Sigil — Roleplayer Guild

@rivaan
Cool deal, Celestial Warlock lady. Couple of things: 1) Image - 250 px height at max. And while I know it's just for a representation of the character, I couldn't help but notice the rifle. Artwork is spiffy, though. For a quick and dirty pic, I might suggest Heroforge. 

2) This setting is in a temperate climate, away from the ocean, in the middle of Autumn. As she has no special protection from the elements in a magical sense, wearing the clothing you described will present difficulties. Summing up, it's cold. On a social metric, this is a place of grain harvesting and stodgy, conservative folk. But that's a roleplaying issue. 

Numbers crunch okay. Fix the image size and let me know. 

@Moon Man
Two well-developed paragraphs at minimum. Given that there will be some witty banter back and forth between characters, you might be compelled to do more. And most people put a good amount of work into their initial post, but... two well-developed paragraph minimum. 

@Lucky
Looks good. Numbers crunch okay. Everything is in order. Check your PMs for stuff, then move your CS over to the CS Tab. Welcome to Avonshire. 

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Act 1: Harvestide

The sun crests over the gentle hills of Avonshire as you cross the border and into the region proper. It will be some time before you reach your destination, but if idyllic countryside suits your proclivities it will be a cheery leg of your journey. Late season sorghum stands ripe and lush in fields alongside the leafy greens and plump, colorful squashes common to the area. One can smell the more subtle scents of tilled earth and fall onions as one travels the road which ambles through the gently rolling hills and wooded areas of this calm, agricultural region. It is now autumn, and the air bears a chill promising the coming winter, as does the freshly changing color of the foliage to varying reds and yellows, likewise highlighting the verdant evergreens in their steadfast, immutable watch. The simple road winding through the countryside crosses a quiet river by means of a broad stone and wood bridge, upon which an older Halfling chuckles, fishing line in the water, extending a courteous grin as you pass by.

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	Avonshire is name to both the region and its most prominent township. To call the settlement a city would be generous; it seems only to exist as a hub for trade between the farmers outlying areas, central residence for laborers, and location for government tallies to be taken; census, records of birth and death, allocations of taxes, etc. The dominant race living in the region is Human, though coming a respectable second are the home and croft loving Halflings. Both races live in a stable, cooperative relationship with one another, sharing the fruits of the land openly and with all submitting to the same codes of law.

	Related to its prominence with agriculture, the lifeblood of civilization as we know it, the region is known for its incredibly spicy peppers, the hottest and juiciest of which are grown at the Rentman Farm, an estate owned and managed by the same family of Halflings for generations.  

	While Avonshire Township is the most populous settlement of the region, the highest amount of day to day travel will be found in the fort town of Darenby. This is due to its prominent location along a trade route, drawing in all types of folk from the lands outside their borders. Most of these people are only around for a few days (or less) before continuing on their way. Fort Darenby maintains a token number of soldiers for the region and is the rally point of the local militias - which have not been called into action in many a year. Still, bored farmers’ sons might be found here, training with hunting bows and simple spears in hopes of appearing brave or impressing their peers. Businesses related to travelers and their needs, as well as the needs of the standing soldiery, have popped up over the course of time. Inns, smithies, stables, general goods stores, herbalists, outfitters, and even a few specialty shops may be found here, as well a number of foreign merchants who are just passing through but might be convinced to part with some of their wares for the right price. 

	It is actually Darenby where you initially find yourselves, summoned by letter to meet with a man named Gregory Arbalest. He has the distinction of being the Sheriff of Avonshire and local liaison to the King’s Soldiery, what pitiful few of them (for the region) are stationed at the fort. Your exploits are not amazingly well-known across the realms, forcing him to be in contact through intermediaries and contacts of contacts - it is well enough likely that someone you know personally put the letter into your hand, or an anonymous soul left it where you were sure to locate it. 

	Your budding reputation but not overly recognizable face were qualities which Gregory counted as an asset rather than a liability. Travelers came and went from Darenby all the time and a few foreigners wouldn’t draw too much attention at first. Whether subtlety would be the hallmark of this little adventure or not he did not want to tip his hand too early. The letter read as such:

-
	I pray to the Light that these letters find the right people. Grim times have called for unorthodox methods. It is with this in mind that I reach out to the adventuring community. I cannot go into detail about my concerns in this writing, nor can I have a direct hand in what must be done. It is my hope that these are the fevered ramblings of a bitter old man, nevertheless honor demands action on anything which could threaten those within my oversight.

	If questioned, you have been summoned concerning Goblin sightings near the area. Provided you are interested in listening to my story, please meet me at nightfall at The Infamous Pear Inn, located outside of Fort Darenby in the region of Avonshire on the third day of Harvestide. If nothing else, you may entertain my ramblings with the promise of a hot meal and lodging for the evening covered, before you move toward whatever motivation beckons you next.  

	Inform the proprietor that you are with the Arbalest party. He does not know the nature of the gathering but will treat you well nonetheless.

	Light guide you on your journeys,

	Gregory Arbalest
	Sheriff of Avonshire

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	The trade road, ordinarily a broad and well-traveled thoroughfare of hard packed earth and built up embankments, gradually increases in quality the closer one gets to Darenby. As soon as the town is in sight, this solidifies into a proper cobblestone path which continues into the settlement. One may find several persons, obviously merchants or the like, passing them on their way out of town. Some wave or nod politely while others take no discernible notice. Darenby itself is a collection of buildings with tile roofs and virtually nothing else in common, all clustered around the Fort, a circular, stone construction which dominates the silhouette of the city in the lowering light. 

