Sigil

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Weather: The air is still an interesting shade of chill in the foggy autumn night, but the harsher edge seems to have been blunted from the wind. The barest sprinkles of rain fall here, but almost infrequently enough to make one wonder as to whether there was actual precipitation in the first place, though if one craned their neck upward, they would see the same fleeting reflection of firelight in the tiny droplets as a few moments ago. Maybe it's just the roaring fire, but the weather seems to have relaxed a little bit.

Time: The night time is the right time.

Ambience: The fire is still a-firing, and thanks to the damp weather recently it doesn't seem to want to spread any farther out, either. Still, the light and warmth are noticeable and not completely unwelcome. The initial shock of the battle is wearing off at this point, allowing minds to question possible injuries and bodies to report their state of readiness. The overall feeling for many is OUCH. Another piece of luck - no one has immediate, life threatening damage. Otherwise, the place seems quiet, overall. Even the rats, or most of them, have scurried away to parts unknown.

*****

The once living husk of the Wererat Abomination settled onto the cobblestone ground with a fleshy slap after being freed from its fiery Bastille. It was horribly burnt, as one might be after sitting in a pitchy blaze for a while, and in fact was still partially on fire. With most of the hair seared away, there were three obvious qualities of the corpse that anyone present could detect: 1) The creature was constructed of several different parts, stitched together with coarse but tight, wax-string cording. 2) Contrary to the other myanthropes who were knocked unconscious or killed, these things did not return to a more human form. 3) A burly, hairless wererat is truly ugly as hell.

In contrast, the gnarly smell of burnt wererat hair is significantly worse than that of the porkfat and aromatic woods that continues to waft in from the west, even though it is severely blunted by the crisp, acrid vapors of burning pitch.

Those giving passive interest in the possible locations of the Guards have come up with nothing; neither hide nor hair, spore, obvious track, nor bit of errant flora to give up their proximity to the group. There have been no threats of attack forthcoming, either. It seemed that the Wererat Guards were still at large, doing what wererats tend to do best when not under the subjugation of a more powerful being: Surviving.

The town, aside from the cooking and the burning, held little in the way of other overt stimuli. On the one hand, random screams could no longer be heard from differing, random directions, but also no one dared to poke their heads out of their homes to see what fresh hell awaited them. Prudence, possibly. Or cowardice. Maybe a bit of both. Of course, the fact that the town center was difficult to see from most of the rest of the town might have something to do with a lack of immediate fire response.

Then again, another factor to consider is that the Municipal Building had the best view of the Township Square. Absolutely nothing had come from that direction, not even spiteful words from other guards, militia, nor thankful adulation from town officials. Certainly not a volunteer fire brigade, hauling buckets and other firefighting accoutrements.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@Eviledd1984

I caught this earlier and am just now getting back to it.

For yourself or anyone else reading this with interest: Most anything you need to know is in the first post of the OOC. This is a generally good aligned series of adventures, and interested parties need to fill out the CS with rules provided. While I am taking applications, I might not necessarily bring in new characters immediately, as we are finishing an arc presently. New characters that enter play will have to do so within the framework of this setting.

Hope this helps you or anyone else peeking in for a moment.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 3 HP: 23 / 23 Armor Class: 15 Conditions: N/A Location: Township Square Action: Skill Check (Arcana x2) Bonus Action: . Reaction: N/A

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Almost totally bereft of spellcasting ability and having fully tapped out her Bardic abilities, Victoria did not want to get into another fight so soon. Hence, when the voice reverberated through her brain without actually speaking, her hand tightened around the hilt of her sword. The words cut into her, speaking just enough truth to cut to her center while still allowing her plausible deniability if questioned about it later. Naturally, she assumed that everyone had heard the words spoken about her, as she had heard the whispers of everyone else's secrets. Or hints of secrets. And of course, the reference toward promises of things fixed, problems handled, etc., even if it also came with a threat lurking nearby. She did what she did for her own reasons, neither righteous nor ignoble in nature, and she would harm no one that she did not absolutely have to to ensure that her goal was met. But this? A contract with an unknown entity that just casually destroyed one of its own acolytes? And what was the payment for the boons offered?

