Test Drive Meme

[ho_mods]

Test Drive Meme

Prompts

1. Ye Olde Tavern - Pull up a chair, stranger. Have a pint. Try the lamb stew! Inns and taverns are the most common way for strangers on an adventure to meet, whether they're on the road to find the next quest, or someone looking for a job (hopefully one that involves annihilating monsters). And if all else fails? BAR FIGHT!

2. Here Be Goblins - Beginning adventurers find goblins to be one of the first monsters they can fight without getting brutally murdered, though veterans might find them to be too weak. Don't underestimate these wily and nasty little fiends! They might not be smart, but there's a LOT of them in this cave, and it reeks of goblin even twenty feet away.

3. Town Festival - What luck! Stopping in this quaint little hamlet to restock on gear and supplies, you're just in time to join the party. It could be a celebration of the recent harvest, a chance to honor a hero of old (maybe your ancestor!), or the local rich guy just decided he wanted to throw a party and rolled out the kegs into town square. Eat! Dance! Fun!

4. Dungeon Crawl - Each dungeon has its own smell...mold, dust, rot, sulfur... None of them fall into the 'pleasant' category. Bring torches, weapons, and wits! You'll need all of these things to find treasure / slay evil creatures / avoid dangerous traps / accidentally unseal a force of evil.

5. So You Accidentally Unsealed a Force of Evil - A nefarious cult has all the ingredients they need to perform an unholy ritual to loose a great demon/god/asshole into the world, and need just one more thing: blood! YOURS! Or your friend's! Or a helpless villager! Only you can stop them. Or maybe you were just too damn late and there goes that evil demon/god/asshole wreaking havoc left and right. Someone should do something about that.

6. So You Successfully Stopped a Force of Evil - You and your teammates have emerged from the cave to see the sun rise. Or beheaded a despot. Or rescued a fishing crew from a horrible sea monster. The point is, you won! What now? Wash off the grime and take a nap? Test out the new magic weapon you found? Brag to that cute adventurer and impress them into dating you? Drink? Drink.

7. Inconvenient Weather - Sometimes the elements just don't want a hero to do the hero thing. There's a raging lightning storm, or a fierce blizzard, or blistering heat... Whatever it is, the smart thing to do is take shelter. Duck into a cave and dry off. See if the inn has any vacancies (or if they'll let you sleep in the hayloft). Set up camp in a magical pocket dimension.

8. Never Get on the Boat - Every seasoned adventurer knows better than to board any sea-faring vessel, lest their bored DM have an excuse to roll out all the horrible aquatic monsters and wait for you to fail your Swimming skill check. But here you are anyway, getting on that ship to fight pirates, find the cursed island, or maybe just catch a really delicious fish. Everyone needs their ocean adventures.

9. Mix It Up! - Randomly select two of the options above and somehow make them fit into one prompt. Be daring! Be bold! Be wild!

Comments

1. Ye Olde Tavern (OTA)

[mannix]

[The young cleric quivered with fright amidst the bustling, jostling group of patrons. Some drunker than others. Life in the cloister hadn't prepared him for so many people and so much noise. Why oh why did they post the adventuring board here? Couldn't it have been in a temple, or library?

But he had to do it. Clerics must be faithful and strong, despite Mannix feeling neither. He weaved through boots and halfling feet, leapt to a chair, then to the table nearest the board. One request looked promising, especially for a greenhorn like him. But even the easiest task likely couldn't be completed alone; he'd need a party. Someone experienced with arcane magic, another with disarming traps...

And that meant he had to speak up. Alas, he didn't learn public speaking in the cloister. He never needed to; the quiet monks were so attentive and easy to talk to. And this was so hard. But he has to; he can't let glossophobia win.]

"...Um...excuse me..."

[None heard the meek mouse. They carried on their chatter and revelry. He tried a few more times to no avail. Perhaps he should've learned the Thaumaturgy cantrip instead. The entire tavern would've paid attention then. Or would that be a misuse of divine power?

This isn't working. He'd have to raise his voice with all his might for any hope of response. He swallowed, trusting in the Good to see him through. He breathed deeply, then exploded in his squeaky, shrill way.]

"EXCUSE ME! I, M-M-Mannix, a cleric of The Good, huh-humbly request..."

