Edit History

Twilight languidly shifted into night as the four adventurers slowly made their way toward the lights of the nearby town. All were tired, as well as footsore, since, for the entirety of the last two days, they'd had to walk their mounts through the surrounding forest to get here. All of the beasts seemed to have sensed something dangerous in the woods. And it wasn't only the four footed amongst the group that were uncomfortable. The sensation of being watched...and judged...permeated the very air around the companions, and spurred their feet along the well marked road through the greenwood.

All attempts to draw out the had watcher failed, nor could they be spotted, no matter how keen the eye of the observer. Any time the matter was pursued, the sense of being watched would quickly recede, only to return almost immediately as soon as attention was turned back to the trail ahead, the unseen eyes making themselves felt within moments.

As they wearily trod the last few miles before reaching the shelter of the town walls, the thoughts of the four strayed backwards over their journey so far. A few days prior, they'd been in the border town of Arghelt, sampling the local cuisine, meeting people, and just generally enjoying themselves. With the letter of introduction to Humbert the Artificer, the local mayor had been happy to have the wandering troupe in town, spending their coin as they partook of the local businesses. That night, 'his lordship' had even graced the inn with his munificent presence, asking about news of the wider world, and dispensing with tidbits of local gossip in return.

Much of the conversation dwelt on the town of Canismini and their upcoming journey through the forest. There were rumours of 'dark forces' moving about the SchwarzewaldBlack Woods. Still, the rotund, florid man assured them, so long as they stuck to the Schwarzewald Forest road, they 'should have no real trouble'.

His assurances weren't exactly comforting.

Still, in addition to his ghost stories, the mayor did prove to be quite a font of other 'local color'. While extolling the virtue of their local ale, a traveling merchant shouted the man down, loudly bemoaning the 'lack of good spirits' to be had in town...'not like the fine Cream they serve at the Golden Gear'. Without a bit of encouragement, the merchant, who clearly liked to listen to himself talk as much as the mayor did, spoke at length about his various trips around the countryside, selling his wares, dealing with fractious customers, and thieving tax collectors, but, eventually, he'd been shouted down by the mayor when he disparaged Arghelt's charms one too many times.

Happy that he'd managed to quiet the 'boorish fellow' the mayor continued extolling the virtues of the region to the foursome. At their urging, he spoke at length of their destination, the small logging town of Canismini.

Canismini, despite it's relatively small size, was quite a boon to the regional economy. It sat at a major crossroads along the Great Schwarzewald Way, where it met the King's Highway. The town sat in the midst of thousands of hectares of ancient forest. Woods that had many a dark tale attached to them. Tales of goblin tribes, wandering bands of orcs, feral forest elves who killed any who trespassed on their holy sites, and even tales of the odd demon or powerful wizard who'd taken up residence.

Canismini itself was founded by a mixed group of elves and humans refugees, fleeing from one of the frequent wars that swept the land. The small group of elves provided the know how to survive in the dark woods, and the humans provided the numbers and strong backs to build a working community. Over the years, the two groups intermingled freely, to the point where a large percentage of the town were of mixed race. And, amazingly, the town thrived. It's position at the crossroads, as well as the foresight of it's founders in making it a strong, walled, fortified village, afforded it a tactically...and, when the land wasn't torn by strife, economically, advantageous position.

Now the town had grown to house a few thousand souls, had temples, schools, and did a thriving business harvesting (responsibly, and with the cooperation of many of their wilder neighbors) the fruits of the forest. One of those fruits, aptly named the Korova Nut, was the source of the famous 'Cream' that the merchant had mentioned. Apparently it was a drink like none other, with the Korova Nut only growing in the forest's specific climate and soil. Through secret processes, it was harvested, rendered, and fermented into the wildly popular liqueur, then shipped all over the region, and beyond, for exorbitant prices.

It was with these tales resonating in their mind that the quartet had set out on the final leg of their journey. The bright sunshine, crisp fall air, and high, sparse clouds had them all in high spirits, and they were determined to make good time on their journey.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had...different plans.

About halfway to their destination, a storm had blown up out of seemingly nowhere. Tall black thunderheads piled up in the sky, wind shrieked through the air, driving the torrential rain that fell from the clouds almost horizontally. All of it conspired to make their travel miserable. Even the powerful nature magic of their Wyrwood druid didn't seem able to calm the raging storm.

The massive deluge dogged their footsteps the entire last day of their journey, and by the time they finally spotted the gates...closed, of course...of Canismini, they found themselves drooping with weariness.

Reaching the gates, they pounded on them until the got the attention of a guard. A surly half-orc, clad in a voluminous oiled cloak so all encompassing they couldn't tell what he was wearing under it, peered at the four, and, after a full minute, grunted and swung open a postern door, just large enough for them to proceed inside, single file.

Entering the town, the adventurers took in it's appearance with a glance. Canismini was best described as 'Gray'. Gray houses made of local wood and clay. Gray slabs of slate lined the roadbed, covered in a thin skin of gray mud. Gray skies dribbled down a cold, soaking rain, though it has, fortunately, lost most of it's driving force...when they'd gotten within a couple miles of the town, the wild weather had finally slacked off, along with the constant, sinister, watching presence. Now, there was just enough moisture in the air to make it's way in in cold rivulets through every opening in their outerwear, but not enough to wash the cobblestones clean. There was even a light gray haze in the air from all of the chimneys putting out clouds of smoke as homeowners and shopkeepers tried to ward off the late fall chill in the air.