The truth was, Victoria was tempted. She already toyed with forces that many found abhorrent (unless they needed something), and had been exposed to many stories about people given choices like this. Admittedly, it usually didn't work out for the mortal in the end. But, if such a person was very clever or was able to bargain back out with something the entity in question wanted even more, they might walk away with a scrap more power, completely off the hook. But therein led to a different sort of problem for Victoria. She had once jumped into a poor decision, and this became a focal point in her life, around which everything following took heavy and direct influence. No, she just couldn't. There was still time to handle it on her own.

The mental decision against it was followed swiftly by a sudden, sharp sensation in her midsection, like a sharpened hand of ice gripped her entrails and drove her to her knees. Maybe it was a coincidence. Then again, is was equally likely that she was a Bugbear alchemist. It left as quickly as it came, prompting Victoria to wonder if this was indeed related and not an unsubtle reminder of the wounds she received during the fight. So she picked herself up, barely registering the anguished call from Kosara yet responding with a glance and nod when she recovered.

Victoria rose, surveying their surroundings. It felt like everything was over for now, but she knew full well that there were at least two more armed wererats out there someplace and she was not in the best condition to fend them off. The situation hinted that they had run off to save their own hides. Right then it would be an acceptable outcome, if potentially temporary. As Kathryn pulled the smouldering body out of the fire, it was met with a flare-up of the pitch fire. This tiny increase of light extended Victoria's vision just enough to make out a lumpy shape sitting to one side of the short road leading to the Municipal building. It was a fleeting moment, but enough to pique the Bard's curiosity. "I'll just be a moment," she said absently.

A couple of steps brought her to the dusty remains of Cavendish, who happened to be in her way to her actual destination. She knelt carefully and snatched up a rhombus-shaped shard of the late Constable's bony remains and slipped it into a pouch. She might boast an interesting collection, given time and opportunity. But this wasn't her overall goal. Studied steps brought Victoria to the edge of the light, leaving only her outline visible to those back in the square proper. She went to one knee, opting for a quick stand if necessary, and set her sword down in easy reach while she inspected her find.

"Knapsack?" she said softly and with surprise. A "A nice one, too." She unbuckled the main section and looked inside. It contained books, mostly, as if the owner attended a large city's institute of higher learning. She gingerly slid one out and opened it with caution. What dim light there was allowed gave way to a revelation. Rituals. These were rituals. Skimming a few pages, Victoria was delighted to see that she understood some of them. In an mostly academic way, but she could process some of the information reliably. "Later, when it's safe," she whispered. There were a few more things in here; ritual materials and inks, chalk, etc., but most of this mundane when compared to the knowledge inside of the books. This piqued the most studious of her curiosities. Victoria pocketed some of the sundries but lifted the knapsack up, recovered her sword, and returned to the rest of the group.

"Our adversary was a learned man, else he was attempting to become one," he started, attempting as optimistic a voice as she was capable. There was no sense adding to the situational weight if she could help it, and morale was one of her profession's bailiwicks. "He likely also planned for an expedient getaway, given that this was packed up and ready to go, closer than reasonably nearby." She smiled, giving a look around at her recent associates (all of whom were still alive, if in various states of disrepair) and the flaming carnage around them. "I believe this qualifies as our act of altruism for the season," she continued, her voice light and noncommittal as if speaking with humor in mind. "But permit me my point of selfishness, if you would please? I so enjoy quality leather, like this ...ridiculously well crafted knapsack." It was an accurate description. It looked like the kind of container designed to keep spellbooks safe, quite possibly because it was designed for the purpose. "Also, I can make use of the knowledge inside, I am quite certain. Whatever clues we may glean from these materials, I intend to retain them. It is my sincerest hope that we might puzzle out a little bit more than we now know; I could not place another wiggly, asymmetrical piece upon the table, myself." She supposed it was due in part to her excitement at her find. Nobody was perfect, after all. Not even her, regardless of the positive opinion she might have for herself. Her history had definitely revealed that to her, reminders of which crept up daily. Her flaws, however, did not extend to the physical, noted by the dappling of Wererat Abomination fueled firelight across her delicate but hardset half-sylvan features, an expression of excitement and genuine curiosity making her eyes sparkle and face flush. Victoria picked up one of the books to give it a better look in the more favorable light, skimming a page or two. Then she reminded herself, "Later, later." They were not in a good place for academic perusal - yet.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

@Dragoknighte@rivaan@Remipa Awesome@Sigil@Arty Fox

Edgelords and M'bladies, murderhoboes of all shapes and sizes, I wish to extend a warm and spiffy congratulations to you all, as we have officially LEFT INITIATIVE ORDER! It's been a little while since we've gone through this (about three months of a boss fight), so let's recap what this means:

Posting rules go back to regular cycles and characters have full range of action. Everyone's timers have been reset, and you all have seven days to get a post in.

