You only see the cover of some books

 As Fortu stands and moves away from the fire, started impressively by the- at first glance- not so impressive 'magnificent' Egrow. He finds himself humming the tune of Rifkins latest work. The bard's lyrics bringing to life the story of an early life filled with hardship and loss, he looks back at the slight bard and realises he may have been too hard on him after the battle of the rodents. Not all men are trained to fight, few men are taught they either fight and kill or fight and die.

Thinking back over the other tales shared, he was still a bit lost with Arowe's speech. although he'd followed it, mostly, he couldn't say he'd understood lots of the words. He's respect for the willowy Arowe growing as he watched the easy way he spoke about his fraught early life.

Lastly he glances at 'Lord' Briefedel, it seemed he was grasping for acceptance from Fortu and his friends. A comradery that Fortu could never feel, for as he sat there drinking his fine wine being cared for by Egrow, all Fortu saw was an owner. 

Dampfire Stories: Egrow - The Magnificent!

It's been almost ten days since the six of you set off in search of the 'magical' pool shown on the dead druid Koenig's map. In that time though, it's become more and more apparent that Egrow is perhaps less than he first appeared.

Despite his hackneyed, almost parody wizard attire, his mastery of the mystic arts seem well short of 'magnificent'.

Though standoffish, he's obviously bright but younger than he pretends. Close up, he may be barely out of his teens and his role is more akin to squire than advisor. He tends to the the horses and assists Sir Briefadel don and doff his plate-mail armour, in addition to setting the campfire and preparing the food.

This evening though, after a rainy few hours have dampened all the available deadwood, Egrow struggles to light the kindling with his usual method of flint and steel.

To everyone's amazement, other than perhaps Sir Briefadel, Egrow draws a slender black and red wand from his voluminous sleeve, mumbles a few 'mumbo-jumbo' sounding words and points it at the unlit campfire. A fan of flames spit out from its tip and after a few moments the damp wood splutters into flame.

Despite the initial clouds of billowing white smoke, the party of adventurers are all impressed and thankful that they won't be forced to sleep in their wet clothes.

Noticing the reaction, Egrow smiles for perhaps the first time since you met him and bows.

"Behold the power of a practitioner of the mystic arts!"

From Leggetto

Inspired (and slightly challenged) by Arowe's prose from the previous evening, Rifkin waits until everyone's eaten their fill of the day's catch and settled by the fire before gently strumming his mandolin.

His sweet voice perfectly complimenting the wine in their goblets...

'And the time flies
On a warm and green Scar Burrow evening
A callow half-elf thinks back on his life
From Leggetto.

How his mother cried
When her beautiful man went up and died
Knifed in the back when she begged him to hide
In Leggetto.

Her people didn't understand
Their child would need his guiding hand
Or he'd grow to be a bitter young man some day
They looked down upon me
But they left his widow be
Her family simply turned their heads and looked the other way.

Well the world turned
And that hungry little boy with the runny nose
Played in the street and learned to compose
In Leggetto.

But his hunger burned
He started to roam the streets at night
And he studied how to charm and prepared to recite
In Leggetto.

Then one night in grief and anger
The young man broke away
He took some gold
Stole a horse
Heart grown cold
He left of course
When his mother died.

From Leggetto.'

A Poem Wot I Wrote

 Arowe was mesmerised by Sir Briefadel's story.  So much of it resonated with what he himself had been through.  being born into a high position in society was not easy - sure, nothing like being a farm labourer but tough nonetheless. 

However, Arowe's motivation was entirely different to that of Lord Urderel's illegitimate, albeit powerful son.  The young elf was just a dreamer - he wanted to be part of the epic story that is told on the stage and sung by bards travelling far and wide.  One might suppose that is why he took so easily and readily to Riffkin, and loved having a statuesque gladiator and stout halfling to fight alongside.

He felt he had to tell Sir Briefadel something of himself.  So he stood, took the actors pose, waited for the attention of the audience gripped by pure charisma learnt from years studying the greats:

The Castle of Glendorne, to the manor born,

A privilege bestowed but purpose not owed.

Living to read verse and lengthy prose,

To tell stories filled with adventure and force.

But all the while dreaming

That he was the hero direct from the page torn.

With sounds of pipes of Pan the next chapter began

Finding themselves outnumbered and overrun

But fighting with numbers fewer, the terror of the swamp and sewer

The arrow and sword, would write the last word.

Cleansing fire flames a-weaving

The legend could begin to rise from the ground.

