Chapter 5: A Proposal at the Old Bridge Inn

The Old Bridge Inn is a large and comfortable establishment, all awash in the golden glow of a massive fireplace. The large cooking stone in the kitchen sizzles and gives off delicious smells. The bar itself is of an old and heavy oak, and boasts a fine assortment of ales, liquors, and wines. The taproom seems at least half full, most folks worriedly talking about the town's recent troubles. Still, an atmosphere of cheer and comfort pervades all here. The bartender is a halfling man with an easy demeanor and broad smile. His hair is in neat cornrows. Three maids serve the tables.

Keith sits exhaustedly at a table.

Draggert tests the strength of a chair next to Keith carefully, and sits.

Corrigan sits in a shadowy corner, his hood up.

Throrin climbs a stool at the bar and sits there, letting his feet dangle.

Draggert: Keith.

Keith sighs resignedly.
Keith: Yes?

Draggert: Do you wish to trade, give, or receive gifts or tales?
He waits for a response.

Keith fishes a sunrod out of his pocket. He thinks twice before finally deciding to place it in the giant half-orc's hand.
Keith: You seen one of these?

Draggert: Yes. You snap them and they are sunny.
He seems pleased.
Draggert: Do you read human language, Keith?

Keith: It's pretty much all I do.

Draggert hands Keith a book. The title reads "Elven Ethics."
Draggert: You may have this if you read it out loud. I need what is in this book. I was told so.

Keith scoffs.
Keith: It's comedy, Draggert.

Draggert: My elf friend Lorathaul say I must know book inside and out. Lorathual pull me from sinking death sand. I show him cave of goblin. We kill goblins, count monies, and eat. He give me great big elf axe because his smaller arm no longer work because of sky-colored goblin with invisible mystery power. Lorathaul gave me book and said I must know inside and out or other elves would kill me.

Keith: Mystery power, eh? Come with me, Draggert.
Keith stands and leads the half-orc outside onto the town green. He points a hand up at the sky, makes a few subtle motions and says a few ominous words.

Draggert prepares for trouble.

A fork of blue lightning very suddenly pierced the sky in Drellin's Ferry that night. The locals who saw it said it must have been a bad omen, for there was not a storm for miles.

Draggert jumps, then stares at Keith.
Draggert: You use mystery power, Keith? Did you make lightning?

Keith winks at Draggert, slowly walking back to the inn, suddenly feeling even more tired.
Keith: The answer, Draggert, is that powers are not a mystery to some, at all.

Draggert follows Keith back inside.

The halfling barkeep has stools of his own set up on the serving side of the human-sized bar. He leaps adeptly from stool to stool as he serves drinks.

Halfling Barkeep: What'll you have, sir? I have a dwarven stout.

Throrin: You're reading my stomach, little cousin.

The barkeep smiles and flits between stools, sliding Throrin the mug down the bar without spilling a drop.

Throrin takes several long draughts, then belches loudly.

Corrigan sinks into his chair, overhearing a conversation being held at the table above him, on the small upper-level balcony. A middle-aged man with a serious face and a salt-and-pepper beard talks forcefully with a red-haired woman in a chain shirt. They are arguing about what to do about the town's recent troubles. The man is in favor of speaking to "the strangers" in town, while the woman explains that she doesn't trust them. The man counters that Sergeant Hersk vouched for at least one of them, and that if anyone is going to get hurt, it might as well be strangers.

Corrigan arches an eyebrow, and stands up. He moves to the bar near Throrin just as Keith and Draggert reenter the room. He motions for the others to come close.

Draggert approaches.
Draggert: You drink good, Throrin, like fish dying on land.

Throrin finishes his stout in one long pull.
Throrin: Just lubricating my wind pipe.

Corrigan: I just overheard an interesting conversation up in the balcony. But first, have any of you ever seen this image?
Corrigan withdraws a charcoal sketch of the symbol of the five-headed lizard from the green earlier.

Throrin: That be the unholy symbol o' Tiamat, lad. Or at least damned close.

Corrigan: Tiamat?

Throrin: Aye, the evil dragon goddess. Where'd ye find that?

Corrigan: A friend gave it to me. There must be a connection between this dragon goddess and the symbol of the red hand.
He puts the drawing away, shaking his head and feeling uneasy.
Corrigan: Anyway, there's a man and a woman talking about us up in the balcony. It seems he wants our help, but the lady doesn't trust outsiders.

Throrin: Wise of her.

Draggert: I will be here long season. I can help.

Keith: That might be Norro, the town speaker. I'll go see.
Keith stands and makes his way to the balcony area, the others following behind.

The older man looks up and his conversation stops abruptly as Keith and the others reach the top of the small balcony, crowding around the end of a long table, the only seating available above the common room.

Older man: And here they are at last! Welcome to Drellin's Ferry, strangers. I am town speaker Norro Wiston, and this is the captain of my guard, Anitah Soranna. Please, have a seat. We were just discussing a proposal we may have for you.

Captain Sorannah's expression darkens perceptibly as the group sits down and she shoots Wiston a nasty look.