Some of you are more damaged than others and resources are scarce. This is to be expected and might limit your viable options moving forward for the rest of the evening. However, now that things are either toast or missing with little chance of return, I feel comfortable explaining a few things for the curious, not that this is an exhaustive accounting of stat blocks or background that characters would not be able to access. In short, here's a glimpse, but there is a lot more:

The Rat Abominations were Flesh Golems, with a couple of caveats. First, as they were pieced together with fully hybridized wererat parts, they gained a flaw - Resistance to silvered weapons. Basically, a normal weapon, even a silvered one wouldn't do anything to a Flesh Golem, but these took half damage from them.

The Guards were standard wererats, but I gave them Rogue levels. Extra sneaky!

Cavendish himself was a wererat with Fighter (Champion) and Warlock (Tome) levels. He did not land a physical crit attack during the fights. Be very glad about this. I also gave him a couple of extra bonus abilities involving summoning and controlling rats.

NOW, to a little treasure business. Ordinarily I don't handle things this way, but I want a clear and fair distribution of the goodies this time around. So when you roll the Constable's body (or what remains of it), in addition to any mundane things that might come up from a search, specific items will find their way into specific hands:

Baronfjørd: Cavendish's shortsword slides right in front of you at the end, there.
Marita: The party Cleric finds a ring while pouring dust out of a glove
Victoria: Must content herself with a short stack of books she will find useful.
Kathryn: Has already claimed an item of noteworthy interest. Good for bonking.
Kosara: The Celestial Warlock remembers a pendant that she caught a glimpse of just before the fight started.

Per usual, tag me in Discord for rolls or judgement calls. We're headed back to RP portion of this and moving to chapter one's epilogue.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Weather: Tiny sprinkles of near-frozen precipitation reflected the fire like thousands of tumbling pinpricks of light, visible through the omnipresent fog, disappearing long before they reach the ground. The air seems milder here, however. The warmth of exertion and unchecked fire might play a role in this, however. There is barely any wind now, as if the Township itself holds a nervous breath in, unsure if it is safe to exhale.

Time: Nighttime. The night was yet young when this fight began so it couldn't have progressed very far, but it feels much later.

Ambience: The white noise of crackling fire played as the dominant sound of the battleground. Blood was still hot under one's skin from the battle, hammering in the ears of the combatants as the only competition to the fire's constant murmuring. If there was any saving grace to the environment, it was that there was plenty of warmth and light about - at least among the cobblestones. Blood, breath, and fire took the majority of one's perception, and adrenaline hadn't yet calmed enough for the wounded to feel the full brunt of their injuries.

*****

Blood poured from Cavendish's throat. He seemed more surprised about it than anything else. This turned quickly to shock as he lost strength in his legs and collapsed to the ground. The net still covered him, damaged though it was, but most of the undead rats which had covered him had already succumbed to other attacks from the group, collateral damage soaked by disposable puppets. With the life draining from the creature who had once been a respected enforcer of Law, those remaining ceased their actions.

There was still life, in the most temporary of meanings, left in the Constable. His hands grasped impotently at the chiefest of wounds which had downed him, as if futilely attempting to keep the blood within his neck; the impulsive actions of a man who did not wish to leave the living world just yet. Cavendish could not maintain his hybrid rat form any longer. He was too close to his own demise. This offered him a last look upon the world with human eyes, which teared up in a swirl of emotions. Maybe regret was one of them. None but he could say, and he wasn't speaking.

Not that Cavendish wasn't trying to speak. He most assuredly was, but only the most gruesome of wet consonants could bubble through the blood which seeped from his lips and down the sides of his face.

"Yes. We did have a deal," spoke a deep, resonant voice in the Common tongue. It did not originate from any one place, seeming to echo within the minds of those present as much as from any tangible location. "I have honored our deal. You will honor it, too." An encompassing darkness fell over the town square, blotting out the firelight but keeping precious, clear illumination over the unfolding scene. Time might as well have stopped, except for the grotesque and inevitable passing of the Constable. "You have accomplished most of my latest task. I grant that you did try. You paid with your life for the attempt. I might not be cross about this, except that your death was caused as much by your arrogance as your task."

