Big Damn Heroes (IC)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Light =&gt; Light: Human Small Groups =&gt; Topic started by: John Birch on 27-07-2022, 21:32:10</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>John Birch</strong> on <strong>27-07-2022, 21:32:10</strong>
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				To the seasoned traveler, Daymare was a lonesome desert backwater, an unpleasant but brief stop on the way to the great metropolises of the western empire– to Sunscorch, with its minarets and rose-colored walls, or else to mild, sunny, temperate Port Sunrise on the southern coast.<br><br>The villagers were not seasoned travelers.<br><br>They walked on the periphery of the main road through Daymare, as if afraid that to claim the median was to invite dangerous attention. All the way as the pair of them went beneath the withering glare of the summer sun, they gawked– at the travel-worn merchant in the green-and-red of the Traders Guild headed for the bazaar, patiently leading two donkeys laden with goods from across the empire; at the troop of Pantazian soldiers on patrol, swaggering but professional, a common sight in the towns and cities of the desert but virtually alien to the backcountry; at the Wanderer sitting with her back against the sandstone wall of an abandoned shop, plucking away at the strings of a lute and singing in a low mournful voice about loss and longing; at her disciple, sitting beside her, boiling tea on a small fire. Down the other way, a band of frontier roughs came guffawing at some cruel joke, pushing and shoving each other, spoiling for a fight.<br><br>The younger of the two– a boy on the cusp of adulthood, anxious with the heady thrill of his first journey away from home– nudged his elder with an elbow. “What about them, Veret?” he murmured, nodding towards the gang of delinquents as they passed. “They look like they can handle themselves.” Even before he’d finished speaking, the roughs had spotted the imperial soldiers; in the blink of an eye, they fell silent, passing sullenly beneath the watchful eye of the red-and-black.<br><br>“They can handle shaking money out of a beggar’s pockets,” Veret snorted– once they were safely out of earshot, of course. She put an arm around the boy, hand resting on the back of the pack in which he carried some of their travel supplies, and hurried him along. “They won’t be any use to us. Come on, we’ll find someplace to stay and look for help after.”<br><br>Further along the road, the Daymare bazaar came into view the way heat haze emerges on the desert horizon, almost indiscernible at first. Gradually, the sandstone homes and ramshackle storefronts gave way to stalls and the villagers found themselves bit by bit submerged in a sea of colors– the bright, enticing hues of fresh fruits on the racks, green pricklepears and red sunberries and cool blue skyseed; the darker, warmer shades of fabrics, headscarves and cloaks and the ornate, ankle-length cotton robe known by the denizens of the Great Rose Desert as a <em>halkhram</em>; towering pyramids of vibrant spices, so neatly arranged one might have mistaken them for painted plaster molds if not for the vendors scooping into them to fill a pouch for a customer. The Wanderer’s song faded into a cacophony of voices bartering and bargaining and calling out prices, and the thick summer air was suffused with the aroma of spiced meats. The villagers walked as if in a trance, surrounded by sights and sounds and smells that, if they had experienced them before, certainly they had never experienced to this degree.<br><br>The trance was rudely broken. “Jewelry from the coast, my friends!” a merchant all but bellowed in Pantazian at the villagers as they passed, gesturing to a table carpeted with shimmering gemstones. “Handmade by the finest craftsmen in Port Sunrise.”<br><br>The boy flinched as if he’d been lashed at, and he made to scurry past, but Veret paused. “They are beautiful pieces, friend,” she answered, also in Pantazian, the words flattened and drawn out by a strong rural desert accent. “Tell me, where might we find a place to rest for the night?”<br><br>The merchant frowned, clearly disappointed that a sale was not forthcoming; nevertheless, he pointed down the road and said, “Walk another minute or two– the old tavern’s on the left. Not the nicest spot in Daymare, and I’d be careful, but there’s always room.” Veret nodded her thanks, but before she and the boy could continue, the merchant added, “If I may– you’re from out in the backcountry, aren’t you?”<br><br>“Yes,” Veret said simply. The merchant was silent for a moment, seemed almost to size them up, and Veret visibly tensed– unsure of the customs, the unspoken rules in a town like this.<br><br>Finally, the merchant glanced down at his wares and picked up a small necklace bejeweled with gemstones the color of the ocean at sunset. “Would you allow me to welcome you to our town with a gift?” he asked.