[That was as far as he got. One woman shrieked and jutted from the table. He'd never understood the fear of mice; his species aren't dangerous. Heads turned. Ambient noise vanished. One baritone exclaimed.]

"A talking mouse?"
"Mayhaps; prolly just a wizard's familiar having a laugh."
"Haha, bloody Hells! The Church is usin' vermin now? Soon enough me own dog will start preachin' 'bout the glory o' tha Goodness."

[Mannix wasn't used to bawdy comedy, much less being its butt.]

"Please, I ask for any whose talents lie in the field--"
"Haha, that voice! Have you ever heard such piping in your life?"
"Bah, I still say 's a trick. Either I've been drinking too much, or thas' a gnome illusionist's work. Ain't they good with, uh, woodland critters 'n such?"

[The theory begged investigation. In moments he was jabbed with a curious finger, and the robe he wore over his armor was lifted.]

"Haha, no, that's real! It's armored like a cleric, thas' for sure. Come get a look at this teensy armor! What dwarf's behind that? I know The Church is mad for converts; never thought they'd start ordinatin' bloody mice!"

"The word is ordain. But please, this is no laughing matter--"

[But his voice, shrunk by anxiety, was crowded out by just that: roaring laughter. His master told him to expect mockery; the faithful didn't always receive reverence. He hung his head and wished to crawl into a hole just the same. How was he ever going to become a worthy adventurer at this rate?]

[kecuala]

The tavern was indeed a noisy, crowded place, but screams and inebriated harassment fortunately carried further than one small voice. In all the chaos, it was easy to miss the hulking figure at a distant table looking placidly up from the last remnants of a bowl of that lamb stew. He blinked once, twice, calmly placed his payment for the server, and got to his feet.

His clawed feet were bare, his steps heavy, and his thick alligator's tail lightly dragged the tavern floor as he lumbered up to the crowd around the mouse. Some of them noticed the newcomer, some did not. He was a lizardfolk, tall enough to tower over the average human man and broad as a great green brick wall. Even a warrior's arm might have broken in those jaws. He was grinning.

"That, my good friends, is the wonderful thing about religions." His voice was a pleasant, easygoing rumble. He put one of his muscular arms each around the shoulders of the men to either side of him, lowering his head to their level - which rather conspicuously made the amulet he was wearing swing freely at his neck. The religion might have been unfamiliar, but it was recognizably a holy symbol.

"Some of them will accept anyone." He was still grinning. "Don't you think that is wonderful?"

[mannix]

Patiently waiting for the tavern to regain its composure, he looked at the new, scaly face with wonder. His first guess would've been Dragonborn, though the tail ruled that out. That could only mean a Lizardfolk; an answer that raised more questions. Mannix had read that they were particularly savage; a race whose thoughts were so cold-blooded and alien that laughter, if they learned it at all, had to be done with conscious effort. This one, on the contrary, seemed warm and, dare he say, articulate? One could even, with attention, parse his (or her? He's not clear on their sexual dimorphism) mood through countenance. No mean feat given their rigid, reptilian faces.

He curiously studied that holy symbol, racking his brain for all the strange faiths he'd studied outside his own. Stranger still is how a Lizardfolk could bear it in earnest. They seemed a simple people, wholly unsuited for the deep abstractions demanded by theology and dogma. Then again, who simpler than a common house mouse? Was his own origin any less fantastic? All he knew for certain is that, worryingly, he didn't share it. The Church--so named for its sheer ubiquity--was fiercely competitive, and wouldn't rest until it claimed every soul. He wondered whether spiritual enmity wasn't in the cards.

But his intuition told otherwise for now. His was a refreshing, pleasant, friendly face, which Mannix sorely wanted after being away from the ones he knew. The ones he'd grappled read it differently, sensing the arch-typical gentle giant: one equally eager to ward or finish a bar brawl, as needed. They laughed nervously.

Situation thoroughly thought through, Mannix recalled sage socializing advice dispensed by his master. Introduce yourself by name. Also, if possible, speak special languages. It tends to endear others more. Thankfully, he knew Draconic. Being an ancient language heavily associated with magic's study, it was right up his alley.

"W-Wux seem ekess renthisj de experience. Mel'doryen. Si mi Mannix, sunathear di Wer Bensvelk." (You seem to speak from experience. Good afternoon. I'm Mannix, cleric of The Good.)