Cavendish weakly held one hand up, motioning as if to complete a somatic component for a spell. Or maybe a wordless supplication for help. The disembodied voice responded, "We still have an agreement, yes. You have paid your portion of service with your life. Now..." A sense of wrongness permeated the rapidly thickening air around the Constable, "You will continue to repay your debt with your soul." It was not menacing of tone, nor retributive, nor even with a hint of sarcasm. The voice was calm. Respectful. Blunt, businesslike, but not particularly cruel. "I would have given you more earthly tasks to perform. In time, I still might. For now, I claim what is mine."

Tendrils of inky, necrotic blackness rose from the ground. What rats remained in the area scattered, leaving only the dead in their wake. The undead ones ceased to function, dropping to their sides or simply collapsing under the weight of their overly damaged bodies, now that animation left them. The liquid-black wisps were confined to the immediate area of Cavendish's mortal form, undulating briefly as they attained their full height of approximately three feet, before straightening, and lashing down the fallen Warlock. They pulled his wrists and ankles out as far as they would go and bound his torso immovably, like a man being staked out to die, but did not stop there. Every place that one of them touched him began to decay. It was rapid. A few seconds at most. Cavendish regained his ability to vocalize now, and he did, screaming with tortuous wails of putrefying agony. As his flesh melted away and muscles turned to maggot-ridden sludge, he kept screaming. When the fleshy parts of him fully disintegrated and he was left as a sticky skeleton, he kept screaming. It wasn't until his bones became pulverized matter that the noise faded, and even then, psychic echos continued for a moment more. All that was left of the Constable was a pile of clothes, equipment, dust, and a few scraps of bone. Some phalanges and a moderate amount of his skull were still recognizable as such.

The darkness lifted a little. One could tell a distinct, lightening gradient, but only up to a point. Then the voice came again. "Your minds and souls are fresh. Even a little naive, except for one of you. Perhaps two. Potentially quite capable, if mentored properly. I would entertain an arrangement." It paused, allowing whatever emotions to process among the group before continuing, "I have peered into you all, far enough to know that such an arrangement would be better for you than opposition. Even indirect opposition."

"Priestess, who struck the final blow - you have older loyalties that would appreciate being reacquainted; entities with whom I might communicate. The sizeable warrior fled responsibility of clan and community for the illusion of safety, leaving nefarious things to fill the vacuum left behind. Those once friendly turned opportunist and you became a liability to them. If only they knew where you've been, now deprived of your protector. Devil-spawn, you draw your power from a creature you call family, but who manipulated you away from your home for its own purposes. It can be easily erased from this world if I so chose. Sylvan-blooded, do you think these people would tolerate you if they knew what you were, or why you are trying to amass power for yourself? And the crippled Dragonfolk - I know what resides in your nightmares. It hasn't forgotten about you. It never will." The voice, as it went from speaking about one person to the next, was still heard by all present.

"It took you long enough, but you have tasted victory this night. You will be hailed as heroes, for now. I shall give you time to consider an arrangement. You would receive answers you need and fix problems you face. And yes, there is power to be taken. It would be preferable to accept this offer before the World Born Dead takes notice. For now, enjoy the rest of your festival." The voice faded away at its last sentence. The prevailing light of the area was restored, and the great pause that overtook the area lifted. The fog was less oppressive, thinning to something more reasonable for the temperature and season. A previously unnoticed weight was cast from the Township. Even the flaming tree was a little cheerier to behold.

The burning carcasses of the Wererat Abominations, however, could not be helped. The stench of their smoldering husks was remarkable.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Guard 1

Location: ??

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Crickets. In the distance, crickets could be heard chirping. Granted, nowhere near the ongoing fight; there was simply too much in the way of crackling fire and shouts from most of the parties involved, but the crickets which were not so close to the battle were singing their song to the foggy, full-mooned night. Most importantly, wherever Guard 1 is and whatever he's up to, the crickets don't seem to care very much.

<chirp chirp>

<chirp chirp>

<chirp chirp>


@Dragoknighte Marita is up. Good luck.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Big, roaring flames continued with their same intensity from its sticky, aromatic positions within barrels or spilled haphazardly across the cobblestones of the Township's center. Lighting conditions remained the same from recent moments; light bright enough to pick out detail around the cobblestones, with contrasting darkness as one enters the trees surrounding them. Past the sudden rustle of leaves upon the ground a few seconds prior, the area seemed quiet.

