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{Come one, come all! -CLICK-}Hey, AK gang! So, shying away from the combat aspects, I've decided to make a mini-rp about the characters we are making for this site. It'll be something fun, silly and goofy - depending on how your characters react, of course; and if you make it light-hearted! Setting is Southpeak, the name of the game is Festival of Fools. Feel free to GM events that happen to your own character, but I can try and make certain things a surprise for you, or act as NPCs. Feel free to join in! Post any Associate character responses in the same post as your Associate's Main, and secondary characters are welcome to join, if you'd like. I guess consider this as a "What if," roleplay.

"My Lady. Pray tell me... Why is it that we're attending this 'Festival of Fools'? Shouldn't we be pressed with more urgent affairs?" The youthful male of the Eventine household spoke, lean frame curved against the trunk of a gargantuan tree, his arms crossed loosely around his chest. His sapphire eyes, shaded by the mass of the flora, peered out at the trail toward Southpeak with a disinterested glare. He didn't seem ecstatic about returning to his 'homeland', given the nature of some events in his life, but his shielded, tender heart yearned to rekindle the sibling relationship with his sisters. So, his questioning and outward distaste were likely recognizable signs of his anxiety and mixed feelings brewing up inside. The two lurking figures, cloaked both in shadow and hooded-capes, observed from the edges of the forest.

"Can't you ever just go with my better judgment? Without questions?" Rhetorically the woman scowled, biting firmly into the ruby apple in her possession; the flavor sweetly succulent to indulge, the fruit ripe to her liking. Snickering to herself, voice low as if to remain hidden, Raewynne rolled her wrist containing the apple, gesturing as she retorted without jest. "I want to make sure they're not a gang of thieves. Besides, wouldn't you like to visit home? You might actually enjoy yourself, hanging out with other fools." She jokingly sent a hook to his shoulder, her playful nature unknown to most. There were few who gained the pleasure of knowing her on an intimate level, most didn't even know what she looked like... and she liked it that way. For the man of high-nobility she swore to protect, who in turn swore to serve under her, Raewynne would do her best to open up. Well, she did have to live with him out in the wilderness from time to time, and his company hardly bothered her... that much.

"Oh, how swell. Of course you wouldn't have the luxury of hanging around fools, now, would you? That's a laugh." He fired sarcastically back at his superior, stepping off from the trunk of the tree, stiffly turning to face her. She really needed to learn some manners, but he didn't expect someone posing as common birth to know etiquette. Then again, he knew she had the utmost respect; she just hardly knew how to show it.

"I knew a man from Southpeak, once.. and he was certainly a fool." She muttered coldly, finished with the apple in her clenched grip. Chucking the core on the ground, she'd lightly smash it against the earth underneath her leather boot, their advancement on the town in progress. "Let's move." Maybe investigation was a little far-fetched, but, secretly, she didn't mind a little down time, time to unwind and enjoy life. Perhaps she was the fool for giving an alternate motive!

The sun had yet to ascend for the day, the gypsy and jester travelers trekking with haste to start business a little after sunrise. It wouldn't be long for the horizon to brighten, though. Wagons upon wagons, carts upon carts and wheel-able stands were nearing the gate of the city, majority already unloading their vestments, hats and souvenirs. Guards were no doubt aware of the festivities of the day, allowing the traveling professionals to "set camp" within the walls of Southpeak.

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Villagers pranced, villagers danced. Villagers and travelers from far and wide came to the spectacle, this once-in-a-lifetime tourist attraction. The streets decorated in ribbons and banners, children scurrying around with puppets and masks, jester hats and silly shoes. This was a busy day for the shopkeepers of the town, as with the performers. They rhymed, sang and entertained, through the lanky puppets at their disposal, or the comical actors on the makeshift stage. Many stands offered a selection of costumes and souvenirs for the festival, most masks plastered with a goofy face. Face painting was also a hot-stop to shop. It was a merry beginning to the day, the festivities livened with the musical instruments found in this mythical-medieval period.

The duo, who were now hood-less, were immersed with the culture, merging and blending in with the crowd. Those who knew his face surely greeted Malavai with a proper bow and warm welcome, Raewynne preoccupied with a purchase: two masks, one representing comedy and the other tragedy. Once Malavai found his superior, he was a little disgruntled to know he'd be wearing the tragedy mask and protested, but the two were once again in motion; checking the stands with what seemed like interest. The onyx, short hair and the other long-locks of strawberry blonde. Those were their main identifiers, besides her ranger-cloak and his imperial-cloak, his sword and her bow. Malavai just wasn't his regal self today!

When Gwenyth had dragged him back to Southpeak, the tavern had been a mess. No one had been inside since his parents' funerals, no one had bothered to clean or dust, or even check to see if the food had kept. It had been a long time since Bard had worked behind the bar, but old habits died hard. The man had set himself to work from the first day: sweeping, mopping, dusting, mending, and busting his ass for nearly a week to get the place in working order. It had paid off, though, all of it. The kitchen was stocked, as were the cellar and barn, and commerce once again flowed through the Notched Axe.

