Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: f35437c@saha.hut.fi (Aki Taskinen) Subject: Frost Sage - Invitation to Con Message-ID: <1992Jun9.013624.7305@nntp.hut.fi> Keywords: new character, new line Date: Tue, 9 Jun 1992 01:36:24 GMT It's late, an evening in May. The rowdiest hours have just passed, people chatting around the various round tables in the room, some leaning to the bar table, the two old hounds lying on their favorite spot next to the fireplace, Listener playing blue notes for his own amusement. Many have left for their rooms already, and generally, the evening of social acticity is turning to night time of rest and privacy. Suddenly, there's a change in the mood. The hounds are the first to react; Moochie lets out a long pained, howl, then flees to the corner of the room, next to the door to the kitchen, covering her head with her paws, the entire canine body shivering, the long, now almost hairless tail deep between her legs. Trailer raises painfully to a sitting position, and begins to growl, a deep, low, threatening sound - followed by the baring of two of his remaining three teeth. People quiet in surprise, staring at the dogs, who have become a soothing element of the Pub during the years of placidity. There's a sound of hooves striking something hard in a rhytmic click-clack from the outside - an odd sound, considering how soft the ground is after the rainy day - and then the door is opened, a single man moving to the bar. The fellow is wearing a long, blue robe with a hood. The robe contains scenes or arctic fields of snow, stormy winds, frosty birch trees without leaves. It seems to be woven in a way that as the man under the robe moves, the winds seem to blow across his robe, bending the trees and puffing the snow. Those close by shiver - as the image of chilling cold is not only an illusion of the textile; the air around the newcomer truly feels slightly colder than elsewhere within the room. He moves to the bar, and speaks in a voice that sounds like snow flakes floating to an arctic sea - soft, yet without warmth. A hand, gloved in silver is raised, and the hood pushed down, revealing medium length, perfectly white hair, a face with wrinkles, giving it a feel of centuries bygone - and eyes that seem almost black as a starless night, with blue dots shining through the blackness like the single star they would otherwise lack. The hands is lowered, the movement sending another gush of snowy wind across the robe - which stills soon, in the lack of further moves. "A Chewara Blue, if you're so kind, barkeep." The drink is served fast - a highly alcoholic drink that some take to prove they can, and others to prove they cannot hold the liqour. The man nods in thanks, removes his glove, and holds the glass, almost emptying it with one movement. As he lowers it back to the bar, the remaining half an inch of drink has frozen solid. The wrinkled hand does not seem to mind the chill. The ageless face turns towards Trailer. A soft word is spoken, and the hound resumes its usual resting position. Another such word pacifies Moochers as well, and she moves to join Trailer before the fireplace. The glove is returned to the hand. A blue stone appears between the fingers, and is tossed on a table. The adventurers around the table start slightly, some raising to their feet, others placing a hand on the hilt of a weapon. The stone begins to radiate with blue light that covers fast the entire table, turning it into a bird's eye view of the area. "Gentlemen," begins the newcomer. "I am known by a number of names, but the one I prefer to be used is Frost Sage. I search a company of people that wish to hold a slight break in the grim business of slaying or being slain in pursue of fame and wealth." "As ye know - or perhaps you do not - there is an annual event in the far edge of the continent, beyond the plains, even beyond the mountains. That area has held a bitter war between the fair elven race and the dwarven. That war has kept the finest bards from meeting for more than a decade now, yet now that is about to change. The Bardic Convention shall be held again, this time in the towne of Mistwood." "I plan not to miss the Convention, yet the distance is long for an old man to travel alone. I urge you to join me; the Convention shows favourable signs of becoming unique this year, after such a long break." Frost Sage lowers his head, as if thinking back at the earlier, pre-war Cons, then straightens his back, replaces his hood, and speaks once more. "I shall be moving on in the morning. See you at first light, should you wish to join." He then turns, and strides out of the pub, the way he came, leaving behind a blue stone, that crumbles into dust, startled people, and a frozen drink on the bar.