icmasticc@BCTheEntity Talran Galelove - Medium Friendly Paladin
How, ah... intriguing. Yes, that was likely the word to use, rather than anything more severe, when it came to both the imagery hidden in the smoke and mist and the cackling laughter of the traveller. Indeed, he seemed blind, crying perhaps from some malus associated with that blindness. Well, drat and blast. If only Talran could call upon Helm to bring sight back to this man's eyes, but that would likely require the power of a cleric, not a paladin, and one far more closely aligned with Helm's will than himself.
Yet, even he found the sudden, dramatic appearance of a flagon from the ground a perplexing and mildly concerning thing, even as it landed before him and the puppeteer. His new friend, and the puppet called George, lifted and smelled the concoction, Talran himself receiving a strong scent of mint even without directly scenting the thing, whilst the more aggressive member of their party bluntly stated how they wouldn't drink from it, and the elf suggested that the worst it could offer was poison in some form. It seemed, nonetheless, that the puppeteer was willing to drink, if only he might receive a cup to do so; promptly, "Gertrude", apparently the name of the mist or its puppeteer, offered up a set of five goblets, filling one with that mint flavored liquid and offering it to his self-perceptually-challenged friend.
'I, ah, I too shall request a cup of this fluid, then,' Talran agreed, smiling even though he still wasn't quite sure what that fluid actually was. Once it was offered to him, he would take the container he was given, but subtly wait to see who else took one for themselves, and indeed who would drink of their goblets and what, if any, effect such a drink had upon them, if he couldn't determine those effects from observation alone. His oath encouraged courage, but it did not then inspire discaution; he could not stop others from simply drinking if they truly wanted to, but could certainly ensure as many as possible remained safe.
A moment later, his worry was quelled. He did recognize this broth and its smell, after all. With a smile, he drank forth, savoring the flavor of a tincture he'd been privy to in the past - a bit of an acquired taste, but entirely beneficial, unless his senses truly were clouded. 'Worry not, fellows, this is a fine brew!' he confirmed, taking another sip, and feeling its invigorating effects take hold already.
@William Cade Egil
Egil placed his war pick in his belt, observed the cups and shook his head in disbelief that one of the group had drunk from the cup. The fighter stepped back an studied the odd hued being. It was as though he were waiting for either the pale skinned one to die or to transform into something he might have to kill.
With his mind mostly set on the fact that there is no way in the underworld he was going to trust the gift bearer or the cup, Egil turned to the rest of the group.
"I will have my sword ready in the chance he turns." The fighter said while heartily tapping on the handle of his long sword.
@Hekazu The Unnameable
With the example of his new friend, the man with the puppet grabbed another of the filled goblets, the one that he had specifically requested for himself and stared the brash man who had promised to have their blade ready for any transformations. With the eye contact established, he brought the cup to his lips and downed it in only a few gulps, as if accustomed to such moves. Without breaking the intense gaze for a second. "Then prepare for two of the sort, if all you do is seek to insult the generosity of others!" the man barked at the hooded individual. He very much agreed with the other man that had drunk: There was nothing wrong with the offering.
@JohnSolaris Zaerith Dustborn
The warrior gives a signal of obvious aggression. But before Zaerith needs to do anything, the gruff man is stopped by the pale-skinned one in chainmail. That person seems to have an… odd aura about him, and Zaerith feels that he isn’t quite human. But the truth eludes him. The memories… They are fragmented, and of no help to him as of now. Like it almost always does. Such is his existence. But no matter; this need not concern him, not yet.
The tense atmosphere quickly dissipates as the gypsy herald approaches, moving surprisingly well despite his advanced age and the blankness of eyes that indicate an acute lack of vision. He tosses a large bottle of some bubbling green liquid, which somehow manages to perfectly land upright in front of the strange puppet-wielding man. To which the elven lady and the warrior rightfully react with suspicion. But the puppeteer is blithely unconcerned. At his request, five cups float toward the ragtag group, each carried by some invisible force, before the flagon pours itself to fill the chalices as if such a thing is perfectly normal around these parts.
Zaerith frowns, his scarlet eyes gazing intently at the empty air that carries the liquid-filled cups. For once the memories aren’t failing him. He knows what this is… Harmless. No need for concern. At least, as far as he can tell; who knows if it isn’t a front placed by the malevolent powers that fill this accursed place, a devious trap disguised as an innocent little spell, just waiting to claim the lives of those foolish and unsuspecting… But alas, if it can fool Zaerith, what can he do about it? Perhaps it will be interesting to see whose curse is stronger, those of this bleak locale or that which binds him to the Jester…
As one of the cups approaches him, Zaerith takes hold. The scent that drifts into his nostrils is mint, and… volcanic ashes? His eyes narrow. Raising the container and holding it close to his face, he scrutinizes the green fluid, giving the glass a few light taps here and there. Again, the memories are surprisingly reliable this time; he is reasonably sure he knows what the drink is. If this is real… There is no doubt that he should drink it immediately. He steals a glance at the gypsy troupe. Looks can be deceiving, and clearly someone in this whimsical group is capable of producing the drink that he sees before him. His muscles begin to tense. Perhaps this is a ruse to have the newcomers lower their guard? Do they need to resort to such when they are able to produce this feast in the first place?
Worry not, my loyal agent, the voice in Zaerith’s says after a chuckle of cruel mirth. You have my protection, do you not?
Once again ignoring the voice, Zaerith instead wonders if he should share what he gleaned with his newfound companions. On the off-chance that the gypsies mean harm… No, even if he can trust the strangers to fight alongside him for mutual protection, they cannot trust him. Not unless he does something about it.
“Worry not, fellows, this is a fine brew!” The pale man says, before taking a sip.
Ah, that makes his job easier. “He’s right,” Zaerith says, his tone even and smooth, as he gestures toward the pale man. “I know what this is. It contains potent restorative magic, able to fortify both body and spirit for a good day or so. Helpful especially in dangerous lands like this.” When he finishes speaking, Zaerith takes a sip from the cup. The taste of mint and ash flows down his throat, and within moments he feels its magic at work, easing the lethargy that perpetually shrouds his being. It will fade in time, but for now it will serve its purpose.