Most of the houses are dark, in others, lanterns were dimmed, candles blown out, and shutters tightly shut. Not even a stray dog barked as they passed by, though a small feral kitten hissed, hackles raised on the off chance that one of them...or, more likely, their many familiars, might be interested in the bird that the tiny feline had caught for her supper.

However, there was one building, set back from and dominating an entire side of the moderate town square, that was brightly painted, with lively music coming from within. This, they realized as a flare of lightning illuminated the signboard over the entrance, was the famous Korova Inn, also known at The Golden Gear, home of the renowned and refreshing pale liquid known as Korova Cream, a drink that was reputed to go down easy and smooth, but made it tough for you to get back up again.

Off to one side of the inn was a small stable, filled nearly to capacity with horses covered in warm blankets and stamping about, trying to get comfortable on the drizzly night. As the four glanced in, a non-de script stable hand, of indeterminate sex and age in their shapeless brown homespon tunic and trews, scrambled up from a pile of straw near the door when they got near.

Inquiries about the cost of stabling lead to a jerk of the child's head in the direction of the inn and a grunt of "Leider." The voice does nothing to make identifying the child's gender easier, and any further questions were met with a roll of the eyes and another jerk of the head in the direction of the inn. The stablehand seems to know their business though, expertly stripping the tack from the tired beasts, and gentling and currying them with obvious skill and delight. Glancing around it was easy to spot the bins of oats and hay as well as the large tun of fresh water. A pile of horse blankets, kept warm beside a small kettle stove, completed the picture of potential equine delight.

Leaving the child to get on with their work, the four headed inside. The Korova Inn was a clean, well lighted place, but with enough dark corners to facilitate a private conversation or a solitary drink, as the glitter of eyes and lifted mugs could attest. The room was filled with the sounds of light conversation and the low crackling sound of a fireplace. The heady aroma of fresh bread and cooked meat permeated the air.

Their entrance went largely unremarked, except by a short, rotund man behind the bar, which was located to their left as they entered the taproom. The man's head was bald and shiny as an egg, covered in intricate tattoos, but the man seemingly made up for the loss with a full and heavily styled mustache and full, pomaded and shaped beard, both the same bright, ginger red as his bushy eyebrows and the thick hair on his forearms. He spotted the weary travelers and waved them over, even as he expertly drew a half dozen dark, foamy beers, loaded them onto a tray, and deftly handed all and sundry to one of the half dozen servers making their way around the room.

Without exception, the women were all attractive examples of their races, and all were wearing clothing that offered a view of more than a bit of exposed flesh. They laughed and joked with the patrons, fending off advances with a deft shift of the hips or a playful slap, and for those few customers who seem inclined to not be put off, a single pointed finger in the direction of a shadowed alcove by the door, wherein stood probably the largest half orc any of the adventurers had ever seen, caused quiet gulps and much more polite hands.

Arms crossed over the handle of a massive warhammer, the head of which rested at his wide-spread feet, the half orc's eyes never rest as he scanned the room for the merest hint of trouble.

Trouble, unsurprisingly, was conspicuously absent...

*************

As the four stood near the doorway, taking all this in, the innkeeper finished sending out a tray laden with a basket of fresh bread, a bubbling cauldron of some heavenly smelling stew, and another tray of dark, foamy beers, and he turned to attend to them. His voice was like gravel over silk as he welcomed you.
 

Twilight languidly shifted into night as the four adventurers slowly made their way toward the lights of the nearby town. All were tired, as well as footsore, since, for the entirety of the last two days, they'd had to walk their mounts through the surrounding forest to get here. All of the beasts seemed to have sensed something dangerous in the woods. And it wasn't only the four footed amongst the group that were uncomfortable. The sensation of being watched...and judged...permeated the very air around the companions, and spurred their feet along the well marked road through the greenwood.

All attempts to draw out the had watcher failed, nor could they be spotted, no matter how keen the eye of the observer. Any time the matter was pursued, the sense of being watched would quickly recede, only to return almost immediately as soon as attention was turned back to the trail ahead, the unseen eyes making themselves felt within moments.

As they wearily trod the last few miles before reaching the shelter of the town walls, the thoughts of the four strayed backwards over their journey so far. A few days prior, they'd been in the border town of Arghelt, sampling the local cuisine, meeting people, and just generally enjoying themselves. With the letter of introduction to Humbert the Artificer, the local mayor had been happy to have the wandering troupe in town, spending their coin as they partook of the local businesses. That night, 'his lordship' had even graced the inn with his munificent presence, asking about news of the wider world, and dispensing with tidbits of local gossip in return.

Much of the conversation dwelt on the town of Canismini and their upcoming journey through the forest. There were rumours of 'dark forces' moving about the SchwarzewaldBlack Woods. Still, the rotund, florid man assured them, so long as they stuck to the Schwarzewald Forest road, they 'should have no real trouble'.

His assurances weren't exactly comforting.

Still, in addition to his ghost stories, the mayor did prove to be quite a font of other 'local color'. While extolling the virtue of their local ale, a traveling merchant shouted the man down, loudly bemoaning the 'lack of good spirits' to be had in town...'not like the fine Cream they serve at the Golden Gear'. Without a bit of encouragement, the merchant, who clearly liked to listen to himself talk as much as the mayor did, spoke at length about his various trips around the countryside, selling his wares, dealing with fractious customers, and thieving tax collectors, but, eventually, he'd been shouted down by the mayor when he disparaged Arghelt's charms one too many times.

