|
|
Post by Wicksy on Feb 10, 2008 7:51:12 GMT -5
Making your way along the road you can understand why few people ever come to Hommlet. The wind and rain have chilled you to the bone and the dirt track now flows like a miniture mud slide. Your spirits are lifted though as you spy Hommlet in the distance. It is a small hamlet but after 2 weeks travelling by foot it is luxury beyond measure. Entering the town you see it is all but deserted. The people obviously seek shelter from the elements. It is not long however before you discover where they hide. Light casts out of the windows of what seems to be an Inn. On closer inspection you see that it is called the Welcome Wench. Over the river, you can also hear the shouts and bawdy laughter of what seems to be a somewhat down market tavern. At least this place seems to have a social life eh? {we assume that all of the characters no matter how they got to Hommlet have arrived at roughly the same time and place} See the map of Hommlet for details of what and where. Lets play!  |
|
|
|
Post by Rojito on Feb 10, 2008 11:11:05 GMT -5
Kaz surveys the town from afar before entering. It's not much but this is the place.
Upon arriveing in the town he confidentally enters the inn, Welcoming Wench.
As he pulls open the door and the air pressure pulls his cloak back from him, displaying a fine suit of Banded Mail. As he closes the door behind him he scans the crowd.
|
|
|
|
Post by Badasterysk on Feb 10, 2008 15:35:44 GMT -5
The shivering halfling entered the Welcome Wench Inn and hoped the establishment was aptly named. Biggle pulled back the hood of his cloak and immediately made his way to the hearth, politely acknowledging any inquisitive stares. Once there, he held his small palms to the warming flames, rubbing them together to quicken the process. A room and stable were in order… right after a hot drink.
|
|
|
|
Post by similar on Feb 10, 2008 18:07:10 GMT -5
Gwen felt miserable. She would definately have reconsidered such a long overland journey if she had known the weather would be so dire. Normally her loathing of humans would keep her away from even a smallish human settlement like Hommlet. But she was wet to the skin, weary and out of supplies. Glancing up to the sky at the unrelenting downpour as she waded through the mud Gwen realises that she better grin and bear it and resign herself to taking refuge in one of the human inns ahead before she fell on her face.
Dreading having to deal with large quantities of large folk Gwen tries to make as discreet an entrance as possible concentrating on just finding someone to serve her a meal and eating it quietly in a warm corner with little fuss.m
|
|
|
|
Post by Fangor the Fierce on Feb 11, 2008 9:01:29 GMT -5
Stoic and unnerved, Grimm heads to the inn, hoping beyond all hopes that they carried fine dwarven ale. Otherwise, he would have to settle for something not so potent to warm up his bones. The trek was long, but hopefully, it wouldn't be without it's rewards.
As he enters the tavern, he stands, surveys the interior, and heads straight to an empty table, waiting to have his one questions answered. Dwarven ale....
|
|
|
|
Post by MaestroXC on Feb 11, 2008 13:27:12 GMT -5
The rain rattles the canopy as the trees sway alongside the wilderness track, in places barely wider than a man's armspan.
Though the sky was the color of ash and the trees about him dark and forbidding, Saranac felt no darkness upon his heart, nor any weight upon his soul. His left hand strayed to his chest, where the blazon of holy Pelor marked the breastplate of his armor beneath his travelling cloak. A half smile crossed his face. For a man who lived on the road much of the year, a day of rain was no obstacle, and would be repaid in the hot, sweltering months of the summer. Rain could be brushed off, would dry by the next day. Only duty endured, and though some found it a burden, Saranac felt it as a light mantle, comforting protection from the minor atmospheric travails that would slow other travellers.
Cresting a small knoll, he saw through the mist the lights of a small village, Hommlet if he remembered correctly, the next stop on his tour of the outlands. No matter how small the village, he thought, all live under Pelor's gaze, and may be in need of His benevolent touch. Or, he thought, his face settling slightly, there may be some who need to feel the reminder of the heat of his wrath.
As his light steps carried him down the hill and onto the wider paths that marked the transition from wilderness to the small municipality, Saranac cast his eyes down the narrow lanes, seeking the nearest public house. Likely in this weather, many locals would be gathered there, for companionship out of the weather.
Soon enough, a large, plain building shows signs of life. The Welcome Wench, the sign said. Stepping under the porch overhand, he removes and shakes out his cloak, briefly exposing his weathered travelling gear, and, shining through in places, the brilliant steel of his armor. Opening the door to the inside, he quickly passes through and finds an open space near the door to place his pack, before heading to the bar.
"Pardon me sir," he addresses the bartender, "May I have a glass of water and one of your house ale? I'm relieved to find you open this evening."
Taking a quick glance around the room, Saranac notes that, indeed, it seems like a goodly crowd of townspeople have come in to socialize this evening. And some out-of-towners as well, he notes, observing a few stained cloaks and heavy packs like his own. I wonder what business they have in this small town.
|
|
