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Hugh Caphazath Half-Elf, Monk (Way of Shadow), Level 3
HP: 24/24 Armor Class: 17 Conditions: N/A
Location: The Infamous Pear
Action: N/A
Bonus Action: N/A
Reaction: N/A |
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Marita seemed… if not satisfied, then mollified by his response. Her irritation in general was clear, but it seemed that his message was received. He’d take it.
As he sat back down, Hugh mulled things over, allowing the Pest’s provocations to wash over him like water. While the misinterpretation and broad oversimplification of his effective skill-set on her part was an irritant, it was one he could choose to ignore. In the end, being underestimated could only be to his benefit. If she wanted to further be part of making that happen, then who was he to stop her? Besides, allowing himself to be goaded by something so trite could only hurt his effectiveness down the line. Unacceptable.
Leaning back in his chair, he listened intently, as the Bard followed his lead. “Victoria” she called herself. He’d not heard of the College of Grey Requiem, but then again, he wasn’t an expert on Bards. They tended to grate on him at the best of times. Quite frankly, he was not too enthused to have to put up with an individual with a silver tongue for days on end. At the end of the day, a pretty face was nothing more and nothing less.
The gods her teachings followed, however… Now that he’d had a moment to reorient his thoughts from the mental fumble between Mona and Marita’s supposed divine patrons, he could recall Jergal, Wee Jas and, in particular, the Raven Queen as being death gods with… relatively neutral stances in the grand order of things. The latter he recalled mostly because she specifically unappealed him. What was more surprising was that, aside from Jergal, who was typically not known for giving a shit one way or another, these deities that were involved in the proper cycle of life were also surprisingly tolerant of the undead… with a couple caveats.
Hugh found his eyes drifting towards the… pig once more, as the other half of his attention soaked in Victoria’s thinly veiled plea for acceptance of her… well, at this point, near blatant necromancy. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to prevent anyone from catching him rolling them, as he exhaled quietly and folded his arms. Obviously, she’d had to cover the stink of her “pet’s” corpse with perfume or something similar; that was what he’d smelled before. Quite frankly, he was self aware enough to conclude that he was hardly one to talk when it came to dubious means, so, against his better judgement, he’d leave her be… for now. If there was any saving grace here, it was that she was far outnumbered in the worst case.
The purple Bard finished her spiel, upon which the
also purple tiefling proceeded to say his piece. He was a swordsman, short, sweet and mostly to the point, literally even. Hugh resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his own stupid pun. He would admit to some scepticism over the idea of a swordsmen being all that reliable after being trained as an assumedly one-on-one duelist. Then again, this Alastor also claimed to be able to handle multiple foes and also that he knew his way around a crossbow. Not Hugh’s first choice, considering how loud they were, but at least he
had the option to pursue ranged strategies. It would do.
As the Pest’s far too energized commentary washed over him once more, this time mercifully directed at the Bard, Hugh found his eyes drifting towards movement near the bar and blinked in surprise. He metaphorically kicked himself for allowing the energy at the table to dull his attention, as he focused on what was, he concluded in resignation, to be yet
another member of this
sizable group. She appeared to be twitching with clear discomfort, as she finally escaped the merciless clutches of the bartender and made her way over.
The individual in question looked like she had taken a swan dive through every bush in the forest, her ponytailed hair littered with all manner of twigs, leaves and brambles. The bronzed skin and defined pointed ears made it clear that she was a wood elf, and her garb made it clear that she intended to live up to the name. Taking her shockingly welcome pragmatic appearance in, the rugged leather gear, the self-made and well-used weaponry, and the low-key greys of everything else besides, Hugh couldn’t help blinking briefly in astonishment.
Could this be one of my people? he wondered sardonically, as she introduced herself and adjusted the acorn in her hair with obvious social anxiety. At that, it became clear to him that the random rubbish in her hair was there with purpose, most likely what passed for decoration in the middle of nowhere. He wondered if anyone noticed how quietly she moved, but the overall looks of surprise at her appearance indicated otherwise.
There was, he noticed, a wildness to her movements, the way she seemed to subconsciously tense up when she had attention. The way her eyes almost seemed to flick towards anyone that turned their backs on her. It was like watching a domesticated predator being surrounded by prey. Hugh wracked his brains, briefly reminding himself of typical animalistic behavior and what “do’s” and “don’t’s” he might have to be mindful of around her, before mostly laying such things to the side. The girl almost seemed like she’d been “raised by wolves”, for lack of a better term, but he’d yet to learn what beast she may have “imprinted” upon in her training.
That aside, if the implications of her appearance and her stated confusion at even receiving a letter were to be believed, this was a consummate professional of living off the land, a Druid most likely, if the overall lack of steel weaponry was any clue. He couldn’t imagine the Sheriff sending for some random helpless wild woman. That in mind, her general discomfort in this setting and clearly invaluable survival and stealth skills would make this “Naivara” one to watch.