This quiet, such as it was, stood relative to the dull roar of flames and sounds of both physical and magical combat occurring in the best illuminated portion of the battleground, as well as the labored breathing, occasional jeers, and issuances of pain from the people fighting thereabouts. In short, while nothing could be casually heard from the darkness of the foliage, there were reasons why this perception could be inaccurate.

Cavendish was not having a great night. He maintained his wererat form, but he was damaged in several places physically, not to mention the psychic damage foisted upon him throughout their fight. Undead rats still clung to him, maintaining attacks upon his form that were pointless to cause actual damage but did what they might to distract. He was on his feet, if wobbly and covered by a partially damaged net. One hand still clung to a broad hunting dagger, though his main maintained his shortsword. He might yet be able to cut free with one good slash. The fight wasn't over.

It wasn't even over when a cloud of radiant fire settled around him. How he was able to maneuver himself out of the way of the descending plumes of OUCH was beyond his capability to fully understand, but maneuver he did. Unfortunately, this meant that no radiant flamey stuff affected his hempen bindings, either. He was pissed. In addition to this, he was starting to look worried.

Daisy, Lea, and two other townsfolk filed out of the cage, with lots of assistance among themselves. Daisy didn't quite know what to think of the last exchange she had with their potential saviors, but that part of it was done and she was getting getting the other non-combatants away from the fight with help from her coworker, Lea. The path they had chosen was the same one as Cecily, Beppo, and the Fisherman, even though it brought them clear across the square. It might have been notable that Daisy retained possession of Baronfjord's sword. She was not advertising this fact.

At this point, all of the prisoners had vacated their cages and were either moving to exit the area or were long gone.

New Round

@Arty Fox Baronfjørd - Time to kick the round off.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Cavendish

Location: A12

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A net? Honestly, who throws a net anymore? And then shoving him to the ground. Did this woman stop her combat training at playground rules? Then again, he just stood there and had it shoved down his throat while he was powerless to do a thing about it - hook, line, and stinker. A more objective or introspective person might have noticed that, as it was effective, he wasn't in a position to openly criticize. As he was neither of these two things, a seething resentment simmered and burbled in his heart.

Aside from the unfortunate parts of being knocked to the ground and covered by a net, Cavendish did not fail to notice the horrid little rats in various stages of disrepair nor the martial attentions of the Dragonborn and his odd, glowing arms. Even this gaggle of reprobates would get the better of him if he stayed on the ground and allowed the travesty of their presence to continue. Oh, the horrors he would inflict just as soon as he got footing and his crossbowmen responded. Cavendish was positive that they were just delayed, or moving for a clearer shot. Yes, the Wererats could still pull this fight out.

His first instinct was to Misty Step as far as possible, like he had used that day to evade them in front of the Silversmith's, but prone as he was and mostly surrounded by angry peasants, a clear line of sight could not be established. The one direction he knew he could move was not one that he wanted to for his own reasons, so all he might accomplish that moment was to attempt to attain a better vantage. If he could hold on until his men could open fire, the chaos of the moment would give him the advantage he required.

His particularly vicious looking shortsword was still in his hand, which he utilized as best he could to get a swipe at the net restraining him. It was a decent enough slash, despite the weapon's greater efficiency as a stabbing implement; he was able to shear through a few of the cords binding him - just not enough. His backswipe, awkward as it was within the grasp of the hempy restraining device, caught with the flat of the blade and was ineffective. Next, he made the attempt to stand. Regardless of his predicament, being on the ground would make him an easier target. It also gave him the ability to project his voice farther and insist that his Guards follow trough with the plan. "NOW! OPEN FIRE NOW!" he bellowed, though a bit of his chutzpah was spent now that he was bleeding, swarming with undead rats, and restrained by netted rope.

In the meantime, Cavendish made an attempt to grab for a knife at his belt, in hopes of finishing off the net so he might get a better lay of the land and move about less fettered. While he was able to wriggle it out of its sheath, a successful slash with this weapon was not forthcoming.


-

- Areas to the north that are aflame or containing rats are still considered Difficult Terrain, with appropriate movement penalties. The flames have additional, quite painful penalties for being walked through.

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Guard 2

Location: ?

