Prelude: Of Friendship and Charters

[Vardaen]

Nivakta's Crossing, South Rostland Road, Along the Shrike River, Mid Spring

Rain. Rain. And More Rain.

The last five days have been nothing but rain. Everything you own is soaking wet. Cold and wrinkled your feet slosh through mud and water numb to the chill that's crept now into your bones. The pale flickering torches of Nivakta's Crossing are a welcome sight up ahead.

The southernmost village in Rostland, Nivakta's Crossing, is an alert town of tradesmen, hunters, fishermen, ranchers and trappers. The village itself is surrounded by a wooden palisade and is set on the northeastern bank of the Shrike River. A low bridge allows access over the river here to the wilderness to the south'€"the southwestern side of the bridge being fortified by well-manned guard towers. The people of Nivakta's Crossing are notoriously sturdy, down to earth, and possess stunted senses of humor. Serious to a fault, they are somewhat suspicious of visitors from what they call 'œthe South,' but you hope they are willing to take your coins -- for you need a warm inn desperately.

Three groups converge on the bridge that spans the River Shrike. The river itself is swollen to the brim with the rain. The muddy banks are leaking overflow in patches making small marshy terrains along the way dotting the river for miles in either directions. The water itself is freezing, late spring thaws from the Nomen Mountains to the east are filling the banks with the icy water. With the clouds overhead even during the day the area is dark and gloomy.

From the south come three shrouded figures trying to keep warm, having given up on staying dry days ago. Returning after helping move some cattle from one farmstead to another near Varnhold in the far south.

From the west two others are moving toward the town, they two attempt to remain warm and dry, even though its pointless to attempt it. The figures are on the move heading more away from where they've come, than heading toward anything.

A third group rolls in a covered carriage from the right. The bulk of the carriage is plain to see as it nears and arrives at the bridge first. The wagon has soaking wet fringe hanging off the rim of the roof. The coachman driving the two horses is as soaked as everyone else out in this weather today. The horses snort hot breath out of their noses into the cold wet air.

OOC

Welcome to the prelude for Kingmaker.

The three figures from the south are Trog, mack and Pyg (and mount), and the two from the west are Eanwulf and paradoxa. Please post in your characters appearance, etc, as you move toward the bridge (but don't reach it).

[Trogdor]

Tallest of the three from the south is a good looking young man, a little over six feet tall with blonde hair and blue eyes. His name is Calanthir Andresen, and he is a sorcerer from the River Kingdoms. The cast of his face and the shape of his ears suggest that there may well have been elves in his family tree, though likely not in the last few generations. He has the leanness of youth and wears well-worn traveling clothes, though no visible armor and no weapon larger than a dagger.

"We're nearly there," he says in a surprisingly chipper tone given the weather. His voice is strong and pleasant. "Shelter, a fire, and some warm food are just over the bridge. And suspicious as the people of Nivatka's Crossing may be of strangers, I can't imagine anyone turning a traveler away on a day like this."

[mackaber]

The small sodded figure trodding next to the handsome human for some reason is still smiling a bright cheerful smile as he brushes a small hand through the soaking mop that normally should be a bush of dark blonde hair. He is the smallest of the three and slimly built, his pointy ears clearly identifying him as a Halfling. His clothing is held in light brown and green tones and Longbow with quiver is slung over his shoulder while an elaborate scabbard hands at his belt.
"People here are said to be odd. best we send you in first Calanthis and let you play some tricks with the barmaid before us oddlittle folk come in ey?"

[Trogdor]

"Well, if you insist," Cal replies with a smile. "You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you two." He wipes some water from his face. "And if charming a barmaid - hopefully over a sip of beer or ale - is what it takes to keep you safe," he places his fist over his heart, "I'm willing to face that peril."

[Eanwulf]

**From the West**

Kullok continues to stride ever forward, pausing occasionally to turn and glance behind him, making sure that he and his companion are not being followed. The massively barrel-chested barbarian quickly shakes himself free of the torrential downpour that continues to fall upon him. Spitting several strands of blackened hair from the side of his face, the hulking warrior-priest then proceeds to make his way towards the Shrike. Blast this rain! Kullok thinks to himself as he shudders ever so slightly, his bones now beginning to ache with cold. I'll be glad when we finally reach somewhere safe...

The bronze-skinned warrior then turns towards the young woman following him and sighs heavily. Tis a shame that I can't warm myself up with her. Burnt or not, she's better than nothing...

Pressing onwards, the boarskin-clad Kullok stalks sullenly along the western road, pausing once more as he suddenly hears the woman behind him stumble and moan. "Keep up!" the aching warrior immediately hisses, one of his arms now reaching out reluctantly to help the woman regain her footing. "Keep up or else we'll find ourselves dead by morning!" The bear of a man then continues trudging along broodingly.

OOC

Kullok is a giant Kellid barbarian. Standing some 6'4" and weighing in at 265 lbs. he is clad in typical browns and tans, most of which are leather, fur and wool. He sports large fur-wrapped boots, buckskin breeches, and hide armor made from boiled boars' skin. His hair is long, black, and normally braided. Sadly however, the rain has undone many of the ties that keeps his hair away from his face and as such, left his face a tangled mass of mane. His body is adorned with several tattoos and numerous battle scars. A massive two-handed sword rests wrapped in similar furs and leathers across his back and appears to he be the only weapon the proud warrior carries. His overall visage now is that of a soaked madman, his face ever scowling and wary of his surroundings.