Happy that he'd managed to quiet the 'boorish fellow' the mayor continued extolling the virtues of the region to the foursome. At their urging, he spoke at length of their destination, the small logging town of Canismini.

Canismini, despite it's relatively small size, was quite a boon to the regional economy. It sat at a major crossroads along the Great Schwarzewald Way, where it met the King's Highway. The town sat in the midst of thousands of hectares of ancient forest. Woods that had many a dark tale attached to them. Tales of goblin tribes, wandering bands of orcs, feral forest elves who killed any who trespassed on their holy sites, and even tales of the odd demon or powerful wizard who'd taken up residence.

Canismini itself was founded by a mixed group of elves and humans refugees, fleeing from one of the frequent wars that swept the land. The small group of elves provided the know how to survive in the dark woods, and the humans provided the numbers and strong backs to build a working community. Over the years, the two groups intermingled freely, to the point where a large percentage of the town were of mixed race. And, amazingly, the town thrived. It's position at the crossroads, as well as the foresight of it's founders in making it a strong, walled, fortified village, afforded it a tactically...and, when the land wasn't torn by strife, economically, advantageous position.

Now the town had grown to house a few thousand souls, had temples, schools, and did a thriving business harvesting (responsibly, and with the cooperation of many of their wilder neighbors) the fruits of the forest. One of those fruits, aptly named the Korova Nut, was the source of the famous 'Cream' that the merchant had mentioned. Apparently it was a drink like none other, with the Korova Nut only growing in the forest's specific climate and soil. Through secret processes, it was harvested, rendered, and fermented into the wildly popular liqueur, then shipped all over the region, and beyond, for exorbitant prices.

It was with these tales resonating in their mind that the quartet had set out on the final leg of their journey. The bright sunshine, crisp fall air, and high, sparse clouds had them all in high spirits, and they were determined to make good time on their journey.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had...different plans.

About halfway to their destination, a storm had blown up out of seemingly nowhere. Tall black thunderheads piled up in the sky, wind shrieked through the air, driving the torrential rain that fell from the clouds almost horizontally. All of it conspired to make their travel miserable. Even the powerful nature magic of their Wyrwood druid didn't seem able to calm the raging storm.

The massive deluge dogged their footsteps the entire last day of their journey, and by the time they finally spotted the gates...closed, of course...of Canismini, they found themselves drooping with weariness.

Reaching the gates, they pounded on them until the got the attention of a guard. A surly half-orc, clad in a voluminous oiled cloak so all encompassing they couldn't tell what he was wearing under it, peered at the four, and, after a full minute, grunted and swung open a postern door, just large enough for them to proceed inside, single file.

Entering the town, the adventurers took in it's appearance with a glance. Canismini was best described as 'Gray'. Gray houses made of local wood and clay. Gray slabs of slate lined the roadbed, covered in a thin skin of gray mud. Gray skies dribbled down a cold, soaking rain, though it has, fortunately, lost most of it's driving force...when they'd gotten within a couple miles of the town, the wild weather had finally slacked off, along with the constant, sinister, watching presence. Now, there was just enough moisture in the air to make it's way in in cold rivulets through every opening in their outerwear, but not enough to wash the cobblestones clean. There was even a light gray haze in the air from all of the chimneys putting out clouds of smoke as homeowners and shopkeepers tried to ward off the late fall chill in the air.

Most of the houses are dark, in others, lanterns were dimmed, candles blown out, and shutters tightly shut. Not even a stray dog barked as they passed by, though a small feral kitten hissed, hackles raised on the off chance that one of them...or, more likely, their many familiars, might be interested in the bird that the tiny feline had caught for her supper.

However, there was one building, set back from and dominating an entire side of the moderate town square, that was brightly painted, with lively music coming from within. This, they realized as a flare of lightning illuminated the signboard over the entrance, was the famous Korova Inn, also known at The Golden Gear, home of the renowned and refreshing pale liquid known as Korova Cream, a drink that was reputed to go down easy and smooth, but made it tough for you to get back up again.

Off to one side of the inn was a small stable, filled nearly to capacity with horses covered in warm blankets and stamping about, trying to get comfortable on the drizzly night. As the four glanced in, a non-de script stable hand, of indeterminate sex and age in their shapeless brown homespon tunic and trews, scrambled up from a pile of straw near the door when they got near.

Inquiries about the cost of stabling lead to a jerk of the child's head in the direction of the inn and a grunt of "Leider." The voice does nothing to make identifying the child's gender easier, and any further questions were met with a roll of the eyes and another jerk of the head in the direction of the inn. The stablehand seems to know their business though, expertly stripping the tack from the tired beasts, and gentling and currying them with obvious skill and delight. Glancing around it was easy to spot the bins of oats and hay as well as the large tun of fresh water. A pile of horse blankets, kept warm beside a small kettle stove, completed the picture of potential equine delight.

Leaving the child to get on with their work, the four headed inside. The Korova Inn was a clean, well lighted place, but with enough dark corners to facilitate a private conversation or a solitary drink, as the glitter of eyes and lifted mugs could attest. The room was filled with the sounds of light conversation and the low crackling sound of a fireplace. The heady aroma of fresh bread and cooked meat permeated the air.

Their entrance went largely unremarked, except by a short, rotund man behind the bar, which was located to their left as they entered the taproom. The man's head was bald and shiny as an egg, covered in intricate tattoos, but the man seemingly made up for the loss with a full and heavily styled mustache and full, pomaded and shaped beard, both the same bright, ginger red as his bushy eyebrows and the thick hair on his forearms. He spotted the weary travelers and waved them over, even as he expertly drew a half dozen dark, foamy beers, loaded them onto a tray, and deftly handed all and sundry to one of the half dozen servers making their way around the room.

