in his tavern!

The sound of a flying table from the vague direction of the fire caused another furious bark to leave the canine, the sound joined by the startled yelp that came from the creature that it slammed into. Moments later there was a loud, torturous scream from the bar, the sounds of a dwarf in excruciating agony... and then the light returned.

The bar was scattered with suddenly startled-looking gnolls, the armoured and weapon-holding creatures blinking hard and whining softly in surprise at the sudden light. One lay on the floor following its collision with the table, the others blinking hard, their armour painted with the silhouette of a five-headed dragon.

A figure stood behind the bar, long crimson hooded robes disguising their features, but anyone glancing in that direction would have been unable to miss the elaborate jewelled headdress that they wore. Five intertwined dragon heads; one each of blue, black, white, green and red. In one hand they held a bloody blade, in the other the severed hand of the dwarf. The voice that spoke was female, low and thick with arrogant accomplishment. “Kill them all.”
Then, with a wave of her hand, she was gone.
The gnolls leapt to her order instantly and without hesitation.

The dog was the first to react. She disappeared from where she was stood, reappearing in the same moment in front of the nearest gnoll, her immensely powerful jaws clamping around its weapon arm.

Then all chaos broke loose.

[Rhea Hartman]

Rhea growled. "Tiamut." She was hardly the most devout Drow, but Tiamut's worshipers had caused her clan enough problems in the Underdark that she had...less than favorable opinions of her worshipers.

Even more so when they wielded severed heads.

Her fighter's brain clicked on, and that left no room for theological quandaries. It left a whole lot of room for killing gnolls. In one swift movement, she jumped forward, slammed her shield into the chest of the nearest gnoll, and plunged her sword into the coarse fur around its neck. She jerked it out sideways with a spray of blood and hair, parried a blow from one of its packmates, and deposed of this one through the armpit, into the chest and out its back.

The immediate area cleared, Rhea pulled up her shield and charged through the ranks. Not all the bar patrons were as well-armed as she was, and the scene was only too familiar from sudden ambushes on trading caravans. It looked like she wasn't the only one here who knew what to do with gnolls, though. Near the door, two of them had cornered a group of drunk and terrified patrons. Several already lay dead or wounded in their wake. Rhea lowered her head and crashed into the group like a stampeding bull. "Someone get these doors open!" she bellowed to any spellcasters within earshot as she grabbed a chair and, swinging it like a baseball bat, freed a significant piece of one of the gnoll's head from its shoulders.