As though his voice weren't amusing enough, altering it with the harsh language of Draconic provoked mock piety.

"Ah! He's speaking in tongues now! It's a miracle! A miracle mouse, before our very eyes! Praise be to The Goodness, hahaha!"

[kecuala]

With his scaly arms still resting companionably about the shoulders of the now rather less boisterous men, the looming giant listened attentively to Mannix's introduction. He never let out so much as a snort at the sound of such a small speaker wrangling such a mighty language, and neither did his relaxed demeanor falter when a much louder voice decided to offer an opinion.

The lizardfolk did lazily turn his head towards the interrupting speaker at the next table over, but only for a long enough moment to make eye contact. He made no hostile gesture, but he looked, and then just as lazily he looked away.

His attention back on the mouse, he answered in his own deep rumble, the ancient words emerging booming and primal from his toothy jaws. "(Experience and my heart. Well met, Mannix, cleric of The Good! I am Goroket of the Bitten River tribe, priest of Kecuala. If you would like a calmer table than this I will welcome you to sit at mine, or if you must remain here I will shield you. These good people-)"

And here his arms lightly squeezed the two men's shoulders, as though they were all the very oldest of friends. Neither of them being fluent in Draconic, they now looked nervous and lost.

"(-have regrettably drowned their manners in drink.)"

[mannix]

"(That explains.)" The deity, he means. He remembers a small passage about a mythical time when the lizardfolk's deities were two. No wonder this one is so civilized, if he comes from the other side of that dualism.

He tensed at the insinuation of "shield." Was the situation so dire? He scanned the room again, sensing that now others are as uneasy as he was. Strange language, strange persons, the tension of explicit humor and implicit threat. Calm sounded like a welcome remedy. He went back to Common.

"Thank you for your hospitality. Let's repair to your table, and let other adventurers have this one until I'm ready to join their ranks."

If nothing else he felt sorry for the two inches away from a headlock. He nodded and got down, letting Goroket clear the path. He could feel the eyes of many on his back, and he hoped that time would smooth his presence so that his desire for adventuring companions might bear fruit.

Another piece of communal wisdom lit his mind: find points in common.

"We both walk barefoot", he noted. "Do you serve under the Knowledge Domain too? That's mine. Are you a male of your species? I am."

As he got to the tabletop, a heavenly waft from the leftover stew raised a prescient inequality and his most pressing question yet.

"Are you finished with that?"

[kecuala]

It was, Goroket thought, probably the better choice. He did not care to use his advantaged position of size and strength to put pressure on the decisions of one who needed aid, and so did not say this, but it was in his thoughts. Rowdy, ungentle drunks who had already been poking and manhandling a tiny being to show off for their friends seemed like an accident waiting to happen, above and beyond the bullying. And so he turned his huge head amiably towards one of the men at his side, and just as amiably said: "As our new friend says, he and I will go and talk for a while. I hope we can share drinks another time."

The man nodded quickly. Goroket patted them both on the back, turned, and lumbered once more in the direction of his table, paying no more mind to the eyes upon them than a mountain might. After all, they were all friends. All. Friends.

He good-naturedly endured the flurry of questions as they went, and grinned most widely (though less toothily than before) at the last of those. "What I have, I give. It would be a poor offering for a larger guest, but what luck - for the guest I invite today, it is a good amount." Indeed, they could probably feed at least a second mouse while they were at it.

"To answer the rest, yes, I too am male." He didn't mind the question; it wasn't the first time. "And I am not a Knowledge priest, though there are those in Kecuala's service, and I am warm in my heart that an outsider knows at least that much. My devotion is the path of the Forge, a place of shaping and purification, though I did not wear my war-gear today."

He was dressed quite plainly, and there was only that hand axe at his belt, its blade carefully fitted with a sheath. Of course, no lizardfolk was ever really unarmored. Or unarmed.

[mannix]

Oh, thank Good's good providence! Intemperately he'd chewed through his rations, and didn't like the idea of searching for scraps. How he missed warm, or at least lukewarm, meals. Mannix immediately dug in, stuffing his cheeks.

Between bites he continued to ponder. The Forge domain was a fearsome one; it brought to mind the Heat Metal spell and what disaster it'd be if used by an enemy. Should he wear hide armor instead? Then again, where would he find one to make such small barding?