Without exception, the women were all attractive examples of their races, and all were wearing clothing that offered a view of more than a bit of exposed flesh. They laughed and joked with the patrons, fending off advances with a deft shift of the hips or a playful slap, and for those few customers who seem inclined to not be put off, a single pointed finger in the direction of a shadowed alcove by the door, wherein stood probably the largest half orc any of the adventurers had ever seen, caused quiet gulps and much more polite hands.

Arms crossed over the handle of a massive warhammer, the head of which rested at his wide-spread feet, the half orc's eyes never resting as he scanned the room for the merest hint of trouble.

Trouble, unsurprisingly, was conspicuously absent...

*************

As the four stood near the doorway, taking all this in, the innkeeper finished sending out a tray laden with a basket of fresh bread, a bubbling cauldron of some heavenly smelling stew, and another tray of dark, foamy beers, and he turned to attend to them. His voice was like gravel over silk as he welcomed you.
 

Twilight slowly shifted into night as the four tired adventurers slowly made their way toward the lights of the nearby town. All were tired, since, for the entirety of the last two days, they'd had to walk their mounts through the surrounding forest to get here. All of the beasts seemed to have sensed something dangerous in the woods. And it wasn't only the four footed amongst the group that were uncomfortable. The sensation of being watched...and judged...permeated the very air around the companions, and spurred their feet along the well marked road through the greenwood.

All attempts to draw out the had watcher failed, nor could they be spotted, no matter how keen the eye of the observer. Any time the matter was pursued, the sense of being watched would quickly recede, only to return almost immediately as soon as attention was turned back to the trail ahead, the unseen eyes making themselves felt within moments.

As they wearily trod the last few miles before reaching the shelter of the town walls, the thoughts of the four strayed backwards over their journey so far. A few days prior, they'd been in the border town of Arghelt, sampling the local cuisine, meeting people, and just generally enjoying themselves. With the letter of introduction to Humbert the Artificer, the local mayor had been happy to have the wandering troupe in town, spending their coin as they partook of the local businesses. That night, 'his lordship' had even graced the inn with his munificent presence, asking about news of the wider world, and dispensing with tidbits of local gossip in return.

Much of the conversation dwelt on the town of Canismini and their upcoming journey through the forest. There were rumours of 'dark forces' moving about the SchwarzewaldBlack Woods. Still, the rotund, florid man assured them, so long as they stuck to the Schwarzewald Forest road, they 'should have no real trouble'.

His assurances weren't exactly comforting.

Still, in addition to his ghost stories, the mayor did prove to be quite a font of other 'local color'. While extolling the virtue of their local ale, a traveling merchant shouted the man down, loudly bemoaning the 'lack of good spirits' to be had in town...'not like the fine Cream they serve at the Golden Gear'. Without a bit of encouragement, the merchant, who clearly liked to listen to himself talk as much as the mayor did, spoke at length about his various trips around the countryside, selling his wares, dealing with fractious customers, and thieving tax collectors, but, eventually, he'd been shouted down by the mayor when he disparaged Arghelt's charms one too many times.

Happy that he'd managed to quiet the 'boorish fellow' the mayor continued extolling the virtues of the region to the foursome. At their urging, he spoke at length of their destination, the small logging town of Canismini.

Canismini, despite it's relatively small size, was quite a boon to the regional economy. It sat at a major crossroads along the Great Schwarzewald Way, where it met the King's Highway. The town sat in the midst of thousands of hectares of ancient forest. Woods that had many a dark tale attached to them. Tales of goblin tribes, wandering bands of orcs, feral forest elves who killed any who trespassed on their holy sites, and even tales of the odd demon or powerful wizard who'd taken up residence.

Canismini itself was founded by a mixed group of elves and humans refugees, fleeing from one of the frequent wars that swept the land. The small group of elves provided the know how to survive in the dark woods, and the humans provided the numbers and strong backs to build a working community. Over the years, the two groups intermingled freely, to the point where a large percentage of the town were of mixed race. And, amazingly, the town thrived. It's position at the crossroads, as well as the foresight of it's founders in making it a strong, walled, fortified village, afforded it a tactically...and, when the land wasn't torn by strife, economically, advantageous position.

Now the town had grown to house a few thousand souls, had temples, schools, and did a thriving business harvesting (responsibly, and with the cooperation of many of their wilder neighbors) the fruits of the forest. One of those fruits, aptly named the Korova Nut, was the source of the famous 'Cream' that the merchant had mentioned. Apparently it was a drink like none other, with the Korova Nut only growing in the forest's specific climate and soil. Through secret processes, it was harvested, rendered, and fermented into the wildly popular liqueur, then shipped all over the region, and beyond, for exorbitant prices.

It was with these tales resonating in their mind that the quartet had set out on the final leg of their journey. The bright sunshine, crisp fall air, and high, sparse clouds had them all in high spirits, and they were determined to make good time on their journey.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had...different plans.

About halfway to their destination, a storm had blown up out of seemingly nowhere. Tall black thunderheads piled up in the sky, wind shrieked through the air, driving the torrential rain that fell from the clouds almost horizontally. All of it conspired to make their travel miserable. Even the powerful nature magic of their Wyrwood druid didn't seem able to calm the raging storm.