<br><br>Veret raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, it seemed they were speaking the same language, reading from the same script. “You’re much too kind,” she said, a faint but warm smile creasing the corners of her thin lips. “We couldn’t possibly accept something so precious.”<br><br>“We get so few visitors from the backcountry– please permit me to give you something.” The merchant set the bracelet down, looked across the table again, and grabbed a pair of pearl earrings. “Hardly a fitting gift for a guest,” he admitted, holding them out. Veret hesitated, and then reached out, taking the earrings.<br><br>“Thank you for your generosity,” she said, slipping them into one of the pockets of her shawl. “You’ve truly made us feel welcome in Daymare.” The merchant merely nodded, and Veret turned to leave, her companion scurrying to keep up. Behind them, before so much as a second had passed, the merchant was hollering at passing townsfolk.<br><br>Veret glanced at the boy beside her, and smiled ruefully. “I should have known better,” she said. “Desert customs don’t change– not in the backcountry, not in the towns, maybe not even in Sunscorch.” The boy frowned, confused, and she patted the pocket where the earrings now sat. “These will help us hire someone to take care of our problem,” she said. “And if it doesn’t, at least it’ll help pay for a few nights in town.” She left it at that, and they went in silence until– sure enough– they spotted the old wooden sign, peeking out between stalls, pointing down towards the doorway of the tavern.<br><br>Veret suspected they’d made a mistake the moment she opened the door and heard glass shattering. She became convinced of it a second later when she spotted three figures with fists raised– two of them like herself, desert people, one of them standing head and shoulders above them, with mottled green skin and two tusks emerging like mountain peaks from her lower lip. An orc, Veret thought in silent awe. She’d never seen one before.<br><br>Across from them, sprawled against the bar with shards of glass all around her, was a tall, broad-shouldered woman whose wide grin belied the fact that she had clearly just been hurled across the tavern. She got back on her feet, and Veret saw blood streaming from her nose, saw the telltale red marks of bruises-to-be on her face. What Veret didn’t see was so much as a hint of pain or hesitation as the woman raised her fists to her three foes and called out, “Aw, c’mon, you can do worse than that!”<br><br>The orc scowled. “Give it up, for Velo’s sake,” she snarled, advancing on the woman. “You can’t win.”<br><br>“I know!” the woman laughed, ducking as one of the brawlers lunged at her. “But you can’t stop me getting back up,” she added, aiming a hefty blow to the brawler’s gut that left him reeling. “And in the end, isn’t that the same thing as winning?”<br><br>“No, it’s not,” the orc growled. She swatted the woman’s fist aside and engulfed her in a bear-hug, pinning her arms at the side. The other brawler– the one who wasn’t doubled over clutching his stomach– rounded on her, punching the woman hard in the midsection once, twice, and then a third time before the orc lifted her up and smashed her into the bar again. The woman hit the bar and then hit the floor behind the bar with a thud.<br><br>“Give up,” the orc said again. “Accept you’ve lost and move on.”<br><br>For just a second, Veret didn’t think there’d be any response from behind the bar. Then she saw a single hand clutch the edge of the bar, then another, and she saw the woman hoist herself back up to her feet. She swayed for just a moment, steadied herself against the bar, and brushed her lion’s mane of black curls out of her face to reveal a fresh gash above her brow and an undimmed grin.<br><br>“What’s the matter?” she jeered. “Getting tired?”<br><br>The orc all but went red with anger, and she took a step towards the bar, but one of the other brawlers put a hand on her massive arm. “Forget it, Talor,” he said. “This isn’t even fun anymore. Let’s go.” The orc glanced back at the woman, seemed to ponder the pros and cons of beating her up a little more, and then turned away, shaking her head.<br><br>“You’re crazy. I don’t know how you’ve managed to live this long.”<br><br>The three made to leave, and Veret was quick to scamper out of the orc’s way before she plowed past her, through the door, and out into the bazaar. The woman, for her part, vaulted her way over the bar– wincing a little as she landed on the other side– and made for a man Veret presumed to be the tavern owner. They fell to talking, and Veret turned to the boy beside her. He was still looking at the door, eyes wide as a dinner plate. “What was– who was that?” he asked breathlessly. “Was that an <em>orc</em>?”<br><br>“Never mind that,” Veret said, patting him on the shoulder with an inscrutable smile. “Let’s get ourselves a room. I think I know where we can start.”