While he's wondering, he has to wonder about Goroket's words. "You called me 'friend' back there. You said the same for the two men who seemed strangers. What do you mean by that word?" It couldn't have been the normal usage; that implied familiarity and equality. Was it a Lizardfolk nuance?

Once he'd gotten an answer there, he'd keep looking for more. Such is the way of Knowledge clerics and their endless questions. Or perhaps it's just mousey curiosity. "Have you...often made use of your war-gear?"

[kecuala]

Goroket sat with his arms loosely folded in front of him, supporting his weight as he leaned slightly forward on the table. Now that people were starting to go back to their conversations, it helped to keep his head somewhat closer to (though not quite at) his guest's level. He was not hard of hearing, but a mouse's voice was of course a bit small for a noisy room.

"Ahh," he said, in the tone of one grinning widely, though again he did not show quite so many teeth. "This is...I will not say difficult to translate, because it is not a matter of Common and Draconic. But some faithful say to one another 'mother' and 'father' though they are not, yes? Brother, sister. 'My child.' Not blood, but like. And to say 'hello, sister' reminds the speaker and the spoken-to of the views they should hold in their hearts."

"I follow the way of the Forge, and in the name of Kecuala it is more than metal and flame. A weak link breaks the strongest chain, yes? A group of people is like this also. It must all hold together. And so I say 'friend, friend.' I remind myself. I remind others. And if I say 'friend' and another sees they have not acted as a friend should, perhaps they will fortunately mend their ways." Even if he must make them a little nervous to help the process along.

"Other times, not so fortunate. My war-gear has seen much use, yes." The big priest's eyes are a fiery orange color, though they have the look of sleepy embers as they thoughtfully observe the hungry mouse. "And your armor, Mannix of The Good? What has it seen?"

[mannix]

Ever the prey animal, Goroket's nearer presence made Mannix subconsciously shrink. He could not help but mind Lizardfolk's tendency for biting, however remote the possibility. The constant suppression of fear is his cross to carry. Thankfully, the conversation turned theological and cerebral; his favorite balm against bodily fear.

"Oh, though--in The Church, at least--they are. When we say 'sister' or 'brother' to one another, we refer to a unity of spirit, which is deeper than blood. Thus we speak a greater relation.

I see. You spoke not of an 'is', but an 'ought.'" He paused to consider the implications.

"...I have read that friendship means concordant wills, and a happiness that enables virtue to flourish through mutual beneficence, and being closer than blood-brotherhood." Shyly, thoughtfully, he took inventory. Were the monks his friends? If so, they were very distant ones, whose walks of life had turned drastically different. He forced himself to look at one of another faith, and asked, "is that what you wish with me?"

It was strange to think such a deep bond could come so soon. Then again, his master assured him that, if he is faithful, he will receive all he needs.

Like, perhaps, advice. His posture and his heart sank a little as he replied, "Only my fur and my habit. I have never fought." Indeed, he'd spent all his life with those who were the picture of peace. To go from that to preparing to hurt and kill was almost anathema to his core.

"...And you have. How...how do you...do that?" Eloquence failed him. The Church may have frowned upon seeking aid from one belonging to a heathen faith about faith's hard practice. Nonetheless, he was new and unsure, whereas Goroket could speak from experience. Something Mannix sorely lacked.

[kecuala]

Is and ought. It was a good way to put it, he thought to himself, and nodded slightly in the moment of that pause. One could describe the whole of Kecuala's priesthood with that distinction, really: the observing, preserving lore-priests were what-is, and the active craftsmanship of the self and society, the forge-priests, were what-ought. Goroket himself was even more what-ought than most - and then the mouse making a fortunate meal out of his table scraps shyly asked him if that was what he wished, and with an untroubled look in the embers of his eyes and no hesitation whatsoever he answered: "Certainly it is."

As far as he was concerned, it really was that easy. Or ought to be, which to him amounted to the same thing. As to the rest-

"Ah," he said again, this time without grinning at all, though his mood was quiet rather than stern. "Well...even the Bitten River people still live close with death. It is familiar, like rain. What we farm and fish we kill. Sometimes we must fight wild beasts, or other tribes. So while there is no joy in my heart to do it, it is familiar. And when there is a choice of futures to be forged by my hands, and one is far worse, I find that it is also not difficult."