With the village's biggest festival of the year spilling out into the streets, Bard had found himself in an irresistibly good mood. The sights and sounds of people laughing and dancing, trading stories for food and drink while making fun of each other and of people they'd never met and likely never would, made even the normally sour look on Bard's face twist into a weary grin. "Molly, Shae!" He called over the din to the only help he had in the tavern, a pair of local women who he'd hired as serving girls, "We need another pitcher of ale at table four, and when you're done with that, I'll have table five's food prepared." Bard slipped back into the kitchen, a knife flashing in his hands as he set to work slicing vegetables and herbs for the various Southpeak Delicacies he'd been preparing. On his front lawn, an entire boar was rolling over open flame, roasted and basted in a succulent sauce of Bard's own craft.

When he finally found a pause in the busy din of the inn, he stepped out onto the porch with a mug of mead and a pipe. Stuffing the bowl full of brownleaf, he settled into an old rocking chair and lit the pipe from a long taper. With smoke streaming from his nostrils, the man soon found himself daydreaming. His gaze fell to the crimson and orange flames of a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm, and his thoughts drifted to better days: Days when he had commanded a legion of the best soldiers the continent had to offer. Days when he had been strong, confident, bold.

Days when he'd still held her in his arms at night, looking out from beneath the trees to see starlight sparkling in the sky above. The former captain of the Bridgeburners sighed and took a long drink, and began trying to extricate himself from those happier times.

The Festival of Fools had not taken place in Southpeak for many years. Under the rule of the late Lord Eventine both the town and it's villagers had been left in a state of despair and disrepair. Anything that could have been classified as 'fun and games' had been abolished in the wake of Lord Eventine's grief over his wife's passing. The damage that had been done took time to spread and it would take more time for the scars to fade. His daughter, Lady Gwyneth Eventine, worked diligently to speed the process by establishing projects to revitalize Southpeak among other things. Bringing back the Festival of Fools was one such project.

Her full skirts jostled below her torso as children tugged at them, burying their hands deep into the soft indigo fabric. They followed her as soon as she had stepped through the gates of the Eventine manor knowing that she had goodies for them in the woven basket she carried out every morning. Today was no different even though the streets were alive with the merriment of the festival. Gwyneth leaned heavily on her shepherd's crook as the children's weight shifted her own petite frame off balance. "There is enough for you all, little lambs. Share it fairly," she said before abandoning the basket to their greedy hands. She had included a small sum of gold at the bottom of the basket as a special treat. Festivals weren't the same if you didn't by useless trinkets.

Gwyneth left the children to sort the basket for themselves. She had been teaching them about Novalia and all things related to the Goddess including charity and generosity and hoped that they had taken the lessons to heart. No doubt she would hear otherwise if they did not. For now the young woman had other business to attend to. Overseeing the flow and mood of the village would help Gwyneth plan her moves for the future. This meant she needed to tap into the lifeblood of the commoners and her one true connection could be found at the local tavern.

It was not a place the lady frequented often given her bloodline, but Gwyneth found the tavern to have it's own kind of simplistic charm. Despite that, the exterior recalled darker days from her father's reign that led to Gwyneth meeting meeting the proprietor. "Hail, Ser Alrikson," Gwyneth greeted Bard upon arriving at her destination as he stood on the porch of the tavern. She addressed him befitting of his former rank though he had retired from his station out of respect though he would probably prefer less formality. There were certain things that one had ingrained in them and politeness was one of those for Gwyneth.

The two wandered around, window-shopping at the other stalls, until the Banshee's eyes glimmered with glee against the bejeweled-emerald mask. A contest corner. She wasn't smiling just at the thought of competition, but one stand caught her undivided attention at the moment: a knife throwing contest. While enamored and giddy like a child for candy, Raewynne would try her hand, reaching for some gold within one pocket of her pants. Paying the vendor, who dangerously bestowed her with the with 4 knives - to think they hosted such violent games - Raewynne's focus drew entirely on the bulls-eye. Aim. Make sure posture is good. Concentrate. Now, throw. It was important to assume a proper position, determine the distance for the knife to rotate fast enough so that the tip of the blade would lodge into the soft surface of the wood. It was essential that she didn't throw like a ball, making sure no curve or angle would throw the knife off course. She simply put the blade carefully against her fingers and threw in a line-drive, the projectile swooshing softly in the air until a 'clunk' was heard. The knife was stuck, perfectly near the center of the target, her lips responding with a confident smirk, "Ah, still got it." Her head cocked toward Malavai's direction, looking to see for any reaction. She found it humorous that he still wore the mask, and that it was frowning. Frowning as if he was jealous or envious of her obvious prowess.

"Show-off." Malavai snorted as he stood beside her, head shaking profusely. He didn't want to believe she would flaunt and brag about her skills; she usually chose to hide herself. He wouldn't object that she possessed skill, it was evident, but even when his superior had her occasions of grandeur, it was never in a crowded, public vicinity. He was calculating, silently.