<br><br>.<br><br>.<br><br>.<br><br>That evening, after a conversation with the tavern owner and a modest dinner of bread, cheese, and fruits, the two villagers came knocking on the woman’s door.<br><br>They waited for a moment, heard the sound of movement and rustling through the door, and then a voice calling out in Pantazian, “It’s open!”<br><br>The first thing Veret saw when she pushed the door open was the woman standing in the center of the room, feet planted in a wide stance, hand resting on the pommel of a longsword at her side. The angry red marks on her face were already beginning to blacken into bruises, and the gash above her brow was haphazardly bandaged.<br><br>Veret and the boy stepped into the room, and the woman raised an eyebrow, and her hand fell to her side. “I thought that orc might be back for round two,” she said, now in Common, and then her lips curled into that familiar daring grin from before. “Shoulda known she’d know better. Anyway, who’re you?” She gestured to the small wooden table– aside from the bed and a small chest, it and its four chairs were the sole furnishing in the room– and the three of them sat, Veret setting down her backpack by the door, laden with camping and travel supplies.<br><br>“My name is Veret,” the villager woman said. “The youngster is Eled. We’re from a small village ten miles to the north, and we need your help.”<br><br>In an instant, the woman’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let me guess– a young desert dragon eager to prove its worth is threatening your village,” she said. “No– an ancient curse, long thought broken, is back to haunt your people! Or a necromancer has defiled the village cemetery with his black magics, turning your fallen neighbors against you.”<br><br>The woman paused to take a breath, and Veret jumped in before she could think of any other increasingly absurd scenarios. “No, none of that. Bandits. We’ve got bandits.”<br><br>“Hm.” The woman nodded gravely, leaning back in her chair. “The scourge of the desert. After a legendary treasure said to be buried near your village, no doubt.”<br><br>“We don’t know what they want,” Veret said sharply, the thin, taut line of her mouth betraying her withering patience. “We’re a poor village– we produce just enough for our people to get by from day to day, and sometimes not even that. They came for the first time just days ago and killed half a dozen of our people– we managed to drive them off, but we think it was a feint to test our strength. We think they’ll be back soon to finish whatever it is they’re doing. Our village won’t survive a serious attack– we’re not warriors, all we know is how to squeeze the barest of crops out of the desert soil. We need people who can fight, but we don’t know where to find them. That’s why we need your help.”<br><br>For the first time since Veret had first seen the woman, she saw her hesitate, saw the bravado fade just a little. “Why not go to the imperial garrison here in Daymare?” she asked quietly.<br><br>“The Pantazians don’t want to send troops out to the middle of nowhere,” Veret said. “To wait for who knows how long for some bandits to show up. Their interest is in keeping the order in the towns– the backcountry’s not their concern.”<br><br>“What about the Sandspears? They eat bandits for breakfast.”<br><br>“Not bandits like these– at least two dozen, maybe more, heavily armed and well-trained.” The woman gave a low whistle, and Veret added, “And I told you, we’re a poor village. We don’t have the money to hire the Sandspears. All we have, we brought with us.” She reached into one of the pockets of her shawl and took out a small cloth pouch. She emptied it out onto the table– a handful of bronze and silver coins and two delicate pearl earrings. “Every coin we could find in the village. It wouldn’t even suffice to hire a single Sandspear for a day.”<br><br>The woman tapped her chin thoughtfully. “So then,” she said slowly. “Why me?”<br><br>“Because you’re not afraid of going against the odds,” Veret said. “We can’t afford the kinds of people who make a living risking life and limb for jobs like this, and we’ll never make it on our own. We need people like you– people who don’t turn and run when defeat seems certain.” She paused, seemed to mull her words for a moment, and then added, “And, well, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, people who won’t turn their noses up when they see how little we can pay.”<br><br>The woman didn’t seem to mind that. If anything, whatever brief twinge of doubt had polluted the woman’s sense of self-certainty, it seemed to have crawled back into its hole by the time Veret finished speaking. The brash smile was back, and so was the forward lean, eager, hungry. “In other words,” the woman said in an almost conspiratorial whisper. “What you need is some big damn heroes.”