"If either the highwayman or his victim must die, if I am either responsible for his death by my action or his victim's by my inaction, I will strike the highwayman dead. But if I need only hurt him very badly, then at least he may live. And if I need only hurt him a little, then at least he is not hurt very badly. And if I need not hurt him at all-" (here the grin returned) "-then that is a good day."

[mannix]

Mannix nodded slightly, wishing he could share Goroket's lightness. Then again, if any race lacked softness about the subject, it would be Lizardfolk. He knew that he'd learned how to wield Sacred Flame for good reason. Perhaps a metaphor a forge cleric would like might help?

"...perhaps an untried spirit is like an unmade blade. What was once warm and pliant is, through many blows, hardened and cooled till it is fit for its design."

He stared blankly for a few moments, then strove to talk and think of something happier.

"I...wish that too." Partly due to small land mammals' constant desire for allies and resources. Partly due to what he's read. Old philosophers described friendship as, after religious ecstasy, the greatest happiness mortals could hope to have. And Mannix takes what he reads very seriously. Especially the part about "concordant wills".

"Will you convert? I know all theological essentials. I can't initiate you, but could well lead you to one who could..." He started out very enthusiastic, for he'd never entertained the possibility. Gradually his naivete receded until cold reason told that it wouldn't be so easy. Even Mannix knew how difficult capturing the soul of an outside priest would be. Still, The Church demanded evangelism, and Mannix obeys.

[sealteam6]

"Here now, here now, that's quite enough! Have we resorted to mocking our fellows?" What appeared to be an elven girl was pushing her way forward to the table. She'd heard the chatter, but even that wasn't enough to prepare her for what she saw. In her experience, 'talking mouse' meant 'ratfolk'. "Pick on someone your own--" Her eyes dropped to about where a halfling's head might be, but to her shock, it was exactly as they'd said: a real mouse, one that seemed very distressed indeed. "--oh! Well now."

How cute. ♥

She recovered from her surprise swiftly, raised brows dropping low once more. "Let the little one speak." Her hand touched the table, palm turned upward. It must be quite dangerous in a place like this for one so small. If the mouse weren't stepped on by accident, a jittery cook might take up arms with a broom or ladle.

[mannix]

The rowdy crowd did calm themselves in front of an elf, or one looking near enough. Fey beauty had that effect. But only for a moment. Mannix was glad, supposing that an elven love of nature had won sympathy.

"Th-thank you. I, ah, um..."

Though she'd put him on the spot; an extremely uncomfortable place. What did he mean to say, again?

"Y-yes, well, I mean to adventure, and would like the services of others in that vein. As I said, one who knew arcane--"

The peace was nice while it lasted. As he spilled out his wishlist of competencies, the rest of the assembly's mockery began anew. Oh, it was to laugh.

"Adventure? You? Look at ye! No bigger than me thumb! What will you do when a bugbear's charging the frontlines? Bite it to death?"

"W-while it's true I lack martial proficiencies..."

"How about treasure? How are you gonna haul a big score?"

"...couldn't we rent a mule?"

"How would you read the magic scrolls of your discipline? They don't make them mouse-sized, you know."

"I know, but..." A hand slammed the table, making him jump. It belonged to a no-nonsense dwarf with gravel in his voice.

"Listen here, wee one. Adventurin's no joke. People's lives depend on ye, and meanin' no offense, ya don't look like ye could carry a candle, let alone the day. If ye can't do the basics, what can ye do?"

Loath as Mannix is to admit, these were all points he knew painfully well. He physically wasn't as capable as others of his vocation, which made him doubt whether he should pursue it at all. Only obedience compelled him further.

"I...I can still cast spells!"

Either fresh defiance or the frustration in his voice set them all giggling again. "Is that a fact? All right then; go on! Show us the divine might of The Good!"

"Hey, I heard clerics can light things of fire! Do that! Light something on fire!"

"It's, it's not that kind of flame..."

"Well, do something!"

Curses. What had he gotten himself into? He only had two spell slots, and it'd be wasteful to use them just to impress a crowd of jeering drunks. And yet, they persuaded his diffident heart. He was brand new, and from what he'd read, clerics quite literally meant the difference between life or death for their companions. Asking strangers to put their lives in his paws was a tall order.