He was saved from the need to introduce himself once more, as the increasingly impressive Marita saved them all time and frustration with… admittedly vastly simplified descriptions. Hugh nodded gratefully her way and gave Naivara a small two-fingered salute. Naturally, this was when the Pe- (
Kosara he begrudgingly mentally corrected himself) chose to loudly insert herself, before beginning to ramble about her capabilities. By this point, Hugh found his mind roughly separating the chaff from what was actually important, that being -he begrudgingly allowed- her healing magic. He couldn’t care less about her nigh-useless
quality of life cantrips or her apparent professed excuse to get her hands all over the party, but her healing magic? That unfortunately made her infinitely more useful.
Her passion for entertainment also hinted roughly at her being a Bard, but Hugh… didn’t get that vibe. In all actuality, her seemingly perpetual state of delusional action instead reminded him of a Sorcerer, those who bent the world to their whims based on a personal warped view of reality and sheer willpower. Hugh could easily say Kosara had both. However, the healing magic stomped all over that theory. Sorcerers for all their delusions, still couldn’t change the fact that they were arcane casters, not divine. In that case, it was nearly impossible that the pale tiefling was a Sorcerer, especially if one included her apparent passion for “blade dancing” in the consideration.
So what the hell is she?Not a Cleric, certainly. The very idea was frankly ludicrous, but then, how could she cast holy magic? Hugh wracked his brains for an answer. She wasn’t a Fighter, and no Paladin could ever be so crass as she. She wasn’t a Wizard, or a Sorcerer, for both were gated from divine magic by their own arcane practices. He would be willing to eat his boot if she was a Rogue, as the idea was frankly so absurd he almost didn’t even mention it. She didn’t seem… angry enough to be a Barbarian, but their kind were known to be able to pull off some pretty weird bullshit for seemingly no other reason than: “angry”. She was a self-admitted trained “dancer” and so was too close to civilization to be a Druid or Ranger, especially with those... clothes. She wasn’t a Monk, as no self-respecting practitioner would call what they do “magic”; they merely imitated spells, and she had not even a smidgeon of discipline within her.
Which left… what?Cleric, Paladin, Druid and Ranger. That was all of them, all the vocations he knew of that could cast divine magic, and there was no chance she was any but, at a stretch, the first. As far as healing, Bards could certainly do so, and do so well, but… no. Hugh spared a glance Kosara’s way, observing the scimitar, dagger and light crossbow… and complete lack of an instrument anywhere on her person. There was no such thing as a Bard without an instrument. Their magic depended on it.
Which brought him right back to square one.
If she did not practice any of the former professions, then how did she… Hugh’s eyes branched over to Marita, then Naivara, before stopping dead on the Fey sitting on Mona’s shoulder.
Of course… it dawned on him.
She made a
Deal.
Warlock.A
Deal, a
Bargain, an
Exchange for Power. That was the only way to cheat the system. Hugh knew it well. He’d considered such options early on, before rapidly dismissing them. His soul would never belong to anyone but himself.
Shaking those thoughts off, Hugh swallowed with grim satisfaction. Indeed, it would only make sense. Kosara was
exactly the kind of thoughtless person to throw away her eternal soul for a brief life of pleasures and power. That kind of person… There was no way he could ever trust them. After all, if you were willing to bargain away your own soul, anything less was a small price to pay for success, including and often especially the lives of those around you.
Of course, this all relied on her not simply being the most brainless cleric in the land, running around without armor… or
anything, for that matter. He’d have to watch her in action, but he was almost certain of his conclusions. He desperately hoped to never require her healing.
Coming back to a general awareness of the table, Hugh reprimanded himself internally for missing the tall woman, Katherine’s, introduction of her capabilities, as she finished sitting once more… to the protest of her chair. Luckily, barring the truly unforeseen, he needn’t have overheard anyway; her vocation was plainly obvious to all. He was also more than a bit skeptical about the whole “giant” thing that most of the table seemed to be taking at face-value for whatever reason. Sure, she was tall, but for a human woman, she was merely an astonishment, not an impossibility. He’d seen plenty of Barbarians with similar -if not identical- builds; she was nothing new.
The light thunk of floorboards and a grandiose voice took his attention. For a brief moment, he blinked in confusion, before leaning to the side and spotting a gnome approaching from the other end of the table.
Out of everyone present, it was easy to say the gnome (“Jorlton, he called himself) had the palest complexion, as though he’d spent not a day in the sun. Immaculately kept blonde hair and the sizable ears of his kind featured prominently… along with a somewhat bulbous nose. In form, the gnome was rather strangely…
bulky beneath his fairly good quality clothes and dapper green cloak. Of note, he also appeared to dabble with daggers, a shortsword and a rapier, all of which were strapped smartly to his waist and legs. All in all, Hugh breathed a sigh of relief at the appearance of a proper Rog-
Jortlon gave an absurd declaration of Wizardhood, and Hugh’s eyebrows both shot into his hairline in pure bafflement at the shimmering blue aura that snapped into being around the gnome. Shaking his head, he squinted at the apparatus, but the glimmer of it had his eyes watering enough to relent.