<br><br>And then, before Veret could say another word, the woman stood up and slapped the table with the palm of her hand, all but scaring poor Eled out of his skin. “I’ll do it,” she declared. “I’ll find you your heroes. Give me a day. Go sell these earrings tomorrow morning, they’ll get you some extra coin.”<br><br>Veret blinked, torn between gratitude and bafflement, and stood up as well, Eled following suit. “Well– thank you,” she said, collecting the coins and the earrings and stuffing the pouch back in her pocket. “Do you really think it’ll take only a day?”<br><br>“A town like this is full of people looking for what you’re selling, miss– whether it’s adventure, a chance to do some good, or a little money to see them to another day. Maybe all three at the same time.” The woman flashed that reckless grin of hers and slung her heavy arms over her two visitors’ shoulders, guiding them towards the door. “Come back here tomorrow morning. That’s when we’ll put this thing in motion. I’ve already got a hundred ideas.”<br><br>“Wait a minute–” Veret managed to get out before being ushered out the door. The woman paused and blinked, as if she didn’t understand why Veret wasn’t moving a mile a minute already. She was a little overwhelming, and Veret felt practically out of breath just being around her. “Your name,” she finally said. “What’s your name?”<br><br>“My name?” The woman stuck a thumb in her chest, and proceeded to say, in a tone that implied the name was known far and wide, a name Veret had never heard and would have struggled simply to pronounce.<br><br>“It’s Qasval. <em>Captain </em>Qasval.”<br><br>.<br><br>.<br><br>.<br><br>The next morning, it seemed the entire tavern– indeed, all the seedier parts of Daymare– was abuzz with talk of a job put out by a certain captain. It wasn’t just the job posting on the tavern bulletin; somehow, Qasval had managed to get word out to all the familiar haunts frequented by adventurers, mercenaries, swashbucklers, and passing heroes-for-hire that a little village to the north was looking to hire half a dozen for protection from a band of suspiciously well-armed, well-trained bandits. The vast majority, suffice it to say, lost interest the moment they saw the pittance being offered as payment– but for those who weren’t so easily put off, as the bulletin and word on the street went, the captain would be hosting any and all interested parties in the old tavern at noon the following day.<br><br>There, they would find her at the bar, entertaining Eled and a couple of other tavern customers by balancing a small drinking glass on her nose. Veret sat beside her, looking thoroughly unsure of the life choices that had led her to this point.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>AndyZ</strong> on <strong>28-07-2022, 04:53:36</strong>
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				<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0f/21A2C091-10B3-4EBF-AFA6-3A4D9CE24C5A.png)</div>As Vylara walked into Daymare, she carried with her a freshly killed deer over her shoulders, field stripped and with a blanket keeping any blood from leaking out onto her clothes.&nbsp; For the more elite, sophisticated, and higher class, it might have been a grisly sight, but to Vylara, it was just nature.<br><br>It didn't take her too long in asking to find out about the tavern, though not too many people were all that keen on talking to her while she had a dead animal carcass on her shoulders.&nbsp; Many were at least polite enough to point when she asked questions, and it didn't take her long to find the place.<br><br>Stepping in some time before noon, some might have expected that she was incredibly early.&nbsp; In truth, she had no idea about the bandit bounty as of yet, having recently come to civilization.&nbsp; Even so, she definitely had the look of an adventurer who could handle herself; she just didn't spend much time in places as luxurious and populated as she considered Daymare to be.<br><br>Anyone else would consider Daymare a lonesome desert backwater, sure, but Vylara rarely even attempted to get into one of the larger cities.<br><br>Approaching a barmaid, Vylara politely inquired as best she could.&nbsp; "Excuse me.&nbsp; Could you point me to the owner of the establishment, please?"&nbsp; Words and vocal civility were easy enough, even if she looked like a rugged wanderer.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yaracyrrah</strong> on <strong>02-08-2022, 00:42:00</strong>