Nonetheless, he can't give up so soon. He could never face his master if he did. He looked around for something, anything to demonstrate his worth. He caught Zelda's expression, and it seemed the only one on his side. Then he looked at the far wall, spying an old wine cask with broken rings.

"Ah, excuse me, m-miss. Would you please lift me to those barrels? There's an opportunity for good there, I think."

[sealteam6]

"His size puts him at an advantage for other things, you know," Zelda snapped right back. "He had to actively strain to get attention, he'd be a natural for sneaking past enemies, or avoiding traps that are sensitive to pressure. Besides," she planted a hand on her hip, "wouldn't we appear just as small to a dragon?"

It was the dwarf's loud slap to the table that jostled her out of sass mode, her hands coming up to protectively hold Mannix closer to her shoulder. His words were harsh, and at first she frowned deeply, ready to retaliate. But she realized he wasn't speaking out of condescension, but concern. Adventuring truly was dangerous, no one could deny that. Even Zelda herself had run into a few tough scrapes, and that was in the company of well-seasoned gnomes on a relatively "safe" dungeon delve for beginners.

She looked down at the little mouse as he sought her gaze, and nodded once. If he was still determined, especially in spite of knowing the risks, was that not worthy of respect?

"Certainly," she agreed, and moved forward. A human ranger stood his ground as she approached, and she fixed him with a fierce look until he moved aside. Though her fingers itched to explore the intricate details of his barding, she resisted (barely) and opened her fingers to serve as a small ramp for him to exit and take his place upon the old cask. "Good luck," she whispered with a secret little grin. Then she held her hands behind her waist and took a step back, watching with curiosity.

[mannix]

He quivered a little at both his advantages: sneaking and scouting past enemies and testing floor traps. Adventuring was looking grimmer by the second. Well, in for a copper, in for a gold. Still, he liked that she spoke in his defense. Now he just needed to not disappoint.

The procession of maiden and mouse turned heads, seeming at once both silly and solemn. When it looked certain that Mannix had risen to the challenge, the tavern enjoyed a spontaneous, if uncoordinated, chant.

"Do some-thing! Do some-thing! Do some-thing!"

If mice could sweat. Somehow he'd become the afternoon's entertainment, and gotten more attention than ever. Nerves made him shake in her hands, still vibrating once she'd set him down. The bartender, so far solidly neutral, even stopped polishing dishes to see Mannix' intent.

He breathed slowly to steady his paws. The row was at its height, each syllable joined by claps and struck furniture. He went towards the aged, broken wood and cracked ring. He was hard to hear, amidst the din, but his small voice gained strength in stillness as he spoke in prayer.

"O holy Good, by Your power, let what is broken be whole." The last word rang with an arcane vibration, serving as the verbal component to his Mending spell. With one paw grasping his holy symbol, he ran the other over the tears. A sharp metallic tang and the harsh creaking of rejoined oak hushed the tavern's chant. Little by little the flaws in the cask bonded until it was fit for liquids again.

"Huh," the bartender said once he'd finished. "Thanks; saves me a trip to the cooper."

A few eager eyes rushed to see for themselves. After few exchanges and confirmations, they'd accepted their payoff.

"Well, look at that! Hey, everyone, the barrel's back to its old self! Three cheers for the church mouse! Hip hip--"

The noise began anew. In vain he struggled to be humble and direct their praise toward The Good responsible. So instead he looked pointedly at Zelda, raising his voice again; this time with a little less distress.

"THANK YOU!"

2. Here be Goblins (OTA)

[youfool]

[It was a simple, if vague quest: escort a wagon of supplies to a trading post in an upstart settlement. The dwarf who hired them only said he'd found "something big", owing to a recent inheritance of land. 10 gold pieces per person for seeing them safely through.

It was, in retrospect, an idiotic quest for a thrill-seeker like Ted. Wisdom might've saved him from a mission whose success could be measured in dangers that didn't happen. He tried to do his bardic duty anyway, but before he sang a single limerick, the coachman hushed him. They had to be inconspicuous. Unless he could keep the volume beneath the level of the spokes, then silence was preferred.

