New Whispers at the Fire

  • The enticing smell of sweets wafts from stall no 2, now owned by one Caramella Bestefaren. Her trademark gumdrop bags have hit the market, each one a vision of confectionary delight, with frosting-styled stitching and gumdrop buttons in different shapes and sizes. Each one comes with a custom-made tag, shaped much like a gingerbread version of the big-hatted maker herself, with text in the same sugary style. Ontop of that, it's rumoured that each of these candybag delights holds… yes, an actual piece of candy. Caramella also lets it be known that customers may order bags with their choice of label text at no additional cost.

  • *Cormac, who'd been in Norwick on business of his own is caught up in the unnatural storm in one way or another. In defiance of the situation he plays warm music in the Grapevine by the hearth and tells blood-stirring tales of his deeds and adventures, and similar (yet lesser tales, surely) of those adventurers that are too trapped in the town. Perhaps between the excitement he brings and Lathander's light, as well as the grace of Chauntea, in a few months there may be some living reminders of the men who'll surely not see another day after the battle that's likely to come.

    Rumors may suggest that the echoes of Cormac's threat to bring vengeance down upon 'all' of the vampires still echoes in the deep forest from when he cried out his oath on another bloody field during another bloody time.

    Others, that it's merely a show of strength to try and inspire more men and women from Norwick to join the scarlet hooded madman on his doomed 'crusade'.

    Perhaps a small number of folk might have by now decided that Cormac Randolph still has designs that fancy himself sat upon the thone of Norwick, and this is his way of showing that he can be an inspiring leader of people should the rumor arise...*

  • An unseasonable cold snap has swept over Norwick, causing the Chancellor to order families to bunk together at the Grapevine and the Shrine of Lathander, to conserve firewood and huddle en masse for warmth. Word spreads that a band of adventurers took to the Great Hall to speak with the Chancellor, and were thereafter seen leaving town for the Rawlinswoods. Perhaps the cold is unnatural, and they are seeking a solution?

    ((Conclusion to take place tomorrow, Tuesday the 27th at 8pm GMT, all welcome!))

  • *The farmer, crafter, and priest simply known as Z, offers prayers and other forms of support to the citizens of the town. He will provide whatever he can to those in need.

    In addition, he offers free Chauntean blessings, charging of crystals, etc. to adventurers who attempt to go out and face the demon swarm.*

    ///Even if I'm playing Sam, just hit me up IG if you want some blessings and/or crystals charged before you head out. He is almost always in the Crafters Union hall and can be easily summoned.

  • Rumours circulate amongst the farners of a humming, sickening sound coming from the southern sections of the forest at intervals, then vanishing again.

    Lumberjacks, miners, and those who regularly travel into the Rawlins seem to be growing increasingly restless and erratic, coming up with stories about new alien overlords, the end of all, or a new light of dawn to save the town from its past sins.

    One of them assures to have seen a tree literally walking, unrooted, casually slumbering its way towards the source of the buzzing.

    The families of Norwick, generally superstitious, grow increasingly worried as these disturbing events become increasingly common, turning to the temples of Lathander and Chauntea for prayer, in hopes for divine protection from this new threat


    • [DM Serendipity]

  • DM

    It's said that the Amnish halfling bard, Tom Thistledown, is in town for a series of performances by the fire at the Grapevine Inn. Reportedly, the first performance was a raucous success, with songs ranging from the bawdy and absurd, to the beautiful and melancholy. What new feats of music the small bard will perform in the coming days, the public can only guess at.

  • a few days later the old dwarf emerges from the Union Hall headed North with a pair of pink laced slippers over his shoulder

    O fine set o' apprentices but none 'er ready fer testin' oi say! If ye need me oi will be practicin' fer me recital at Fish Fort!

  • An old bald dwarf with a few strands of ruddy grey hair tied behind his head grunts with effort to maintain a sturdy posture as he walks in fullplate armor. His face is mostly obscured by a thick splay of grey curly hairs jutting in whatever direction they please from his jaw. His dark beady eyes beneath his sagging brow narrow on the Union hall as he approaches through the muddy streets. A moment of hesitation at the door is followed by a slam as he shoves the doors open and steps inside. A rough voice bellows from within...