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				Priya had not planned to stop in Daymare.&nbsp; Neither had she planned not to stop there.&nbsp; Priya's plans were rarely more detailed than "go that way", because she rarely had reason to be in any particular place at any particular time.<br><br>Most Pantazians took her for a Wanderer.&nbsp; They were not too far wrong: Priya herself felt many similarities between the ways of the spirit-guided nomads and her own Path.&nbsp; In her experience, at least, most Wanderers were closer to Samatya-Prasada than to Samatya-Dharmayu. but that was usually no disharmony, just a harmonious diversity.<br><br>Priya reached Daymare as the sun approached the peak of the sky.&nbsp; As usual, she was dusty but dry: it took more than a desert summer to discomfort an experienced sadhaka.&nbsp; As usual, she drew curious glances from many of the people she passed by.&nbsp; As usual, she politely ignored those glances, maintaining a polite smile that grew slightly wider if she chanced to make eye contact.&nbsp; Even many of the usual hawkers did not address her: by her attire she was obviously an ascetic, not a potential customer.&nbsp; Those who did address her received no reaction.&nbsp; It had taken her some time to learn that ignoring such overtures was the harmonious way for those who had no desire to engage in commerce.&nbsp; But Priya always tried to view foreign customs as delightful even when--especially when--they were discordant with those of her homeland.&nbsp; Finding harmony even in discord was among the highest arts of her Path.<br><br>Priya was not thirsty; water was rare in the desert, but apana was abundant, and for her that served almost as well.&nbsp; But Priya was also not a fool.&nbsp; When she spotted a tavern, she did not turn down the opportunity to replenish her supplies.&nbsp; Inside, she approached the counter and found that the taverner was engaged with another customer: a blonde woman--at least as usual as Priya herself, to Priya's surprise and delight--who carried the dressed carcass of a deer upon her shoulders, and was, if Priya understood correctly, offering that carcass for trade.&nbsp; Priya kept one ear on their conversation and curiously surveyed the rest of the common room as she waited patiently for her turn to be helped.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Brittlby</strong> on <strong>03-08-2022, 02:47:27</strong>
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				<br>The brass quill scratched audibly across the rough parchment as Zeksi faithfully reproduced the strange creature she had seen two days before. She had heard tales of such beasts in other volumes, though she was long skeptical that they were real. But seeing was believing, and she reproduced the ridiculously long ears of the furry creature as best she could while keeping a straight face. <br><br>The barmaid had helpfully identified it by the local common name for the creature, a “rabbit”, adding that the tavern not only served the animal in a soup, but that it was “quite nice with pumpernickel”. <br><br>Zeksi declined, as she had just eaten four days earlier and was still rather full. She offered the tapstress a warm smile as she refilled her whiskey, before she set down her quill. The Souillure was in the habit of giving one thing at a time the proper attention. It helped her immensely in public settings and cities if she focused on something within her sight. Her whiskey in this case, as she produced a slim leather case and with an alchemist’s focus, proceeded to add her own honey and spice mix to the glass, stirring with one of dozens of slender blackroot twigs she stored in the case. <br><br>She kept her thoughts on the whiskey, ignoring the three rats beneath her stool and beneath the floor as they fought over a day old sausage that had fallen though a crack in the boards. She was also hazily aware of a dozen other random things, like little fishhooks in her mind’s eye. <br><br>A barber surgeon two blocks away who had just begun whipping up shaving cream for a customer. A pair of shoes a little boy’s spiteful sister had hidden from him in the hay of a horse stall almost a mile south. An elf hunter carrying the grisly remains of a skinned deer… three meters away. <br><br>Zeksi tilted her head to the side sharply, with the same look someone might have after being snuck up on as her mind’s eye shifted to the huntress sharply enough to make her slightly dizzy. The surveyor drew in a slow breath, tapping her blackroot stir against the rim of her glass before sucking on the thin licorice flavored twig. <br><br>This lack of focus was new to Zeksi as she had spent decades learning to center herself and concentrate within to drown out the “noise”. As reliable and steady as true North to a compass, typically, a week ago she discovered that whatever ethereal lodestone she had always found within herself had somehow… moved. <br><br>Testing for the hundredth time in a handful of days, she removed the blackroot from her mouth and held it between her thumb and forefinger. The slim black twig remained pointing straight up at the ceiling for a few moment before it started to bend and twist frantically in her grasp. It struggled like a dog on a leash, her gift more desperate to lead her than she had ever seen before. With a sharp wooden crack, the tip of the twig bent at a ninety degree angle and separated itself from the bit between her fingers. <br><br>It whistled through the air, the slender tip jamming itself an inch into the bartop between Veret and Eled with such force that Zeksi immediately reached for her handkerchief. From the other side of the bar, the surveyor in a Pantazian uniform waved the lace white square like a surrender flag, “Forgive me! That… got away from me!”