Keith extends a hand to shake Wiston's.
Keith: Keith Waxloor, apprentice to Immerstal the Red of Brindol.

Speaker Wiston: Ah! Excellent.
He gives Captain Sorannah a superior glance.
Speaker Wiston: We would welcome the help of a talented mage, as any apprentice of Immerstal's must no doubt be. And, to be frank, the lot of you are quite well-armed, and you seem capable. Sergeant Hersk tells me you defeated a sizable force of hobgoblin bandits on the road. Our town is besieged by these hobgoblin brutes. They raid our distant farms and harry any attempts to pass nearby roads. They are a pox on safety, prosperity, and commerce in my lands.

Captain Sorannah interrupts the speaker.
Captain Sorannah: We've dealt with their kind ourselves plenty of times before, but this force is different. It's large and organized. My scouts think it's likely that a large tribe might be on its way down out of the Wyrmsmoke Mountains. It may even be large enough to sack the town.

Keith looks out of the small, square-cut window on the balcony at the quaint, tiny lights of the town at night, hearths and oil lamps burning in cozy cottages.
Keith: A bustling metropolis like this, eh? I certainly understand your concern.

Captain Sorannah frowns at Keith, as the speaker cuts back in.

Speaker Wiston: There may not be an immediate threat to our homes, but the road to the west is our lifeblood. If the Dawn Way is not kept open, trade into all of Elsir Vale will suffer, and we will suffer first. We need to repel the raiders from our town if they come, but we also need to keep that road open. That's where you come in. If you help us, you'd be helping an awful lot of people.

Corrigan: Of course, but what's in it for us?

Captain Sorannah gives Speaker Wiston the most telling look of all. She speaks a touch too loud, a note of bitterness in her voice.
Captain Sorannah: Of course we don't expect you to help us out of the kindness of your own hearts. We can pay each of you five hundred gold crowns.

Keith frowns.
Keith: For a warrior as fine as Corrigan? I'd say seven hundred is more his going rate.

Throrin practically shouts.
Throrin: Noble endeavors are their own reward! Making widows of goblin whores is entertainment, no payment needed.

Captain Sorannah: You'll be facing off against dozens of hobgoblin warriors. I insist you take some payment.

Throrin stands so that he is as tall as the captain is seated.
Throrin: I'm no money hungry mercenary, wench! You insult my honor and the honor of Clan Hammerfist!

Captain Sorannah stands, too, her hand going to the hilt of her blade.
Captain Sorannah: I have not defended this town tirelessly for seven years to be called wench by some up-jumped dwarven sellsword!

Throrin: Sellsword?! I carry the royal blood of Othrek Hammerhand!

Speaker Wiston stands, as well, and speaks with sudden, powerful authority.
Speaker Wiston: Enough! You will take the offer of five hundred crowns, or you will be on your way at dawn.

Draggert watches all of this quietly, his black eyes wet and blinking.

The group slowly calms down, mumbling a general assent to the speaker's offer. Captain Sorannah stalks off to the window as Throrin sits back down.

Speaker Wiston is once more calm and composed. He sits.
Speaker Wiston: Excellent. In the morning, you will head west down the Dawn Road. If you see any brigands, deal with them. The captain's scouts believe the hobgoblins have a base in the Witchwood, an old ruin called Vraath Keep. There used to be a woodsman off the Witch Trail. Jovy might've been his name? I can't remember. He hasn't been to town in weeks, might already be dead. If not, he can show you the way to Vraath Keep. Once everything is clear and dealt with, report back to me for the other half of your payment. Here's the first half.
Speaker Wiston plinks down several pouches of coin, already counted out in advance.

The group grasps the pouches, divvying them out in equal measure. Corrigan counts the contents, just to be sure. Throrin eyes his pouch distastefully, but accepts it.

Keith: Very well. I think I'll retire. I need to prepare for this journey, and there's a map of the stars I need to study. Goodnight.
Keith rises and heads down the steps and into the back rooms of the inn.

Captain Sorannah leaves, saying nothing beyond the scowl on her face.

Throrin mutters.
Throrin: Bloody she-wolf...

Speaker Wiston rises, and accompanies the rest of you down the stairs before taking his leave. Draggert, Corrigan, and Throrin linger a moment more in the common room. It's late, and many of the patrons have gone home, changing the atmosphere to a quiet stillness interrupted only by the crackling of a log in the hearth and the sound of the bartender getting everything cleaned up for the night.

Draggert leans in to the others, nearly whispering.
Draggert: Do any of you wish to trade, give or receive stories or gifts?

Corrigan smirks.
Corrigan: Sure, Draggert, I'll take a gift.

Draggert smiles and rifles around in his pack. He produces a white, wooden spoon. He presses it gingerly into Corrigan's hand.
Draggert: Here. It is made of ghostwood. It disappears when wet.

Corrigan doesn't really believe him, but he takes the spoon.
Corrigan: Thanks, Draggert.

Draggert smiles, and he goes to sleep on the common room floor, by the cozy fire. The others retire to their rooms for the night.