The massive deluge dogged their footsteps the entire last day of their journey, and by the time they finally spotted the gates...closed, of course...of Canismini, they found themselves drooping with weariness.

Reaching the gates, they pounded on them until the got the attention of a guard. A surly half-orc, clad in a voluminous oiled cloak so all encompassing they couldn't tell what he was wearing under it, peered at the four, and, after a full minute, grunted and swung open a postern door, just large enough for them to proceed inside, single file.

Entering the town, the adventurers took in it's appearance with a glance. Canismini was best described as 'Gray'. Gray houses made of local wood and clay. Gray slabs of slate lined the roadbed, covered in a thin skin of gray mud. Gray skies dribbled down a cold, soaking rain, though it has, fortunately, lost most of it's driving force...when they'd gotten within a couple miles of the town, the wild weather had finally slacked off, along with the constant, sinister, watching presence. Now, there was just enough moisture in the air to make it's way in in cold rivulets through every opening in their outerwear, but not enough to wash the cobblestones clean. There was even a light gray haze in the air from all of the chimneys putting out clouds of smoke as homeowners and shopkeepers tried to ward off the late fall chill in the air.

Most of the houses are dark, in others, lanterns were dimmed, candles blown out, and shutters tightly shut. Not even a stray dog barked as they passed by, though a small feral kitten hissed, hackles raised on the off chance that one of them...or, more likely, their many familiars, might be interested in the bird that the tiny feline had caught for her supper.

However, there was one building, set back from and dominating an entire side of the moderate town square, that was brightly painted, with lively music coming from within. This, they realized as a flare of lightning illuminated the signboard over the entrance, was the famous Korova Inn, also known at The Golden Gear, home of the renowned and refreshing pale liquid known as Korova Cream, a drink that was reputed to go down easy and smooth, but made it tough for you to get back up again.

Off to one side of the inn was a small stable, filled nearly to capacity with horses covered in warm blankets and stamping about, trying to get comfortable on the drizzly night. As the four glanced in, a non-de script stable hand, of indeterminate sex and age in their shapeless brown homespon tunic and trews, scrambled up from a pile of straw near the door when they got near.

Inquiries about the cost of stabling lead to a jerk of the child's head in the direction of the inn and a grunt of "Leider." The voice does nothing to make identifying the child's gender easier, and any further questions were met with a roll of the eyes and another jerk of the head in the direction of the inn. The stablehand seems to know their business though, expertly stripping the tack from the tired beasts, and gentling and currying them with obvious skill and delight. Glancing around it was easy to spot the bins of oats and hay as well as the large tun of fresh water. A pile of horse blankets, kept warm beside a small kettle stove, completed the picture of potential equine delight.

Leaving the child to get on with their work, the four headed inside. The Korova Inn was a clean, well lighted place, but with enough dark corners to facilitate a private conversation or a solitary drink, as the glitter of eyes and lifted mugs could attest. The room was filled with the sounds of light conversation and the low crackling sound of a fireplace. The heady aroma of fresh bread and cooked meat permeated the air.

Their entrance went largely unremarked, except by a short, rotund man behind the bar, which was located to their left as they entered the taproom. The man's head was bald and shiny as an egg, covered in intricate tattoos, but the man seemingly made up for the loss with a full and heavily styled mustache and full, pomaded and shaped beard, both the same bright, ginger red as his bushy eyebrows and the thick hair on his forearms. He spotted the weary travelers and waved them over, even as he expertly drew a half dozen dark, foamy beers, loaded them onto a tray, and deftly handed all and sundry to one of the half dozen servers making their way around the room.

Without exception, the women were all attractive examples of their races, and all were wearing clothing that offered a view of more than a bit of exposed flesh. They laughed and joked with the patrons, fending off advances with a deft shift of the hips or a playful slap, and for those few customers who seem inclined to not be put off, a single pointed finger in the direction of a shadowed alcove by the door, wherein stood probably the largest half orc any of the adventurers had ever seen, caused quiet gulps and much more polite hands.

Arms crossed over the handle of a massive warhammer, the head of which rested at his wide-spread feet, the half orc's eyes never resting as he scanned the room for the merest hint of trouble.

Trouble, unsurprisingly, was conspicuously absent...

*************

As the four stood near the doorway, taking all this in, the innkeeper finished sending out a tray laden with a basket of fresh bread, a bubbling cauldron of some heavenly smelling stew, and another tray of dark, foamy beers, and he turned to attend to them. His voice was like gravel over silk as he welcomed you.
 

Twilight slowly shifted into night as the four tired adventurers slowly made their way toward the lights of the nearby town. All were tired, since, for the entirety of the last two days, they'd had to walk their mounts through the surrounding forest to get here. All of the beasts seemed to have sensed something dangerous in the woods. And it wasn't only the four footed amongst the group that were uncomfortable. The sensation of being watched...and judged...permeated the very air around the companions, and spurred their feet along the well marked road through the greenwood.

All attempts to draw out the had watcher failed, nor could they be spotted, no matter how keen the eye of the observer. Any time the matter was pursued, the sense of being watched would quickly recede, only to return almost immediately as soon as attention was turned back to the trail ahead, the unseen eyes making themselves felt within moments.

As they wearily trod the last few miles before reaching the shelter of the town walls, the thoughts of the four strayed backwards over their journey so far. A few days prior, they'd been in the border town of Arghelt, sampling the local cuisine, meeting people, and just generally enjoying themselves. With the letter of introduction to Humbert the Artificer, the local mayor had been happy to have the wandering troupe in town, spending their coin as they partook of the local businesses. That night, 'his lordship' had even graced the inn with his munificent presence, asking about news of the wider world, and dispensing with tidbits of local gossip in return.