Phooey. Nonetheless, he persevered, quietly regaling with stories of heroic pluck. Like Despereaux, one about a brave mouse narrowly escaping a wicked kingdom's clutches. And if they didn't like that, he has plenty of ethnic jokes. How many elves does it take to light a lantern?

Anything to wile away the hours. A few days were spent along the High Road, one safe and well traveled. Then they veered on the Triboar Trail, one that winded between forests to the north and mountains to the south. The change in scenery was nice; the change in drama was nicer. After half a day's travel, Ted got his wish.

Two dead horses blocked the path, each jutting with black-feathered arrows. Ted, who'd walked alongside the wagon for exercise, couldn't resist curiosity.]

Alas, two slain beasts of burden, dying most inconveniently in our way.

[Almost like it was deliberate, or something. He went closer to investigate. Once he did, more arrows of similar make flew to greet him. Thankfully, good karma preserved him as one barely went overhead.]

We're under attack! To arms!

[He said joyfully. Finally, some action! He unsheathed his rapier and ran towards the arrow's path, eager to meet their foes in glorious melee.]

Winter Schnee | RWBY

[specialist_snowflake]

7. Inconvenient Weather

[It's a terrible night for a storm, but a wonderful excuse to be indoors huddled up by the fire, eating a hot meal, or laughing over a bawdy story. Only a fool would be outside in this tempest that whips the waves and lashes the windows with a pelting sideways rain. Lightning dances in the clouds, and briefly illuminates the haggard, limping figure struggling up the muddy path to reach the cozy harbor inn.]

[The door bangs open. The young woman standing there is garbed in a thin cotton gown, frayed at the hem where it falls to her knees. It's plastered to her skin and dripping with rainwater, as is the white hair that clings to her pale cheek and throat. Numerous small cuts pepper her arms and legs, her feet streaked with oozing mud, and her entire body is shivering. But her steel blue eyes are hard, and the way she lifts her chin, demands respect. She holds herself with regal bearing despite her pitiful appearance.]

I am in need of an escort.

[She takes a step further inside in a way that hints she favors her left foot over the right, but doesn't even so much as glance at the fire. Her eyes are on the patrons instead.]

Payment for safe transport will be generous, and given upon delivery.


3. Town Festival

[Traveling with Winter is likely taxing, to say the least. She's serious, harsh, and seems to have no qualms about keeping people at arm's length (sometimes literally). There's a destination she intends to reach and she's willing to pull her own weight in keeping watch, cooking meals (even if she's not good at it, she's demanded to be taught so that this can be amended), and she doesn't flinch from battle. She's loyal and has the back of each teammate. She's just not...you know...pleasant.]

[What a change it is, then, to see the wide-eyed wonder when the party sets foot in the small farming community where a large pole has been hoisted up, decorated with colorful streamers and clusters of spring flowers. Great bushels of early season vegetables are hauled out, and the air is rich with the smell of baked bread and sweets. People are laughing, dancing, listening to piping music and clapping hands to keep a steady rhythm.]

[Winter has seen nothing like it, and gapes inelegantly.]

What's the matter, Schnee, never been to a party?

[Winter jolts back to attention at the laughing remark. She doesn't blush, for she's not embarrassed. Just surprised at herself.]

Nothing like this, no. It's very...energetic.

[Tea parties are meant to be quiet and formal affairs. Balls are less quiet, but still formal affairs. This festival actually looks fun.]

Are we staying, or passing through?

[She's doing her best to keep her usual mask of noble indifference in place, but there's longing in her voice, and she can't stop staring at the festivities.]

[OOC: Winter's got a Character Workshop link here! I'm happy to come up with ideas for pre-game CR, or to carry over any CR from this meme into the game itself. Also, if neither option up above fits your character, I'm happy to go with a different scenario of your choosing.]

Sheven

[youfool]

[A man in an extremely colorful tunic was regaling many others with just such a bawdy story, all enjoying the inn's proof against the elements. The sudden arrival of a potential story eclipsed the actual, and no one seemed to mind the latter's abrupt end. He smiled, tucked away cards he'd been playing with, and stood up.]

Far be it from me to deny a damsel in distress. Is the need very urgent, or have you time for introductions or washing up? If not, you've my word I can remedy both by half as we go.