Arowe sat down again. Quietly he said. "It's not finished. But, thanks to you sire, we can make this the Epic of which I dream"

(edit: being->begin)

Campfire Stories: Sir Briefadel

As a group, the exploring party have been travelling together for a few days and the social barriers between the six members have all slipped slightly. That night, after Egrow - the magnificent had 'conjured' up a campfire and the four pigeons, brought down by Saphony the hunting falcon, are roasting on a spit, Sir Briefadel coughs deliberately and sits down.

Dressed in just his padded under-armour gambeson, his platemail already stored for the night, he coughs again.

"I just wanted to apologise for my earlier showing off. It was crass of me and the stupid fly didn't deserve it. It's just that everyone assumes I'm just a typical effete aristo and I rarely get a chance to demonstrate what I'm actually capable of."

As he gestures, Arowe notices a small charm tethered to Sir Briefadel's now visible wrist.

"Ah this?"

Sir Briefadel raises his right arm, displaying the tiny wooden disk with concentric red circles within it, held on a leather cord.

"You probably think my name and title are an honour but they're actually an insult. My father is Lord Urderel: High Commander of this entire region but my mother wasn't his wife, nor of noble stock. She was a gifted mystic, a healer but still young and beautiful. My Father was besotted by her and I was the product of their union. A shameful blot on the family name. In his embarrassment, he had my mother, his unwilling mistress put to death and sent me, his dirty little secret, as far away from civilisation as he could. He then 'bestowed' upon me a near forgotten name from a long dead branch of the family tree and expected me to be grateful..."

Momentarily trailing off, Sir Briefadel is silent for a moment before continuing.

"This bangle is all I have left of my mother. A small tribute to the woman I barely remember, a reminder of the horrors of my past and a goad driving me toward my future."

With that, Sir Briefadel takes a sip of the rather nice white wine that he'd brought with him and swills the bitterness from his mouth.

"Martha's Vinyard's best. I bought several crates of it for a bargain on the last day of the fair."

And Rifkin makes four

Despite being worthless in a fight, a very limited ability to cast spells and no ability to spot traps, the just slightly elf Rifkin is overjoyed to be invited to join the nascent party of adventures.

"You want me to accompany you on your journey? Why of course I will, for what is a Bard without adventure? It'd be akin to a King without a throne, a Dog without a bone.... A Pun without a groan!"

Rifkin gladly accepts the offer of a half-share in gold and magic to accompany you.

Money and Magic

Everything found and earned from the last session (Not including anything from previous adventures or the 10gp advance fee paid by Sir Briefadel to send you to the Tannery).

Magical glowing Silver Sickle: Used in exchange to rid yourselves of the 'Filth Fever' and five potions of healing.

Potions of Bull Strength and Barkskin: Given to Fortu for emergencies.

Periapt of Wound Closure: Given to Arowe to aid his recovery.

Pipes of the Sewers: Left in Sir Briefadel's manor house pending sale minus commission.

Tannery wagon and two mules: Left with Big Tom in the Orange inn for him to sell minus commission.

Gold: from the Rat King: Koenig, the second 10gp payment from Sir Briefadel, the 50gp reward for Koenig's head and the easily negotiated 100gp payment for the found 'magical pool' map: 373gp. Plus 56sp and 90cp.

Minus 10gp for food and board at the Orange inn.

(Promised daily payment to accompany and protect Sir Briefadel: 3gp per day each plus a share of any treasure found.)

Therefore:

Fortu: Potion of Barkskin +2 / Potion of Bull's strength +4 / Potion of CLWs 1d8+1 / 113gp / 16sp / 24cp

Arowe: Periapt of Wound closure / Potion of CLWs 1d8+1 / 113gp /16sp / 24cp

Liga Burr: 3 x Potion of CLWs 1d8+1 / 113gp / 16sp / 24cp

(I allocated three of the Cure Light Wounds potions to Liga Burr just in an attempt to balance the magical item distribution. I gave none to 'happy-to-still-be-there' Rifkin.)

Also remember to deduct the gold for anything you bought prior to leaving Scar Burrow with Sir Briefadel. Items such as arrows, oil and (just in case of separation) personal food and water supplies etc.

Experience the 4th?

Including the recent mama bear encounter and the bonus experience points for posting and comments on the Orange Inn website.

Arrow: 6,417xp. 4th level!

Fortu: 6,302xp. 4th level!

Liga Burr: 6,250xp. 4th level!

Seems like you'll be advancing one level every four sessions...

Please email me your new character sheets in the next week or so.