<br><br>She quickly closed and locked her book, gathering her tools and beverage before she scooted her stool over towards them, “If words are but wind to you, then let me offer you a drink to give the apology some weight!” <br><br>Zeksi wasn’t entirely certain what it was she was doing here or what business she had with the trio… but she enjoyed the advantage of knowing at least she was definitely in the right place. She just didn’t know for what. 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Hamlowe</strong> on <strong>08-08-2022, 03:15:23</strong>
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				A pittance for pay—piss-poor, really. But beggars could not be choosers, and to a man trained in fighting from his youth, any opportunity to fight would be good. Perhaps there was merit to the idea of building up a name not well-known outside some bordermarches only recently added to the Rose Empire. Notoriety was no substitute for food, but perhaps it would suffice for a time.<br><br>It was with that in mind that Maksym the Swift led his mule to the old tavern. "Might be a while, Izh," he murmured, patting her shoulder affectionately as if to offset the burden of the armor-pieces hanging off it. The only one he still wore was the easiest, a brigandine faced in black silk with rivets shining in the noon sunlight. Pausing, the warrior did something that might have looked odd. He took a deep breath, as if willing himself to swell up, then set forward to the tavern with a different sort of air.<br><br>He entered with the breezy confidence of a veteran fighter, sizing up the interior in general and the group gathering rapidly round the bar in particular. If anybody was going to be answering the call, this would be it. Even so, he didn't approach directly, but rather fished out a few coins as he approached the bar.<br><br>While he paid for the nameless drink, he carried on a different conversation with the bartender. "I heard tell of a captain putting together some fighters," he began, his voice elevated just enough to be overheard. "Know where I can find this intrepid fellow?"
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				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>John Birch</strong> on <strong>24-08-2022, 04:31:02</strong>
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				Valstadt Averus was in the throes of the worst combination of adjectives a person could experience: hungry, and penniless, at the same time.<br><br>The sights and smells of the Daymare bazaar tantalized him, as an open wound taunts a blood-starved vampire– the piquant scent of meats grilling, the sight of foreign spices piled high in all colors of the rainbow, even the occasional sound of a passerby crunching into an apple or a stallkeeper calling out the foods they were selling. He was beginning to suspect the grumbling of his famished belly could be heard even over the din of the bazaar– and, for that matter, the enormous backpack slung over his shoulders seemed to get a little heavier every time he saw some delicious-looking Pantazian pastry or a bushel of fruit sitting on a stall and calling out to be bought and devoured. <em>Any one of these hucksters would shell out a bag full of gold for a fraction of what you’ve got in that pack</em>, they seemed to be saying. <em>You could dine like an emperor tonight.</em><br><br>He ignored the weight and walked on. He’d already had to sell one of his books to pay for room and board back in Sunscorch, and it’d felt like selling his own child into servitude. The only thought more contemptible, more unacceptable at this point was the prospect of returning home to Red Moss Bog with nothing to show for his travels– no great discoveries, no legendary exploits, nothing but a backpack with his old Academy robes and a little library of books, now sans one.<br><br>“Here’s hoping the tavern could use a magical helping hand,” he grumbled under his breath (a bad habit gleaned back at the Academy, where it was often said that it was perfectly fine to talk to the books, so long as they didn’t talk back). “Or a physical helping hand. I’m not sure I have the privilege of being picky anymore.” A passing Pantazian soldier shot him a watchful glance, but seemed to think better of hassling what was clearly a mildly deranged but otherwise harmless orc traveler. On he went.