An Unquiet Knight Inn | Permungus Says

Chapter I: An Unquiet Knight Inn The sun did not seem to set upon this day, if indeed it ever appeared to rise. The grey sky and constant mizzle have been your only companions on the wearisome road west from Lockforth. Your legs ache and you can feel your feet beginning to blister even despite your fine new boots, which you hope haven't been completely ruined by the mud. Stronger than even the most legitimate gripes, however, is your desire to not spend another night camped out along the road. With all the talk of banditry, and worse, along the very stretch you have just traveled, it is a wonder you have made it to the walls of Fenmoss-town without trouble. You drift in through the field gate as the dusk is nearly complete, counting yourself lucky on more than one count as you gleefully, but cautiously ponder the contents of your pockets. Who would have thought that the old elven structure visible from the road had a side entrance covered only by a little bit of scree from some recent landslide. Who indeed could have imagined that there would be a jar full of ritual offerings just sitting in an alcove within, overlooked by centuries of treasure hunters. That handful of coins, rings, and votive figurines ought to be worth more than you've made in your last year of trading, odd jobs, and caravan guard work. It is somewhat strange how they seem to give off a faint buzzing noise when you're not looking though, but no matter… Too tired to get lost in such a reverie, your thoughts of dubious loot are taken over by thoughts of food and bed as you gain the low hill and turn northward past the Alderman's hall. Just ahead lies your quest’s end. Tonight will not be for begging or relying on the charity of any old acquaintance. No, with your precious discovery in hand, you've more than earned both fine fare and a quiet bed in its own room at The Carrot & Stick. Chapter II: Permungus Says So it is that you stride proudly into Fenmoss-town’s finest –and only– true inn, well and truly caught off guard by the spectacle unfolding within. It would appear as though a group of forest goblin-folk, too bedraggled for members of the Southwood Rangers, have arrayed themselves about the hearth, all but one bearing…musical instruments?.. One holds a bowes lyre, another a many-stringed chordophone that defies description. One keys a cranked fiddle, and a pair struggle, one on the other's shoulders, to play a bass horn. In the back you cannot see, but can hear one moving faster than should be possible about a vast array of percussive oddments. Finally, up front, gaudily-clad and hunched, stands a figure you have previously only heard of in passing. “Greetings ye dames and dandruffs, it is I, the lord of the riff-raff, the pontiff of needless pontification, and the only game in town if you catch what's floating by… Permungus Leopil’s the name and you- “Sir, can we start the-” SHUT UP GORBAG, NOBODY CARES ABOUT THAT NEW SOLO PIECE YOU CAME UP WITH LAST NIGHT. WE'RE DOING MY STORY AND THEN IF WE HAVE TIME LEFT, IF. IF… We will get to yours afterward.” “But I was just going to say-” NOTHING, YOU HOOKWORM! Adjusting his belt and straightening his chaperon, he continues. “I, the legendary Permungus Leopil, lord of yadda yadda, the only swamp in the drift if you mean whatever, guy who's standin’ here, do humbly present, the greatest tale of derring-do that your uncultured ears shall ever here. Maestro, if you please…And so help me, Horkz, if you miss your damn cue again… “Nah, nah, I got it this time!” Can we get this a little faster? C’mon, it’s gotta be lively, this isn’t a dirge. It’s a tale of how I rolled some poor sods, and composed a little ditty in the process. Now, come on, speed it up a little…will ye? Alright, that’s more like it! Now, who’s ready to go Down, Down, Again?”