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Orsino

Under The Hill

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Amairgen says "There is a faint trace of magic in this room. This deed was done by fell charms. I want to get someone here who can trace were the spell came from so that we may go there, rescue the bride, and teach the louts manners!"

 

"Can anyone say what kind of a scent that is? It may be important to know."

 

Amairgen offers Symywev a hankerchief because she sneesed.

 

Gamespeak: Could Amairgen get somekind of a roll to identify the type of smell?

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Timothy, Symywev, and Amairgen all recognize the faint smell as that of sour milk.

 

Gamespeak: You all made your IQ rolls, but Symywev had a critical success in addition to her bonus for having her face on the floor. PM on way. Generally, I won't talk about success or failure on knowledge-type rolls, but in the case of a critical success you know you know. :B):

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"We didn't have any milk last night," mutters Timothy. "It's the Little Folk, I wager. The buggers have come to collect, have they?"

 

He glances around with a nervous smile. "Beggin' your pardon, of course."

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Amairgen asks the others to keep looking for clues he's going to find someone who can trace the source of the spell so they can track down the kidnappers.

 

With that he goes down stairs and looks for the innkeeper. He explains why he wants to find a skilled faerie doctor. He asks the innkeeper to tell him the names of the local faerie doctors (such people were very open about their services in medieval Ireland). He asks Daffyd if he'd like to join him in seeking the aide of a magical specialist.

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"Smells like milk from a nursing mother." Symywev states matter of factly. "Odd." She wipes her nose with the hankerchief offered and carefully brings herself to stand.

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Symywev sits quietly in thought for awhile, then realizes something is unclear. "Come to collect what?" she glances at Timothy for answer.

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Cormac is knocked flat on his face, and gets a mouthful of Sussex dirt. As he whips his flowing beard aside, he rolls onto his good leg, looking up to see a sweaty young boy panting in fear. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir!" The lad is off like a shot again.

 

Cormac's beard and clothing are different, as is the staff at his side. The grass is longer, and the fairy ring (of mushrooms) you were inspecting is gone.

 

Cormac stares after the boy, aimlessly pulling at his beard. His BEARD!! His clothes! What's going on here! Cormac begins to inventory the things that are not as he expected them to be, starting with his person, his knapsack and pockets, and then cautiously looking up. Expecting to be surprised and not happy at the prospect.

 

Looking around in confusion he reaches for his smokes in the direction of where a pocket would be. Absently he spits out bits of soil and thinks "at least insanity has a pretty backdrop".

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"Oh, my pap told me I'd offended the Wee Folk when I was too young to remember. All my life, it was 'The Wee Folk'll come to collect iff'n you don't make amends.' I never thought he was right. Can you see any trail in the milk here?"

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Cormac is wearing a black medieval academic gown closed at the neck over a pale blue linen tunic and darker blue woolen leggings. A wide, dark brown leather belt holds a dagger (“oak leaf” style blade) in a matching sheath; its brass pommel has a raised “C.” Fine leather boots (common last—neither left nor right) are folded down to cover his legs up to the knees.

 

The Zippo lighter and St. Michael pendant appear unchanged, as do the cigarettes and the ring. In a pouch hanging from his belt are Cormac's American driver's license, passport and Britrail pass, similarly unmodified. There is also a mix of coins, British ca. 1970s and some Cormac doesn't immediately recognize.

 

A neatly-folded sheet of parchment is sealed with a bit of wax, and addressed to “Cormac O'Culihan.”

 

In a shoulder satchel are the copies of Solomon Kane and The Hobbit, the research notebook, a fine writing quill, a bottle of green ink, a broad-brimmed hat, a skin of wine, a small black rock on a leather thong, and a small loaf of fresh black bread. The Old Vinyards is there, in an old leather pouch Cormac doesn't recognize. His modern pipe is gone, replaced by a skinny wooden one of crude manufacture. The pack of matches is there, too.

 

His staff appears unchanged.

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Sunday, June the 3rd, Lord's Year 1319

The town of Hastings

The Tabard

 

The dried milk on the floor of the bridal chamber is extremely hard to see. It can be felt as a stickiness, but making out any details is impossible in the dimness of the room.

 

Daffid pulls out a little crucifix, kisses it, and begins muttering prayers, eyes closed and with a worried expression. He remains out in the hallway, listening to the comments of the rest of the group.

 

Symywev notices that a bit of dust she has dragged from under the bed clings to a sticky spot.

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Symywev hmms thoughtfully and starts sweeping dust out from under the bed with her hands, spreading it about to try to uncover more sticky spots or make the trail clearer.

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Sunday, June the 3rd, Lord's Year 1319

The town of Hastings

The Tabard

 

Symywev is unable to find much more dust, but there is enough to show you a small footprint, resembling a child's, pointing toward the door.

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"Dammit, their quarrel was with me, if they had one!" spits Timothy, red-faced. It's them, I tell ye. One of you was gettin' a fairie doctor, right? If he don't want to come, ye can make something up that he'll expect from me if he don't!"

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