<br><br>He knew he’d reached the tavern when he saw the wooden sign over the doorway– and when he saw the small throng of people gathered around the entrance. As he approached, he saw them walk away one by one, some of them laughing, others shaking their heads ruefully, until he saw what they’d been gathered around– the tavern’s bulletin board, with one lone posting taking center stage, as if it had muscled all the competition off the board in its zeal to get attention. It didn’t take long to figure out why the crowd had so quickly dissipated; Valstadt’s eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline when he saw the pittance that was being offered. “And I’m supposed to sit in a village for who knows how long fighting off bandits for that?” He snorted and shook his head ruefully, turning away. “Forget it. Let’s stick with the plan and ask the tav–”<br><br>Mid-sentence, his stomach unleashed a bellow so cavernous Valstadt thought he saw passersby look to the skies in search of dragons. Frowning, he glanced back at the job posting, and almost felt as though it were grinning back at him, daring him to take it.<br><br>“... fine,” he conceded. “You’re my backup plan. You’re not my main plan. Just the backup plan.”<br><br>.<br><br>.<br><br>.<br><br>The following day, the backup plan became the main plan.<br><br>By the time Valstadt arrived at the tavern, he’d managed to fill his stomach with two apples and a handful of berries– the fruits (no pun intended) of an hour spent grudgingly entertaining children and their parents the night before. Still, it was lunchtime, and the hunger was back in full force to remind him just why he was here.<br><br>He wasn’t, as it turned out, the only one.<br><br>Indeed, Captain Qasval couldn’t help but feel that her cup had run over. “Hardly any of these people are here to help us,” Veret muttered.<br><br>“To the contrary,” Qasval said with a grin, effortlessly allowing the drinking glass to fall from her nose into her hand. “They just don’t know it yet.” And then, setting the glass on the bar, she swept out of her seat, and made a beeline for the elf with the deer slung over her shoulders.<br><br>“That’s a hell of a way to make an entrance,” she said. “I’m not the owner, but I think I can do you one better– if, that is, you’re looking for an opportunity to do some good.”<br><br>Meanwhile, Veret was nonplussed to find herself faced with a woman in Pantazian livery– and yet, she was somehow certain, anything but a standard Rose Army grunt. The woman had siddled up to her and Eled, offering a drink in redress for nearly murdering the two of them with a twig. Veret recognized the first half of the couplet the woman had quoted– an old piece of desert folklore, maybe as old as the desert itself– and hesitated a moment. She glanced about for the captain, saw her some distance away chatting with the woman with the deer over her shoulders, and decided she didn’t need the captain just now.<br><br>“Words may be but wind to me,” she said slowly. “But a stranger’s kindness is a wellspring. We need help. Perhaps you can give it.”<br><br>By then, a man in brigandine had stepped up to the bar. “I heard tell of a captain putting together some fighters," he said loudly. "Know where I can find this intrepid fellow?"<br><br>“Uh, begging your pardon,” a tall, lanky orc with a neatly trimmed beard and long black hair pulled back into a ponytail interjected. “That’s why I’m here as well.”<br><br>“Then look no further!” came the captain’s booming voice. She vaulted her way up onto the bar, chest puffed out and duster billowing behind her like a cloak, and would have resembled a statue of some prideful, mighty deity if not for the fact that the rest of the bar was not so much worshiping her as it was watching her with a mixture of confusion, irritation, and vague interest.<br><br>“I’m Captain Qasval,” she said, sticking a thumb into her chest. “And you’re all here because, even as we speak, evil and injustice are running rampant through the land, and we refuse to believe we can’t do anything about it. We refuse to believe the world is, at its core, a corrupt and sinful place. And we refuse to believe that we don’t have the power to fight evil, and banish it from our world.”<br><br>She gestured with a hand to Veret and Eled, both of whom looked unbelievably uncomfortable at the theater unfolding before them. “A small, defenseless village reaches out a trembling hand for help. How easy would it be to simply say no– to look away and reason that it’s just the way of the world? We refuse. We will not look away. We reach back out with both hands, to comfort the bereaved, to protect the helpless, to vanquish the unjust. That’s why we’re answering the call, to defend a desert village from the ravages of banditry– that’s why we’re here. To be <em>big. Damn. Heroes</em>.” She placed one hand on her hip, rested the other on the pommel of her sword, and with a broad grin, finished, “Who’s with me?”<br><br>A moment of silence took hold over the bar. A small voice from some dusty corner of the tavern asked, “Uh, how much did you say the job pays?”<br><br>“I will not be taking questions at this time,” Qasval announced without the faintest change in expression. “Anyway, who’s with me?”