[pygmaelion]

Preoccupied with a large eyed gaze into the river-gorged fens beside the river, A damp gnome weaves to and fro tenatively near the human and the halfling. His soft leather jacket and fiber pantaloons do little to keep out the chill of the rain, and his foot-to-foot shuffle keeps the rain from collecting in his turn cuffed boots. A few leather bullet bags and a strap holding a short spear clunk against his barreltop wood shield and tortoiseshell helmet as he scans the roadside.

"Dawes!" the little man whispers intently.
Snapping his fingers and making little whistling noises, Tusker stops suddenly.
"Get over here! This is no time for a bath!" he hisses.

From a damp thicket of reeds and rotting riverside timber, a shuffle can be heard. The lumpen form of what easily could have been a lichen covered stone lifts a pointed snout and tusks. Nodding and snuffling playfully, a 4 hand tall boar trots through the soft trailside underbrush to rejoin the fae-blooded pair and their comparatively towering fair eared companion.

"Yes, Yes... Calanthir was just saying..."

With a small shiver, Tusker looks up at the Sorcerer-come-herdmaster.

"A fine plan,Cal, but don't forget the last part of it. One tall elf being kept warm by barmaids while his three friends sniffle in the rain isn't a fair trade.."

Dipping a hand into a pocket, a jingling mix of coppers and silvers can be heard through the driving drizzle.

"They might like us just fine. Who knows, your barmaid might have some properly sized friends who don't trust ~you~. Then where would you be?"

A snort rises from the rain soaked boar , and it trots a circle around the group, eager to return to a puddle.

Striding boldly over to the halfling, and waving his arms in a grand expansive gesture, he declared "Pel and Tusker, saving your evening, one amazing tale at a time. "

[Trogdor]

"I suppose then I would be waiting out in the rain hoping that you would finish chatting up your barmaid," Cal replies, wrinkling his face into a mockery of a frown. "It'll be food and a warm dry place for all of us or the barmaid will be deprived of my company, and I of hers." He reaches down and scratches the boar behind his ears. "I'll even hold out for someplace dry for Dawes to rest."

Shaking his head and smiling Cal adds, "I just hope this one's prettier than that one two towns back. I'll take one for the team again if I have to. But if it's all the same, I'll keep hoping she's pretty."

[pygmaelion]

Turning to face the trail in the direction of Nivatka's crossing, Tusker squints into the soaking wet haze.

Imagining the almost unbearable warmth of a fireplace, and the cool froth of an ale running down his gullet, for a moment the pelting drops of miserable dampness go unnoticed. Perhaps there would be a giant pile of soft dry hay or straw. A whole town of friendly, welcoming people.

At daybreak, sunshine and that clean smell of rain and decaying leaves. The spring air full of sprouting plants and insects returning to action...

The dream is so real, and Young Slough holds up a hand to shield his eyes from an imaginary spring sunrise, only to have the rain run off his hand onto this brow.

Sputtering a bit, returning to the soggy realism surrounding them, he shuffles dejectedly.

"I suppose we'll have to hope until we know for sure... but at the very least, let there be a roof o'erhead, and a soft place to lie. Someday we'll have such luxury... maybe today."

The hog bristle coat of Mr. Dawes rises along his shoulders as Calanthir's kindness warms the small area behind his ears. Shaking off a few bits of decaying tree bark and leaves accumulated in the roadside puddle, the small boar trots his back legs around in a circle, leaving his front hooves in position.

The agile little swine snorts and lets out a short, sharp squeal when his nose comes around to point at the low bridge in the distance.

[Vardaen]

OOC

I'll wait for para's intro before doing anything further. I've enjoying the give and take already with the three. I knew this would be a good group

The carriage wobbles from side to side as he sloshes through the muddy road. The coachman stands up in his seat and gazes over the rain slick bridge. Unheard words he calls into the passangers, and then snaps the reigns on the horses driving the team forward toward the wooden span over the icy sollowen waters. The front hooves of the horses clip-clop onto the bridge as Cal, Lem, Tusker and Mr Dawes debate barmaid tactics. To the west Kullok helps his companion up after a slip on the muddy road.

[Trogdor]

"Yes Dawes," Cal says, patting the boar on the head. "No more dawdling. We'll head off to town now." He begins to resume his drudging through the mud when a squawking voice interrupts him from the side of the road.

"About time," the voice says. Then moving in a wobbly walk from beneath a small shrub appears a large raven, its black form previously hidden by the day's dark shadows. "I thought you'd never get here." The raven's voice is creaky, but recognizably in the common tongue.

"I'm sorry Corwin." Cal offers what sympathy he can. "Those of us not blessed with wings have had to slog through the mud to get here. It's been harder going than we'd expected."

"I can see," the raven replies. "You look like a bunch of drowned rats - no offense to rats." He turns his head towards Tusker at this last comment, nodding his head as he speaks. Then he steps back into the meager protection of the shrub once more

"I'll meet you at the gate," Corwin adds. The raven is neither as wet nor as muddy as the others and clearly intends to stay that way.

"See you there," Cal says with a smile and a shake of his head, and returns to the sodden road.