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A rustling could be barely made out in the general area of the northeastern copse of trees. It did not sound like it was growing nearer. Wherever the sound of boots upon leaves was headed, it was doing so quickly and without regard to sneakiness. Most importantly in this, perhaps, is that no crossbow strings twanged and no blackened shafts flew from the darkness to back up the Constable. Is he betrayed, or is this a play at a larger plan?



@rivaan Kosara, do your thing, tag me for the Top O' Round.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Victoria Belmont Half-Elf, Bard, Level 3 HP: 10 / 23 Armor Class: 15 Conditions: N/A Location: E13 -> C11 Action: Class Feature (Note of Undeath) Bonus Action: Rats (Help Action) Reaction: N/A

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Victoria's ribs hurt. Her arm hurt. The side of her face felt like it might be swelling up. She was having problems breathing. Hells, she felt like she got run over by a mule. Luckily, her jacket seemed like it was none the worse for wear (she really liked that jacket). Unfortunately, the battering ram of an Eldritch Blast that Cavendish Others have moved to the forefront. This was good. Positive involvement that hopefully got the situation handled with no more time than was necessary. Quite frankly, Victoria was one classically cast piece of magic away from her well being completely dry, and she was not the most powerful martial spellcaster in the group. Not by a long shot. But it seemed like, in order to keep the ball rolling in their favor and maintain pressure on the Constable, she had to push herself to arcane exhaustion. Buy some time. Hope her party could continue where she could not.

The strings of the Weave showed themselves to Victoria. They were hers to play, if only for one more song before she needed to refresh - which would not be a quick affair. But if she must, she must. Tentatively, she reached her spirit out to pluck that first note...

...and was immediately distracted by Marita running out of the flames to her left. The incredulous look upon Victoria's face might have been a truly comical thing to show others, were a talented and superhumanly fast artist to commit it to canvas. OKAY! New plan! Save her last spell of the day for a potential Healing Word, as one of her associates might just need to pick themselves up off of the cobblestones sooner rather than later. She had to admire the commitment necessary to pull that one off, even if she couldn't see herself committing to running through painful, sticky fire.

With a shrug, Victoria changed tactics. There were still rodent corpses on the ground - almost as many dead as living - but few near enough to her to make a difference. The Bard advanced to stand between Baronfjord and the singed Marita, drawing upon the same ability which she used to animate her favorite porcine companion, except divided among several tiny corpses about them and in the fire. Charred and broken rodent bodies popped back together into a horrid mockery of life and swarmed from around the feet of the combatants and surged toward Cavendish. As before, they were incapable of causing him real damage, but would make for an interesting distraction, hopefully dividing his interest and giving her teammates a better opening. Charred, crushed, slashed apart, or just dead from a heart attack thanks to cheese overconsumption, they massed up his legs and began to nip, tug, and place their bodies in the way of his footfalls. It wasn't the grandest, most heroic thing to do, but it was something to support the hitters among them.


@Remipa Awesome Kathryn's turn.

Avonshire - D&D Based Adventure

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Guard 1

Location: ??

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While the Wererat Guard struggled to decide where he wanted to take his faraway vacation, many harsh and painful things were going on nearby. But none of those mattered.

You see, he had been to a lovely archipelago not too far off the western coast of the Great Central Sea, controlled by a trad¹¹1e consortium, many years ago and longed to return one day. Or maybe that amazing spot in the Dwarven territories in the Noraljak Mountains where the women weren't quite as bearded as the men, were stout of hip, and you betcha could they yodel. Perhaps instead he would travel not quite so far north as all that, and spend some silver at Khimn City, where that straightlaced circle of Paladins ran things but they also sponsored a grand Arena, with all the crowd-drawing festivities which accompanied it. While he was at it, if he hit paydirt with some side wagers, he'd travel all the way to The Lake, and take a ferry to Argentum. Oh, a savvy man could get lost in a walled city larger than some kingdoms, and there were a plethora of opportunities to start his life over, there.

But the thought that really struck home for him was, despite the fact that when this fight started, the opposing side could clearly see himself and one other colleague, in addition to the Constable - with this in mind, it didn't look like anyone from their group stopped to ask who (or what) it was that toppled over that first barrel, which cut off the eastern thoroughfare.

Yes, while he was already mentally vacationing far away, that was his nagging, intrusive thought.

@Dragoknighte Marita's turn.