[All said with a breezy confidence of one either very skilled or very reckless. The sheathed rapier on his hip suggested the former, but just barely. The kindly innkeeper, his wife, and their son, once they recovered from shock, already flitted about attending to Winter.]]

Are there any with hooded cloaks? Pray lend; I'll pay back next I'm in town.

[One who'd been playing cards snickered.]

Putting clothes on a woman? There's a switch.

[That made Ted laugh too much for wit.]

Shut up.

[specialist_snowflake]

[Being called a 'damsel' earns the bard a frosty look, but it doesn't last long once the keepers of the inn begin to usher her inside. She thanks them quietly for their assistance and starts to move forward.]

[The callous remark that sallies forth from the card table arrests her in place, however, and her head slowly swivels to fix a look of utter contempt upon the one who issued it.]

I suggest you hold your tongue, simpleton. You're speaking to the heir of Lord Schnee.

[Does that title hold any clout here? She has no idea how far away she is from her home just yet, so it's entirely possible no one has ever heard of the Northlander nobility. Her head tips faintly in the bard's direction, though her gaze doesn't budge from the object of her disgust.]

It seems there was time for an introduction after all.

[youfool]

[The owners had all but strapped her to a chair they brought near a fireplace, then fetched a piping hot bowl of gruel. Said simpleton merely scoffed and went back to his game. Many others looked with morbid, rapt attention, wondering what on earth could produce someone so tattered and haughty. Ted chief among them. He'd join her near the fire place if she took their hospitality.

If she'd mentioned her northern heritage, Ted would've known at once. There weren't many places human so pale hailed from. But nobility? That was one subject Ted viewed with distaste, having no love for the upper class beyond whoever featured in fairy tales.]

That means, I trust, a reward as handsome as myself, then. Can you stay enough to recover, or are enemies in pursuit as we speak?

[Naively he hoped for the latter. It'd be more romantic.]

What on earth happened to you, anyway?

5. So You Purposely Unsealed a Force of Evil - OTA

[aryte]

[Thunderstorms really shouldn't be happening in the middle of winter. Nonetheless, lightning streaked between ominous, dark clouds above the grasslands. On the ground, a coven of cultists chanted, surrounded by a formation of sandstone, all deliberately arranged in the form of an evil god's (un)holy symbol.

Their instructions for the Sellscales were two: get them as much blood and as many humanoid sacrifices as possible, then stand guard while they worked their unholy rite. What happens once they finish?

Aryte doesn't know and doesn't care. All he knows is that the pay is good, and if the cultists are right, the fiends from the Lower Planes will arrive with a lot more.]

A. Swallowed Whole
The cultists had planned this during a popular pilgrimage proceeding along a nearby path. Smart; religious sacrifices are more effective for the ritual. So, Aryte shifted into the form of a gigantic, subterranean lizard. Like a komodo dragon on steroids. He approaches one--OR YOU--, then bites to swallow whole. Not to consume, mind, but to deliver to the cultists personally. Fend off this beast, or fight your way from the inside out!

B. Carve a Path
Once they were satisfied with what they're brought, they depended on the Sellscales to buy time enough until they completed the ritual. That meant dozens of Lizardfolk camouflaged among the grasslands, ready to strike any who approached. They were armed with clubs and bone javelins, and where they weren't, hunter's traps were.

Aryte flies overhead in the form of a quetzocoatlus. Flying dinosaur, for the laymen. Just in case anyone tries to get fresh and take to the skies to bypass his forces entirely. And if he spots a particularly appealing brawl taking place below, what better way to swoop down and join in?

And if any of his forces die, well, they'll make for good sacrifices too.

C. Evil Unsealed
Alas, the cultist's work finished. A booming, malevolent voice rippled across the Grasslands. What is your desire?, the demonic baritone asked.

"Oh, wealth! Wealth unending!"

The Lower Planes had a sense of humor. Through a dark portal stepped a blue slaad; a large frog-faced creature who immediately went to tearing through the cultists in a bloody spree. Where, the cultists cried, was their wealth? In the control gem in the slaad's brain, of course. All they had to do was take it.

While it's tempting to enjoy the comeuppance, take care. Those infected by the slaad's disease will become slaad's themselves. It spreads through physical contact, and takes effect upon the victim's death. The cultists, it seems, are eminently qualified.