Much of the conversation dwelt on the town of Canismini and their upcoming journey through the forest. There were rumours of 'dark forces' moving about the SchwarzewaldBlack Woods. Still, the rotund, florid man assured them, so long as they stuck to the Schwarzewald Forest road, they 'should have no real trouble'.

His assurances weren't exactly comforting.

Still, in addition to his ghost stories, the mayor did prove to be quite a font of other 'local color'. While extolling the virtue of their local ale, a traveling merchant shouted the man down, loudly bemoaning the 'lack of good spirits' to be had in town...'not like the fine Cream they serve at the Golden Gear'. Without a bit of encouragement, the merchant, who clearly liked to listen to himself talk as much as the mayor did, spoke at length about his various trips around the countryside, selling his wares, dealing with fractious customers, and thieving tax collectors, but, eventually, he'd been shouted down by the mayor when he disparaged Arghelt's charms one too many times.

Happy that he'd managed to quiet the 'boorish fellow' the mayor continued extolling the virtues of the region to the foursome. At their urging, he spoke at length of their destination, the small logging town of Canismini.

Canismini, despite it's relatively small size, was quite a boon to the regional economy. It sat at a major crossroads along the Great Schwarzewald Way, where it met the King's Highway. The town sat in the midst of thousands of hectares of ancient forest. Woods that had many a dark tale attached to them. Tales of goblin tribes, wandering bands of orcs, feral forest elves who killed any who trespassed on their holy sites, and even tales of the odd demon or powerful wizard who'd taken up residence.

Canismini itself was founded by a mixed group of elves and humans refugees, fleeing from one of the frequent wars that swept the land. The small group of elves provided the know how to survive in the dark woods, and the humans provided the numbers and strong backs to build a working community. Over the years, the two groups intermingled freely, to the point where a large percentage of the town were of mixed race. And, amazingly, the town thrived. It's position at the crossroads, as well as the foresight of it's founders in making it a strong, walled, fortified village, afforded it a tactically...and, when the land wasn't torn by strife, economically, advantageous position.

Now the town had grown to house a few thousand souls, had temples, schools, and did a thriving business harvesting (responsibly, and with the cooperation of many of their wilder neighbors) the fruits of the forest. One of those fruits, aptly named the Korova Nut, was the source of the famous 'Cream' that the merchant had mentioned. Apparently it was a drink like none other, with the Korova Nut only growing in the forest's specific climate and soil. Through secret processes, it was harvested, rendered, and fermented into the wildly popular liqueur, then shipped all over the region, and beyond, for exorbitant prices.

It was with these tales resonating in their mind that the quartet had set out on the final leg of their journey. The bright sunshine, crisp fall air, and high, sparse clouds had them all in high spirits, and they were determined to make good time on their journey.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had...different plans.

About halfway to their destination, a storm had blown up out of seemingly nowhere. Tall black thunderheads piled up in the sky, wind shrieked through the air, driving the torrential rain that fell from the clouds almost horizontally. All of it conspired to make their travel miserable. Even the powerful nature magic of their Wyrwood druid didn't seem able to calm the raging storm.

The massive deluge dogged their footsteps the entire last day of their journey, and by the time they finally spotted the gates...closed, of course...of Canismini, they found themselves drooping with weariness.

Reaching the gates, they pounded on them until the got the attention of a guard. A surly half-orc, clad in a voluminous oiled cloak so all encompassing they couldn't tell what he was wearing under it, peered at the four, and, after a full minute, grunted and swung open a postern door, just large enough for them to proceed inside, single file.

Entering the town, the adventurers took in it's appearance with a glance. Canismini was best described as 'Gray'. Gray houses made of local wood and clay. Gray slabs of slate lined the roadbed, covered in a thin skin of gray mud. Gray skies dribbled down a cold, soaking rain, though it has, fortunately, lost most of it's driving force...when they'd gotten within a couple miles of the town, the wild weather had finally slacked off, along with the constant, sinister, watching presence. Now, there was just enough moisture in the air to make it's way in in cold rivulets through every opening in their outerwear, but not enough to wash the cobblestones clean. There was even a light gray haze in the air from all of the chimneys putting out clouds of smoke as homeowners and shopkeepers tried to ward off the late fall chill in the air.

Most of the houses are dark, in others, lanterns were dimmed, candles blown out, and shutters tightly shut. Not even a stray dog barked as they passed by, though a small feral kitten hissed, hackles raised on the off chance that one of them...or, more likely, their many familiars, might be interested in the bird that the tiny feline had caught for her supper.

However, there was one building, set back from and dominating an entire side of the moderate town square, that was brightly painted, with lively music coming from within. This, they realized as a flare of lightning illuminated the signboard over the entrance, was the famous Korova Inn, also known at The Golden Gear, home of the renowned and refreshing pale liquid known as Korova Cream, a drink that was reputed to go down easy and smooth, but made it tough for you to get back up again.

Off to one side of the inn was a small stable, filled nearly to capacity with horses covered in warm blankets and stamping about, trying to get comfortable on the drizzly night. As the four glanced in, a non-de script stable hand, of indeterminate sex and age in their shapeless brown homespon tunic and trews, scrambled up from a pile of straw near the door when they got near.

