G.A.N.G Post 1 – A Typical Beginning
You and your companions are walking down the road one day. The countryside is bathed in the warm glow of the spring sun. Birds flit about between the few trees that dot the hilly landscape, while gentle breezes press against the ocean of grass into what seems like waves.
You met your companions setting out of town earlier in the morning. With several down the same road at least until the next town, and with the safety of numbers in mind, you agreed to travel together. The company of your travelling companions has not been unpleasant. There has been plenty to speak about, with each person having been from a different place in the world. News from other lands, plans each other have, and old stories rejuvenated for new ears have helped whittle the hours and miles away as if they had been mere seconds and feet.
It is now in the midafternoon. Your company spots a small cottage about a half mile down the road. Aside from little farms just outside town, this is the first time you’ve seen a dwelling since leaving town. Wondering if it isn’t a halfway hostel between towns, your company approaches the cottage with curiosity, but also with caution. Who knows what is actually inside the small building?
The cottage appears as if it could house a small family rather comfortably. Smoke is piping out of the chimney, and the unmistakable scent of a local tea permiates the air around it. The place looks rather inviting, but there seems to be no sign of the building’s function. Perhaps it was just somebody’s home?
As if to answer that question, the front door opens, and a kind, wrinkly old man with a long, white beard walks out. He is garbed in simple green robes. He grins warmly at the sight of your company. His green eyes sparkle with the kindness granted to those who live a long and good life, but they also speak of a wealth of knowledge and wisdom that such years could grant him.
“Welcome!” he says in a warm, rasp voice. “I have been expecting you! Please, come in. I have tea and food prepared, as you are no doubt famished by now. Tell me, what are you names?”
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From Sam-
(I’m assuming that, as with all good RPG’s, we’re starting with lvl 1 characters…?)
Bren was, if his judgment served him well enough, the youngest member of this group of travelers. He was only 17 and this was his first time out into the world. It was customary in his tribe of migrant, gypsy-ish humans for a young one to depart and see a piece of the world before their 18th year. Many of his friends had already gone and returned with fantastic tales of elves and dwarves and grand adventures. Bren had been reluctant to go at all but the elders would not tolerate the tradition to be broken. So here he was, he had wandered for many days, avoiding towns unless the need was absolutely necessary, and the wilderness now showed in his face. His black hair, which hung to his shoulder blades, was secured with a leather strip and his face had not seen a razor in several days. He was alarmed that many of the young women in the few towns he had been to had seemed to find him attractive. In his tribe he was too skinny and too reclusive to be found attractive by most of the young women. “It is nice to have fresh clothing” He thought as his footfalls carried him down the road with the other travelers. He had worn the same clothing for days on end and in the wilderness places he had frequented, water was scarce so bathing was scarce as well. He had made an arrangement with the innkeeper in the town and had spent nearly a week chopping wood, carrying water, running errands, and doing various other odd-jobs for a few coins, a place to sleep, and a warm bath. He had spent his nights earning tips in the local pub, his lute and pipe had served him well and he was now grateful for all the years he had spent in seclusion, practicing.
He listened stoically to the stories told and answered politely any time a question or comment was directed at him. As they approached the roadside building he thought little of it, being from a tribe of nomads he was accustomed to occasionally coming across those who prefer the solitude of the open rather than the cramped, close conditions of towns and cities. The old man who emerged looked kind and, to his slight surprise, looked something like his great uncle on his mother’s side. He paused with the rest of the group and, since the old man did seem trustworthy, Bren stepped forward, bowed low, and said in a low voice that was unaccustomed to many words, “I am called Bren.”
From Kevin-
Palanrédion had already started salivating. The sweet, almost woodsy smell of the old man’s tea left him dreamy. He took in a deep breath, letting the faint taste linger before exhaling. Red had already grown fond of the old man. He always grew fonder of the elder folk, because of the deep wisdom they all seemed to possess. You couldn’t tell by looking at him, but Red had bettered the old man by at least a hundred years.
For Palanrédion was elf, you see. But not like the elves adventurers had encountered before. This one was different. He wasn’t as tall as his kin for one. He looked to be around 5′9″. He wasn’t scrawny either. His arms and chest were well defined. His shoulders were broad, and except for the pointed ears jutting out from his firey red hair, you would’ve had immediately mistaken him for an ordinary human adventurer. And based on stereotype, you would have thought he had anger management problems, until you heard him speak. Red’s voice was clear, calm, gentle. Almost soothing. He had a jovial laugh and could get along with just about anyone, including dwarves.
“Hello dear friend. I am Palanrédion. My friends here call me Red.” He shook the old man’s hand, as was custom. Taking another deep breath, he politely asked if could have some tea.
From Kenneth-
“Anhaga, Anhaga Ealdermann,” he responded. He was an old-looking, weathered fellow with a rather gaunt frame. His hair was patched, and scraggly, matching his beard, and his mouth, when you did see it, lacked its full row of teeth. His clothing likewise was ragged, and he stank.
Anhaga, not his name but more an epitaph he chose from his native tongue, wasn’t interested in the company or the conversation, nor was he particularly dispassionate despite his detachment. He wanted a meal, and after that, he intended to wend his way about the world so that he could finally find the death he’d been seeking ever since he lost his people. Anhaga was old and world-weary, but he was also hungry and wanted shelter. The old man could provide it.
Standing to his full height of 4′4 3/8″, the gnome who was hidden behind the others replied, “I am Lascivus Puck Noddle Ba’ab Nootka, but I quite prefer Noddle.” He tried hard to portray a confident image, but signs of caution and fear could still be seen behind his facade. His appearance, from his closely cropped dark beard and hair to his clothes and boots showed the signs that they were well tended in the resent past. The raggedness present in these features matched the weariness in his face and posture. Clearly, something more than time on the road burdened his small frame.
This old man didn’t seem connected to anything or anyone he was fleeing from and the promise of food , drink and hope of a bed for the night was quite tempting. Gathering his courage and shaking off his fear with a visible shudder, Noddle stepped inside.