The Year 1491 DR, Marpenoth (October) 1st, Cool & Windy...To Market, To Market!
Having saddled her pony, Affonyl, and packed everything she needs on her mule Reeger, Holen Branwyn bids her "caretaker" Comet, a satyr who agreed to watch her cottage while she is gone, goodbye. A trio of grey squirrels are chasing one another around and around a nearby oak tree, while chickadees chitter and chirp, flitting from branch to branch, watching the chase.
Holen smiles at all of this, looks back at her cottage and Comet, and with a wave, leads Affonyl through the trees of the Cloakwood, winding northeast, on her way to the road that will take her to Baldur's Gate.
Holen's travels for the day are without incident. There is a definite chill on the wind, a herald of autumn and the coming winter to follow. She knows the path through the Cloakwood like the back of her hand, having traveled to the city once a quarter for many years. She reaches the edge of the wood by late afternoon...and tries to decide whether to spend the night on the side of the Coast Wayroad....
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>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Alright Robert, time for your intro post.
You can advance Holen a few days up the road, maybe even to the edge of the Outer City town of Rivington. Perhaps a certain trio, who have been within sight of you since you made the road, are arriving at about the same time...
Another three crimson dawns arched horizon to sky then ground again as the sylvan trail team plodded over the shattered hilly terrain to the background thunderous crash of coastal surf. Affonyl churned the distance steadily, easily w/ Reegar baying in tow. Their burdens were feathery light and neither negated either animal on the march toward the humanoid civilization.
In the kiss of the crisp autumn air, Holen astride Affonyl with a unison of rider and mount completely comfortable and natural. As barrier from the biting breaths of the bone-chilling winds, Holen had donned what she termed her 'road cloak,' battered rough-worn, depressingly grey like the swirls of clouds overhead that shielded the sun. More ornate beneath the concealing cover, she sported a more colorful flair of the autumn wash of color matching the foliage of her beloved Cloakwood.
Flowing like an icy stream, her ornate evergreen down was overlaid with burnt crimson mesh and accented by shiny metal studs. The neckline plunged to a sharp, mid-breast 'V,' revealing a fashionable custom style that she had had a talented seamstress stitch months in the past on a previous city visit. Sash-belted tight about her narrow waist was a ordinary black-tanned leather belt that swayed side-to-side as Affonyl clip-clopped. Her earthen riding knee boots dangled and creased Affonyl's side with gentle strokes.
Holen had her bond hair tucked tight and had hidden her racially-distinct ears beneath cloak hood. Her chilled breath swirled like an ivory cottony mist with each exhalation. Every now and then Reegar protested but kept pace, disgusted at being lead when the donkey believed to she should march ahead of their expedition.
This was the last leg of their trek to the wicked, filthy seaport - a necessary evil if ever there were an evil. Spanning the horizon, other hosts of travelers were easily seen closing ranks on the skirted walls of the port settlement. She raised her vigilance, not knowing whom to trust or what dangerous cutthroats and their cousins, cutpurses, might be plotting their craft for in the city walls. If called for, Holen would unleash her sorcery craft upon would-be attackers and initiate their haste in retreat.
As she made her arrival approach, Holen swirled magical glamour 'round about herself, metaphorizing her shapely, slenderness into the form of a weathered, leathery-skinned matron apparently aged thirty years senior. Heavier and more hag-ish, her facial complexion morphed into a common plainness that shielded her radiant beauty that would otherwise mark her as target for the riff-raff of the human habitation. Affonyl and Reegar sang out at the conclusion of the transformation but continued to recognize the true essence of their mistress.
Approached and halted, she bid with a deeper-growl shout, an entrance to the rank settlement.
"Gatekeeper! Host of Rivington! I bid you allow entrance to an old woman to the city! I have trade to make with the merchantage of your fair city!"
The usual, obligatory pause came from the protectorate laced on the walls. Their boredom was manifest upon her as she awaited their approval...
"Gatekeeper! Host of Rivington! I bid you allow entrance to an old woman to the city! I have trade to make with the merchantage of your fair city!"
In reply to Holen's call, two men walk out toward her, stopping about 20 feet away. One is an older fellow who walks with a short staff and limps slightly; the other wears ringmail over boiled leather and carries a spear along with a hand-axe and a long knife at his belt.
The older fellow waves and says, "Enter and find rest from your journey. Rivington is open to any who come to trade."
"Bid ye both tidings of your gods!" Holen bows in a gracious manner appropriate to the township's citizens, while scrounging in her purse-pouch.
"Here's a silver for you," the elder woman pauses. "...and a silver for you; that you will make with favor when you venture to the temple."
After greasing the wheels of fortune just a bit in her favor, Holen leads the animal team to the stable she regularly does business. Her guise is recognizable to the stablemaster and the conversation leads to the eventual fee payment for brush, grain and haying the pair. With bridle, saddle and tack secured, Holen begs the stablemaster for the assistance of a pair of unkept muck-boys to tote her burden of possessions to the inn she has chosen as temporary residence. Five coppers flung to each ruff-clad lad, then next...
"I need a room, my good man," Holen crags a crone's breath. "Not too shabby; not to elegant, if you please."
Having paid the innskeeper for a modest abode, Holen walked the dirty streets to the locale where she trades with the herbalist for the components of various spells in her employ. At the same time she offers trade of the barks, herbs, mushrooms and the like she herself has harvested, knowing other spellcrafters shall be in need of such.
Off to the seamstress where there is chatter, barter and bargain along with measurements and sizings for the dressing gown upon which her heart is intent. Afterwards, with the settlement on price and payment as well as conditions for picking up the finished artisan collection of clothing, she ventures to the tavern street side doorway, kneels to a lotus sitting position and with empty pouch, grovels for handout coin, all the while listening hawkishly to the banter and chatter of the passers-by.
"Spare a glittering gold for a poor beggar-widow?" she entices. "If not that and your silver be too weighty then let my bag bare the burden of half-a-dozen so your gods smile favor upon you. And, you, good Sir, help a poor, hungry widow-woman to a meal and an ale this blustery day?"
Having taken what she can get through her mastery of guise and her unexplainable charm, Holen then seeks the hearth of the fire in the common room of the tavern to fire-bite the chill from her legs. She orders up a lamb and mutton meal, rained with gravy sauce and a Spring-mint ale.
Dining, her half-elven ears are keen to the opportunities that lie in conversational plotting, boasts and bragging, and punishing feats of arm strength. Intent on finding a worthy protector and knowing that she can not the likes of the silver dagger her forest friend bids her bring home, Holen realizes in her heart that a-venture-questing she must go.