Inquiries about the cost of stabling lead to a jerk of the child's head in the direction of the inn and a grunt of "Leider." The voice does nothing to make identifying the child's gender easier, and any further questions were met with a roll of the eyes and another jerk of the head in the direction of the inn. The stablehand seems to know their business though, expertly stripping the tack from the tired beasts, and gentling and currying them with obvious skill and delight. Glancing around it was easy to spot the bins of oats and hay as well as the large tun of fresh water. A pile of horse blankets, kept warm beside a small kettle stove, completed the picture of potential equine delight.

Leaving the child to get on with their work, the four headed inside. The Korova Inn was a clean, well lighted place, but with enough dark corners to facilitate a private conversation or a solitary drink, as the glitter of eyes and lifted mugs could attest. The room was filled with the sounds of light conversation and the low crackling sound of a fireplace. The heady aroma of fresh bread and cooked meat permeated the air.

Their entrance went largely unremarked, except by a short, rotund man behind the bar, which was located to their left as they entered the taproom. The man's head was bald and shiny as an egg, covered in intricate tattoos, but the man seemingly made up for the loss with a full and heavily styled mustache and full, pomaded and shaped beard, both the same bright, ginger red as his bushy eyebrows and the thick hair on his forearms. He spotted the weary travelers and waved them over, even as he expertly drew a half dozen dark, foamy beers, loaded them onto a tray, and deftly handed all and sundry to one of the half dozen servers making their way around the room.

Without exception, the women were all attractive examples of their races, and all were wearing clothing that offered a view of more than a bit of exposed flesh. They laughed and joked with the patrons, fending off advances with a deft shift of the hips or a playful slap, and for those few customers who seem inclined to not be put off, a single pointed finger in the direction of a shadowed alcove by the door, wherein stood probably the largest half orc any of the adventurers had ever seen, caused quiet gulps and much more polite hands.

Arms crossed over the handle of a massive warhammer, the head of which rested at his wide-spread feet, the half orc's eyes never resting as he scanned the room for the merest hint of trouble.

Trouble, unsurprisingly, was conspicuously absent...

*************

As the four stood near the doorway, taking all this in, the innkeeper finished sending out a tray laden with a basket of fresh bread, a bubbling cauldron of some heavenly smelling stew, and another tray of dark, foamy beers, and he turned to attend to them. His voice was like gravel over silk as he welcomed you.
 

Twilight slowly shifted into night as the four tired adventurers slowly made their way toward the lights of the nearby town. All were tired, since, for the entirety of the last two days, they'd had to walk their mounts through the surrounding forest to get here. All of the beasts seemed to have sensed something dangerous in the woods. And it wasn't only the four footed amongst the group that were uncomfortable. The sensation of being watched...and judged...permeated the very air around the companions, and spurred their feet along the well marked road through the greenwood.

All attempts to draw out the had watcher failed, nor could they be spotted, no matter how keen the eye of the observer. Any time the matter was pursued, the sense of being watched would quickly recede, only to return almost immediately as soon as attention was turned back to the trail ahead, the unseen eyes making themselves felt within moments.

As they wearily trod the last few miles before reaching the shelter of the town walls, the thoughts of the four strayed backwards over their journey so far. A few days prior, they'd been in the border town of Arghelt, sampling the local cuisine, meeting people, and just generally enjoying themselves. With the letter of introduction to Humbert the Artificer, the local mayor had been happy to have the wandering troupe in town, spending their coin as they partook of the local businesses. That night, 'his lordship' had even graced the inn with his munificent presence, asking about news of the wider world, and dispensing with tidbits of local gossip in return.

Much of the conversation dwelt on the town of Canismini and their upcoming journey through the forest. There were rumours of 'dark forces' moving about the SchwarzewaldBlack Woods. Still, the rotund, florid man assured them, so long as they stuck to the Schwarzewald Forest road, they 'should have no real trouble'.

His assurances weren't exactly comforting.

Still, in addition to his ghost stories, the mayor did prove to be quite a font of other 'local color'. While extolling the virtue of their local ale, a traveling merchant shouted the man down, loudly bemoaning the 'lack of good spirits' to be had in town...'not like the fine Cream they serve at the Golden Gear'. Without a bit of encouragement, the merchant, who clearly liked to listen to himself talk as much as the mayor did, spoke at length about his various trips around the countryside, selling his wares, dealing with fractious customers, and thieving tax collectors, but, eventually, he'd been shouted down by the mayor when he disparaged Arghelt's charms one too many times.

Happy that he'd managed to quiet the 'boorish fellow' the mayor continued extolling the virtues of the region to the foursome. At their urging, he spoke at length of their destination, the small logging town of Canismini.

Canismini, despite it's relatively small size, was quite a boon to the regional economy. It sat at a major crossroads along the Great Schwarzewald Way, where it met the King's Highway. The town sat in the midst of thousands of hectares of ancient forest. Woods that had many a dark tale attached to them. Tales of goblin tribes, wandering bands of orcs, feral forest elves who killed any who trespassed on their holy sites, and even tales of the odd demon or powerful wizard who'd taken up residence.

Canismini itself was founded by a mixed group of elves and humans refugees, fleeing from one of the frequent wars that swept the land. The small group of elves provided the know how to survive in the dark woods, and the humans provided the numbers and strong backs to build a working community. Over the years, the two groups intermingled freely, to the point where a large percentage of the town were of mixed race. And, amazingly, the town thrived. It's position at the crossroads, as well as the foresight of it's founders in making it a strong, walled, fortified village, afforded it a tactically...and, when the land wasn't torn by strife, economically, advantageous position.