No. Incorrect. False.
His eyes snapped back to the weapons and then the aura, his brain methodically cataloguing and shuffling through every Wizard speciality he’d ever heard of, as he blinked rapidly in eventual realization. The aura appeared real, it’s effects potentially dangerously unknown, but the claim...
Absurd.
The only Wizards that married blade swinging to spell-slinging in such a fashion were the Bladesingers, all of whom were elves, without exception. Bladesinging was a traditional and exclusive art of elvenkind, not the sort of thing to be passed along to outsiders… or at all. Hugh couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of special circumstances would be required for an exception to be made. This man was a charlatan, plain and simple. He groaned under his breath. That, or the gnome was a fool wizard trying to wield weapons without any talent or training for them, merely because they “looked cool”. On second glance, he certainly seemed the foppish enough type to try it.
At the very least, there was no question that the gnome was a spellcaster of some sort. Whether he could live up to his lofty claim would be for the future to tell, but Hugh doubted he would.
Why is it, Hugh internally groused, his eyes passing over Victoria, Kosara, Mona and then the newcomer in turn,
that I am surrounded by charlatans. He idly acknowledged the ever so slight hypocrisy of that statement when coming from him. But then again, he wasn’t the one trying to present himself as something he wasn’t, merely the type to prefer their own affairs private.
Banging and clattering from the kitchen sounded, as out came a rather business-oriented dwarf(?)/halfling(?) with a shock of long frizzy red hair carrying a massive selection of dishes for seemingly the entire tavern. Rather loudly, she bulled about with surprising grace and dexterity, obviously born of long practice, customers also twisting to and fro to avoid her warpath, before she made her way to the reserved table, passing Mona her -apparently unapologetically edited- meal and placing an entree loaf of bread and butter in the center of the table.
Having dined at the Pear at least once each of the past four days, Hugh knew her about as well as any distant customer might. May was her name; although, many seemed to jokingly refer to her as “Lady O’ Kitchen”. Hugh had yet to determine if any had referred to her as such within earshot and wondered with a sense of restrained curiosity what might happen were someone to. She seemed the sort to either kick your ass or drink you under the table just on principle.
At May’s drawled no-nonsense request for orders, Hugh stomach reminded him he hadn’t properly eaten for the past… since noon? Best he’d had was some garbage cider three hours ago. He’d not wanted to eat while business was to be conducted, but if they had to move out immediately, acting on an empty stomach would be… irritating. Sighing quietly in resignation, Hugh gave May a small wave for recognition and said,
“The minced pork pie with potatoes for me, thank you, and for the drink, sweet tea if you have it, water if you don’t.”He waited quietly while the others made their orders, watching the cook leave with a small crease of his brow. As much as he was already a semi-established regular here, he couldn’t help but worry now that he was associated with this “party”. Was she a plant, ready to poison them? Despite acknowledging the absurd paranoia of the possibility, Hugh simply couldn’t manage to fully put it out of his mind, as he closed his eyes and took a liberating silent exhale, running the tension from his shoulders. Nothing for it now; he’d have to act as the moment required. He hated that, acting without a plan.
A brief autumn chilled breeze tickled at him, drawing Hugh’s attention to the tavern door once more, as the portal admitted an armed and armored man. On first glance, Hugh placed him as a veteran adventurer, getting on in age and far from less dangerous for it. In fact, one might expect such an individual to be more dangerous, having taken the worst the world could throw at them and living to tell the tale. The lines on his face and distinctive scar certainly didn’t hurt that impression, but the waves and greetings of familiarity the man shared with the other patrons laid that theory mostly to rest. This man was clearly a local of some renown.
The man exchanged words with the bartender, and Hugh groused at being well out of range to make them out. Eventually, the armored man strode over, trailed by the tavern’s halfling, Mr Guido, and declared himself to be their long-elusive client, Sheriff Gregory Arbalest himself. The non-negotiable request to present their letters was unwelcome… yet expected.
Restraining a grimace, Hugh hoped the complete lack of hesitation in his action would diffuse any questions, as he reached down to his pack and retrieved the Letter, the bottom-left corner still marred distinctively by an ugly brown-red stain. Gathering that merely showing the man the letter would be vastly insufficient, Hugh held the letter out with a dry,
“Hugh, bounty hunter. Hope you don’t mind the stain, Mr. Arbalest. Letter’s had a rough go of it.” He resisted the urge to snarkily comment on the caution being displayed now, when the rest of this so-called covert venture was so painfully lacking in any real operational security.
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