  • After a group of adventurers set out to find the missing people, it is said the militia received word that some were sighted leaving the region, with the rumors of unfaithful partners and the like being true, and some were found dead and dumped in the Rawlins from what those who found them call "the clear work of goblinoids." Aside from the gossip about who X or Y could have run away with, life goes on... but some do wonder if it was a coincidence evidence of their fates suddenly reached Norwick after the adventurers set out to find the missing locals.

  • There are whispers of a few locals who have up and gone missing from Norwick. Some throw accusations of unfaithful partners fleeing into the night, and bugbears snatching woodworkers and the other unfortunates. The militia doesn't seem particularly concerned, however, stating that usually people turn up eventually.

  • The warrior rested, back against the rough stone wall, helmet by his side - his gleaming warsword within reach but resting on the hard floor. A jug of wine resting between his splayed legs. He speaks to his companion after a time as his small fire burns down to little more than glowing embers. Just enough to throw shadows.

    "... I don't know why I'm telling you this. Sometimes... I wonder if anyone even listens. Tsk... I know they do. I don't know why I think the way that I think. I used to be so wicked - spiteful - all of the time. Cruel, even. Hmph... still am. I can be anyway."

    He laughs to himself and drinks from his wine jug. Raising it to his companion in an odd salute.

    "Cruel, like making that mad troll piss herself. I think she leapt to her death. Hrrhh... pretty sure. She didn't even look off the bridge she was guarding, just jumped off the edge into bottomless darkness. That's the kind of fear I see sometimes; in the bones of them that tsk... try to stand in 'my' way. Even -- hmph. Even Seb', you wouldn't know her - how could you? Sebrienne Who-Cracks-The-Sky, I think she might've peed a little too, first time we met. You won't tell her I said so".

    He spoke gruffly during those last words, his eyes never leaving those of his companion - deep frowning scowl on his brooding brow. He took a long drink then, two or three gulps of cheap wine. His demeanor softened after taking a breath, he couldn't keep his companion's gaze anymore - couldn't bear it, maybe - and so he looked down at his feet outstretched before him in his lazy slouch; a pair of skulls leering back at him from the toes of his boots.

    He finally sighs, and continues.

    "...and I'm trying to be better. Hmph... kinder... to people. I know - it's a damned foolish thing - but I'm trying. Even to the half-wit Erilo. Offered him my old ring a while back. He declined. Maybe I'll offer him my old sword, see if a shield won't keep his ugly face out the dirt; maybe he'll stop tripping up over that nasty old spear of his. Ha!"

    When the wine is gone, he picks himself up from the floor, slips his longsword back in its scabbard and puts his helmet back on. He looks at the body of the slain Orc that he'd been speaking with; braces the heavy wooden door with his boot, and with a grunt, pulls the blade of his axe out of both of them - the Orc slumping to the ground in a heap afterwards.

    "Look, I know we parted on... hmph... well, it could've ended better for you. Just -- thanks -- for listening..."

    And with that last line he turns, and laughs darkly - musically - to himself, the horrid deep sound filling the cavern and echoing over the litter of dead bodies that had been left in his wake. His shadow thrown far by the dimming embers of his campfire; his companion's glassy unblinking eyes watching him go....

  • Dev

    Rumbles are felt emanating from Spellweaver Keep. Staff members walking to and from are overheard begrudgingly harping about some of the changes taking place around the keep...

    "Yes, exactly, they're training these golems to manage filing the archives. I'd say if they expect that much out of them, they're probably not much smarter than the animated rocks."

  • Dev

    What seems to be the entire population of Norwick emerges from the Grapevine Inn last morning: guards, farmers, lumberjacks, Spellweaver students. Some of which have wet spots around the groin. Labored phrases uttered between some of them...

    ..."Well I always go when I'm off duty. How much did you even drink?" a guard says to another, "I certainly didn't have enough for my head to hurt this much"

    ..."Last thing I remember was just getting so tired, I barely made it to the Inn, I fell asleep on the floor"

    ..."My friend, is that piss?"

    The only one in this ragged bunch seemingly unphased, although still with a wet pair of trousers, is an old drunk adventurer. He sits atop a hitching post infront of the inn and sips upon a flagon. The staff eyes him begrudgingly as they mop up the very wet, very fragrant floors and take half filled cups of water back to the kitchens. He shouts out at the recovering townsfolk...

    ..."Aye happens to the best of us, just means you did yer night right!"