Now the town had grown to house a few thousand souls, had temples, schools, and did a thriving business harvesting (responsibly, and with the cooperation of many of their wilder neighbors) the fruits of the forest. One of those fruits, aptly named the Korova Nut, was the source of the famous 'Cream' that the merchant had mentioned. Apparently it was a drink like none other, with the Korova Nut only growing in the forest's specific climate and soil. Through secret processes, it was harvested, rendered, and fermented into the wildly popular liqueur, then shipped all over the region, and beyond, for exorbitant prices.

It was with these tales resonating in their mind that the quartet had set out on the final leg of their journey. The bright sunshine, crisp fall air, and high, sparse clouds had them all in high spirits, and they were determined to make good time on their journey.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had...different plans.

About halfway to their destination, a storm had blown up out of seemingly nowhere. Tall black thunderheads piled up in the sky, wind shrieked through the air, driving the torrential rain that fell from the clouds almost horizontally. All of it conspired to make their travel miserable. Even the powerful nature magic of their Wyrwood druid didn't seem able to calm the raging storm.

The massive deluge dogged their footsteps the entire last day of their journey, and by the time they finally spotted the gates...closed, of course...of Canismini, they found themselves drooping with weariness.

Reaching the gates, they pounded on them until the got the attention of a guard. A surly half-orc, clad in a voluminous oiled cloak so all encompassing they couldn't tell what he was wearing under it, peered at the four, and, after a full minute, grunted and swung open a postern door, just large enough for them to proceed inside, single file.

Entering the town, the adventurers took in it's appearance with a glance. Canismini was best described as 'Gray'. Gray houses made of local wood and clay. Gray slabs of slate lined the roadbed, covered in a thin skin of gray mud. Gray skies dribbled down a cold, soaking rain, though it has, fortunately, lost most of it's driving force...when they'd gotten within a couple miles of the town, the wild weather had finally slacked off, along with the constant, sinister, watching presence. Now, there was just enough moisture in the air to make it's way in in cold rivulets through every opening in their outerwear, but not enough to wash the cobblestones clean. There was even a light gray haze in the air from all of the chimneys putting out clouds of smoke as homeowners and shopkeepers tried to ward off the late fall chill in the air.

Most of the houses are dark, in others, lanterns were dimmed, candles blown out, and shutters tightly shut. Not even a stray dog barked as they passed by, though a small feral kitten hissed, hackles raised on the off chance that one of them...or, more likely, their many familiars, might be interested in the bird that the tiny feline had caught for her supper.

However, there was one building, set back from and dominating an entire side of the moderate town square, that was brightly painted, with lively music coming from within. This, they realized as a flare of lightning illuminated the signboard over the entrance, was the famous Korova Inn, also known at The Golden Gear, home of the renowned and refreshing pale liquid known as Korova Cream, a drink that was reputed to go down easy and smooth, but made it tough for you to get back up again.

Off to one side of the inn was a small stable, filled nearly to capacity with horses covered in warm blankets and stamping about, trying to get comfortable on the drizzly night. As the four glanced in, a non-de script stable hand, of indeterminate sex and age in their shapeless brown homespon tunic and trews, scrambled up from a pile of straw near the door when they got near.

Inquiries about the cost of stabling lead to a jerk of the child's head in the direction of the inn and a grunt of "Leider." The voice does nothing to make identifying the child's gender easier, and any further questions were met with a roll of the eyes and another jerk of the head in the direction of the inn. The stablehand seems to know their business though, expertly stripping the tack from the tired beasts, and gentling and currying them with obvious skill and delight. Glancing around it was easy to spot the bins of oats and hay as well as the large tun of fresh water. A pile of horse blankets, kept warm beside a small kettle stove, completed the picture of potential equine delight.

Leaving the child to get on with their work, the four headed inside. The Korova Inn was a clean, well lighted place, but with enough dark corners to facilitate a private conversation or a solitary drink, as the glitter of eyes and lifted mugs could attest. The room was filled with the sounds of light conversation and the low crackling sound of a fireplace. The heady aroma of fresh bread and cooked meat permeated the air.

Their entrance went largely unremarked, except by a short, rotund man behind the bar, which was located to their left as they entered the taproom. The man's head was bald and shiny as an egg, covered in intricate tattoos, but the man seemingly made up for the loss with a full and heavily styled mustache and full, pomaded and shaped beard, both the same bright, ginger red as his bushy eyebrows and the thick hair on his forearms. He spotted the weary travelers and waved them over, even as he expertly drew a half dozen dark, foamy beers, loaded them onto a tray, and deftly handed all and sundry to one of the half dozen servers making their way around the room.

Without exception, the women were all attractive examples of their races, and all were wearing clothing that offered a view of more than a bit of exposed flesh. They laughed and joked with the patrons, fending off advances with a deft shift of the hips or a playful slap, and for those few customers who seem inclined to not be put off, a single pointed finger in the direction of a shadowed alcove by the door, wherein stood probably the largest half orc any of the adventurers had ever seen, caused quiet gulps and much more polite hands.

Arms crossed over the handle of a massive warhammer, the head of which rested at his wide-spread feet, the half orc's eyes never resting as he scanned the room for the merest hint of trouble.

Trouble, unsurprisingly, was conspicuously absent...

*************

As the four stood near the doorway, taking all this in, the innkeeper finished sending out a tray laden with a basket of fresh bread, a bubbling cauldron of some heavenly smelling stew, and another tray of dark, foamy beers, and he turned to attend to them. His voice was like gravel over silk as he welcomed you.