Tarsakh 17th, Year of Rogue Dragons
Well over 6 feet tall, Alice Kruptin, the imposing proprietor of the [[Witch’s End Tavern]] stares out over the chaos that has taken over her normally unassuming inn. A company of demi-humans calling themselves The Magnificent Seven (even though there is at least eight of them) has spent serious coin to rent room and board during their business in and around Ostrav. Happy with success from their latest adventure they have taken over a corner of the common room feasting, drinking, and laughing. To both the enjoyment and chagrin of some groups of regulars they often buy rounds of drinks and bust out into rounds of music, song, and tumbling dancing as it seems that many of the company are as familiar with instruments as they are with axe, sword, and bow.
“So Trilla, there we were, Jynx sets off the trap and springs forward leaving Ulfgar and I dangling in mid air on this rope bridge now suddenly covered with strange brown mold,” says the loudest member of the company, the large, unusually large gnome knight Ser Buckthorn Beywinn while flirting with Trilla while her father, a traveling gnomish iron monger from Valls, looks on disapprovingly from across the common room. The half elven bounty hunter pipes up, “I didn’t set off the trap the goblin alchemist dropped that strange mold!” Across the table and without looking up from scrolls and journals the Adept Tai’s elven voice musically joins in, “No, the goblin threw an alchemist fire to double down on the trap you definitely set off.” Ulfgar the dwarven warrior snorts, “fire, mold, cold… whatever,” chugs his mug then the rest of the tankard, “we jumped that patch of mold but it froze my nuggets right awfully,” stands and belches with a solid gurgle at the end, “but that goblin gate didn’t stand a chance with us; we smashed it open in one shot” as he claps Ser Buckthorn on the shoulder as Ulfgar heads to the bar to drop off a few empty tankards.
The gnome knight gets animated as he continues on, “So there we are standing in front of this opliterated gate with a courtyard of goblins and hobgoblins turning on us with blades draw. That’s when things get a little blurry… Ulfgar and I charge the goblinoids. Our sneaky team scaled up the ropes of the bridge behind the cover of our frontal assault, hid amongst the rooftops of the fort’s buildings and shot bolt, after arrow, after… hmmm… you know what, I’m not sure what to call Goodbarrel’s blasts.” The hobbit monk summersaults up, “They are called HAAA-DUUU-ken,” as he fires a blast of raidant energy to obliterate the dumpling off the fork of the company’s other hobbit, the bard Hallorin Poorleaf to the laughter of the companions. The bard cries, “That’s it buddy, I’m leaving you out of the epic. Let’s see how famous you become now.”
“So there were are, in mortal combat; and if that wasn’t enough one of the hobgoblins makes it to the wolf pen and lets the pack out. The brood mother was the largest dire wolf I have ever seen and her mate wasn’t that much smaller. It was a tough slog. I think those little bastards dipped ducked and dodged my axes for what seemed forever but eventually with our companions’ missile fire we hack the gobos and wolves into pieces. Chasing down the last goblin knifer to the back of the camp I run right into the goblinoids’ leader, an odious bugbear with his last goblin minions. He rages, I rages, we charge each other finally, and my axes start striking truly. Our group fights in and we carry the day! The goblin band is defeated and we even rescue a young lady from town held prisoner by the green skins.”
The companions spend the rest of the night in merriment at the inn. Those up at later hours of night at the inn are treated by howls of ecstatic lust as Trilla finds out that Ser Buckthorn is an unusually large gnome in more ways than one..