	The main road cuts through Darenby like a great cobblestone stream, the banks of which are lined with shops and services which a traveler, merchant, or teamster might find useful. With the dying light of early evening, many such shopkeepers are trying for last minute business before calling it a day. Closer to the fort, other services may be had. Workers of metal and leather, masons, livery stables; skilled, laborious industry and the products they may provide. Off to the eastern side of town, past the rows of buildings lays a cemetery behind a fence of low, blackened iron bars, featuring even rows of marble and granite headstones. Curiously, this evening the sound of trilling, melodious violin music dances upon the wind coming from somewhere within. Farther out from the fort and by extension, the town proper, residences dot the landscape, each with a small plot of land utilized for the growing of things.

	Streets are still somewhat busy with foot traffic. Mostly these people are Human, but a quarter or so of them are Halflings. Indeed, one might notice accommodations for the shorter folk built into architecture, most especially from Halfling run businesses. There are a smattering of other races of the people of the continent here, obviously not native to the area by their accents and attire. The safer bet leans toward mercantile pursuits, travel escort, or other business as they pass through on the way to more important locales. 

	Of the establishments available for a working entrepreneur such as yourself to get a tankard of ale and maybe a mote of rest, there is the popular (and packed full) Dancing Mare, the less flashy and more reserved Yawning Dog, and on the other side of town a lovely establishment that offers gambling called The One-Eyed Stag. The place you are looking for, however, is a little further away from the main road, nearer to the fort. One may ask around or one may wander about until it is located, but as soon as you see the sign, you know it cannot be anything else: 
"The Infamous Pear"

	The exterior of The Infamous Pear features a long, covered porch which stretches the entire width of the building. There are chairs present, a few of which are occupied by locals enjoying the brisker air of the early evening. The doors are wide and welcoming, made from the same heavy grained wood that comprises the rest of the structure and featuring brass door handles. Ubiquitous red-brown tile covers both the roof and the awning, a couple pieces of which might stand replacement soon. Windows bear thick, mottled glass, making them more useful to let in light than to allow for unobstructed vision, and even these may be secured with thick draperies on the inside and shutters from without. Overall, this is a well maintained, two-story structure. 

	Entering this building one detects a toothsome smell of roasting meats and baked bread, over lightly sourer notes of ale and other fermentations. A grand fireplace burns upon a mildly raised stage area, as do various candles which provide a deceptively abundant amount of light with the help of a wooden and brass chandelier hanging above. Several round tables fill the common taproom, along with a couple of longer, rectangular tables featuring bench seats. As you enter, a cheerful looking Halfling gives you a big wave and urges you to come inside, out of the evening air. He has the comfortable demeanor of a person attached to the Inn, quite possibly, or just an overreaching local. 

	There are others present here, eating and sipping ale. Residents most likely, as this is not one of the more popular drinking spots for the merchant classes. A couple sport partial uniforms, obviously off duty guards or soldiers from the Fort, proper. Some might be shopkeepers or the like. This place looks more like a local hangout than a touristy location. This place is not exactly hopping with business. That being said, the night is still young. 

	There sits a decently sized, round table to the right of the slightly raised stage. In and of itself it is unremarkable, being much like most of the pther tables in the bar, but a paper sign upon it sports a single word written in clear, legible Common: "RESERVED". Place settings and cloth napkins are arranged in front of the chairs around the table, as if it waits for specific posteriors to rest thereupon. Your collective posteriors, perhaps?  

	Behind the extensive bar is a middle aged Human, almost stereotypically cleaning a thick glass mug in front of a stack of horizontal barrels, most of which have a tap sticking out of them. If approached, he will immediately smile and become very "barkeep professional", asking what he can get you. If one mentions the Arbalest Party:
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	The bartender suddenly leans forward, an exaggerated conspiratorial look across his features. He actually lays his finger to the side of his nose and winks, nodding all the while. His husky beard wobbles in a way somewhat humorous to the casual observer. Suffice it to say, he looks like he's enjoying being part of a Top Secret Mission involving Sheriff Gregory Arbalest. "Oh yes, Stranger, yes indeed! Bit of a mum, if you take my meaning - MUM being the word, don't you know?" He chuckles, amused at himself for the moment. "The Sheriff and m'self are good friends. Best of friends! And any friend of Sheriff Gregory's a friend of mine, if you take my meaning. So! So... My name's Owen Hardy, and I am the proprietor of The Infamous Pear. That there," he points out, toward the energetic social butterfly that is the Halfling that waved you in earlier, "Is Mr. Guido Laurel, my partner in business (and sometimes in devilry, yes? Yes.) You ask either of us what you need, anything at all! Well, in reason, of course, of course... respectable businessman, you see. And we'll have you right as rain! Not the Autumn rain, of course, but just as right as a warm Summer rain, lots of flowers and the like." he gives an uncomfortable smile, and points to the reserved table near the stage. "Oh, but I ramble, so. Your table is over there, nary a soul what doesn't belong there will bother you, short of staff. Be mindful of May, she's in the back. Not one to trifle with."

	Seemingly pleased with himself, he straightens up and re-assumes his occupation, inquiring with another wink, "So, what can I get you, Stranger?"
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	Naturally, this specific rant will not be repeated for every party member which shows up. Not word for word, anyway, but it might as well be. The garrulous nature and basically the same information will be relayed on each occasion that someone approaches him mentioning the Arbalest party. Owen does seem to like the sound of his own voice. 

	One detail does not escape your notice: It is almost the prearranged meeting time, and the Sheriff has not arrived yet.

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Literary Hatchetman

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