  • Unrest within the Militia has started to occur, or so the rumors go, between some members who prefer "the way things are" and those who prefer "the way things can be". The resulting unrest has come at a bad time, with the various goblinoid skirmishes in the Rawlins growing hotter and hotter after Ostromog's death by natural causes of all things. It's a debate many Norwickans have asked themselves quietly. Do they enjoy what Norwick is, or do they long for what it could be?

    Time will tell.

  • It appears that the Waterdhavian Wizard, Augustus Farthingdale, previously of the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors in Waterdeep has made it to spellweaver again, though the frequent muddy boots he sports perhapos indicates he's fairly well travelled.

    While awaiting an appointment with an appropriate member of renown to allow him to join the place of study and experimentation, he's been conducting magical experiments in the grounds, setting up a stick and marking the shadows of the advancing sun during daylight hours, from sunrise to sunset.

    He's been making notes, while sat in the warm grass on a pleasant sunny day, and keenly observing, rumour says some things he has summoned, maintaining the appropriate wards to keep them in place and himself protected.

    :: What he was summoning would be for those who frequent and are members of spellweaver and who has been spending time there to know; though he assures them he is quite capable of a mundane magical circle of protection. ::

  • I tell you the well was constipated! After tossing some roughage down there and fighting the things that came out the well was able to relieve itself of its man sized poop! and you know what it turns out that poop was a mass of gold and gems! No wonder the well was constipated!

  • After a terrible explosion broke the casual day of Norwick and destroyed farmland and lives in an instant, there was confusion and hatred. People muttered to each other about what could have caused it. People muttered that Salin Ashald is a cursed man. People even muttered that they should abandon Norwick. But as the Doomsayers preached that the end was nigh, that all evils are because of Salin, and other such nonsense, a strange sense of unity was found

    Spurned by charismatic words and preaching, the Norwickans rallied together. Farmers and milita standing side by side against the fear, no more will they let Norwick be destroyed and bullied. They cheered into the night, it's time to rebuild, and [BLEEP] Peltarch!

    ... Wait what?

    Well somewhere along the way the seed was planted and the crowd began chanting that Peltarch sucks and screw Peltarch... uh not really sure how that happened, but everyone was super into it. Anyway the point is, the words on everyones lips are that Norwickans stand together, and the time for feeling weak is over. No more, never again. Norwick will stand tall and proud. And also... you know... [Bleep] Peltarch.

  • The priest, crafter, and farmer known only as Z, returns from a hunting trip with a warning to those who venture into the Rawlinswood.

    Be wary out there, friends. There be lots o' strange happenin's ta the south. Even more than usual, an' it be a lot worse'n gobbos.

    I just returned from deer huntin' an' while I was out there, I ran into a huge wereboar...a tough un.

    Goes on to explain how it reverted into an orc when it was slain - apparently, from a non-local orc tribe.

    Be careful out there an' travel with friends.

  • It started innocuous enough, a curiosity attracting peoples attention though the morning. A new spot in the sky, some kind of magical phenomena of course. But as the day continued and the spot grew larger the people's general anxiety grew. Eventually it became obvious, it was no spot. A great meteor was coming toward Narfell.

    However, as the moment of impact appeared to grow ever closer the great mass of rock and earth shattered, shards rained over Norwick but thankfully no one was hurt. Though it seems hallucinations have coincided with the event, as some claimed to see strange sights descending into Norwick as well such as a brilliant blue dragon and a figure riding an air elemental while crying out with joy.

    Rumours spread that the day was saved by a coalition of adventurers who had gathered up in Spellweaver Keep, destroying the meteor in a do or die mission against all odds and against the pessimistic advice of looker-ons.

  • The talk of Norwick is of course the recent attack on its gates. An army of monsters and men marshaled by a fire giant and announced by a strange skull-headed figure. With giants at their vanguard, they tore through the gate, but the Redcloaks gave them hell. And while Spellweaver seemed to be their intended target, they never breached the doors. Of course, the other talk of Norwick is the churches. The Church of Lathander and Chauntea, pilfered by these raiders, who broke off to steal holy relics. While adventurers arrived to save the Lathandarites precious relic, the relics of Chauntea are still missing. Many wonder if another attack is on the horizon... and why this so called "General" seeks to purge them in flames.