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yaracyrrah</strong> on <strong>24-08-2022, 08:44:44</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Some faiths and philosophies believe that certain people are in certain places at certain times for certain reasons.&nbsp; Call it fate, destiny, kismet, or any other name; the concept is nearly universal.&nbsp; Vijnayans call it "niyati", and they understand it better than most: they know that it is not real.&nbsp; Niyati is just a pattern, and patterns are merely subjective,&nbsp; Where you perceive order, I may perceive chaos, and vice versa.&nbsp; Neither of us is wrong, or both of us are.&nbsp; Reality is neither orderly nor disorderly; it simply is.<br><br>To Priya, the situation in the tavern seemed chaotic: many people with many goals who just happened to be in the same room at the same time.&nbsp; That was irrelevant.&nbsp; Order and chaos are quite different from harmony and disharmony, and only the latter are important.&nbsp; In Priya's understanding, the chaos of the tavern was mostly harmonious: most of the people were pursuing their diverse goals in harmonious ways.&nbsp; The only obvious disharmony was the windbag atop the bar, interrupting other conversations with her self-important theatricality.&nbsp; Priya heard her words but did not heed them.&nbsp; They, and she, were not important.<br><br>Because she was not focused on Qasval, she immediately noticed what <em>was</em> important: the pain on the faces of the two poor villagers.&nbsp; They were not merely uncomfortable in the present situation, or embarrassed at the attention the blowhard was bringing upon them.&nbsp; They were truly afraid.&nbsp; They needed help.&nbsp; That was the real disharmony here.<br><br>Priya was not the only person to have noticed: a Pantazian official of some sort was already speaking quietly with the woman.&nbsp; Priya went to join them.&nbsp; The diminutive dark-skinned woman wove her way to the table and placed herself politely in view of the villagers and the official, and waited for their notice.&nbsp; "If help is needed here, I offer it," she said, in almost unaccented Pantazian, just loudly enough to be heard.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>AndyZ</strong> on <strong>25-08-2022, 03:24:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0f/21A2C091-10B3-4EBF-AFA6-3A4D9CE24C5A.png)</div>Vylara blinked a bit in surprise and confusion as someone came up who wasn't the owner, and she listened. a soft smile forming upon her lips.&nbsp; If nothing else, she liked Captain Qasval's style, and even though she definitely had questions, it sounded like a fun opportunity and she wanted to hear more.<br><br>"My name is Vylara," she introduced herself, "of Stonewood Forest.&nbsp; I'm an arcane archer by trade, and I at least want a chance to see about if we'll be heading out immediately or in a few days, but I'm definitely interested."<br><br>Maybe it really was best to take the deer back to the market.&nbsp; The last city where she tried that, though, she was fabulously underpaid when she found out how much deer meat usually cost, and was just hoping to cut out the middleman this time.&nbsp; That said, it sounded as though they might be leaving quickly, in which case she wouldn't need a room anyway.&nbsp; It would have been nice to get a soft bed for a bit, but then, it wasn't strictly necessary or important to her.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Big Damn Heroes (IC)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Hamlowe</strong> on <strong>10-09-2022, 23:23:29</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The first surprise was that in a town like this, Maksym wasn't alone in seeking a fortune of soldiery. The second surprise was that he'd already found the intrepid woman he'd unwittingly sought. She wasted no time in declaiming, loudly and inspirationally, the plights of the poor around them and the need for heroes. Not just any heroes, either—she wanted heroes of a certain caliber. That much was clear.<br><br>And Maksym, hearing that, knew he'd found his next job. The sight of a wandering ascetic and a self-declared "arcane archer" (a novelty to his ears) pledging their...interest, if not their loyalty, reinforced his resolve. "Count me in," he said solemnly, raising his drink in an ad hoc toast to the Captain. "Maksym the Swift hears and answers the call."<br><br>Those words resonated for a moment, then he awkwardly lowered his drink. She said no questions, but he still had to know: "Are we talking about this village, or somewhere else?" He hadn't noticed any particular signs of banditry around here, but he also hadn't been looking.
			</dd>
		</dl>
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