Knife three stuck.

"Someone is being sour! Maybe you should find your sister, enjoy the day with her. You know, it's what families do...?" He was greeted in kind, her words, however, a push to get him to 'reconcile'. It was fair knowledge that his father went downhill, she knew of his circumstances. It was obvious to Raewynne that it tore him apart, but it wasn't his sister's doing. If anything, he'd likely feel relief! Lady Gwyneth seemed just, fair and compassionate. "Lord Malavai, I'm debating on whether or not that should be an order. It would also give me time to vent." She murmured softly, blurted, more like! In fact, her light chestnut eyes feigned surprise at her sudden blabbering of words, face reddening in embarrassment. What was wrong with her?

Focus, breathe. There goes knife two.

"I never said I wasn't going to, and since you 'commanded' nicely and politely, yes. Unless you're being sarcastic. But, what kind of high noble - what kind of brother would I be if I returned home without even greeting my family? I am a man of mannerisms and morals, you know this." The Eventine lad confessed, a sense of pride in his tone. A man of many flaws, he was haunted with the burden of his birthright; though, having received the brunt of his father's bitterness, he knew very well that Southpeak would have burned to ash in his rule... His sister was doing well, and he was very grateful. He owed her so much, loved her, so much. He just felt like the spitting image of his father. "I'd like for you to meet her... she's a beacon of hope for many, including myself. Do come find me." Malavai disregarded her proclamation for the need to vent, knowing now was not the time; certainly not in front of all these people. However, his calculative mind was developing a hunch. With a final glance in her direction, even a gentle pat of her shoulder, Malavai went off in search of his older sister, knowing the town like the back of his hand.

Last knife was lodged, but a little off from the center.

"Hah, bullshit." She whispered inaudibly under her breath, spanning the digits of her throwing arm like a wave. He certainly ruined her mojo. Bidding the stand-attendee a farewell, she set off to wander around some more, wanting to see the natural beauty the town had to offer. Maybe she was looking for something specific, something that would give her answers. Hell, maybe she just needed a drink.

In a time that seemed to lurk in the very distant past, Bard had once made a very grave error in judgement. Lord Eventine, the village's resident noble, had never been the same after his wife's death. The cruelties and abuses he forced upon the people of Southpeak had made him more than a few enemies, once the sympathy for his loss had worn off. One night, when the spring rains were falling and the air smelled sweet with the promise of rebirth, the man had made his way into the Tavern for a drink. Bard's father, Alrik, had humored the man, helping him get good and solidly drunk. When the time came to close, however, the Lord refused to pay his tab. he even started making threats, until Bard gave him a sharp jab across the jaw. He'd been hotheaded in his earlier days, and didn't take kindly to bullies. He didn't much care for consequences either.

The fight had ended with Bard dragging Eventine out of the barn and hurling him into the muddy streets, no doubt ruining his fine robes and forever tainting the mud beneath the man. Of course, the young son of Alrik had been promptly arrested. Eventine had wanted to send him to a forced labor camp, or worse. Instead, Bard got a flogging.

As the memory of that sordid affair faded, his back spasmed in phantom pain, as if remembering alone was enough to bring back the ache that had seeped under his skin and settled into his bones. Still, a flogging had been much better than years of hard labor in the Cidna Mines. He wouldn't have survived that.

Looking to the woman who had saved him from that fate, his lips twisted into a wry frown. "I haven't been called 'Ser' in over a year, Gwyn, and I'd very much like to keep it that way." He took a long drink from his mug, then puffed on his pipe for a moment, watching her ascend the stairs in her flowing gowns. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Thirsty?"

The clipclop of sodden hooves upon the cobblestone path beat out a tempo as the small party made their way towards Southpeak. Cathlyn's form rocked to and fro with the heavy footsteps of Shadowmyst, rider and beast in perfect sync, her white little pup trotting  a few feet to her left, her twin's much larger and older canine tailing the pup. It was evident that Cathlyn was excited, no matter how hard she tried to mask it with a dour look. Her horse was in the lead after all, testing to see if she could pick up the pace without her fellow members telling her to do the opposite of what she wanted. She didn't want to miss all the excitement of this Festival of Fools she heard rumours about. She needed to see it as soon as possible. 

Her twin however spoke those words she didn't want to hear, a light chuckle floating upon the words he gave her. "Cat. The Festival isn't going anywhere any time soon. Give your poor horse a rest, for pity's sake."  Cathlyn turned in her seat to gaze at her brother, a frown causing her forehead to wrinkle and elongate those triangular tattoos upon her face. "You know as well as I that that isn't true. The festival is a once a year thing, and I don't plan on missing it. I heard so much about it and I brought all my earnings of the last couple months and I want to spend it on this festival."

She turned back around in her seat, fingers upon her right hand tapping on the gauntlet she was rarely seen without. She shifted a bit and raised in her seat as a few ligaments and joints popped, "Besides, the sooner we get there, the sooner my poor arse can be relieved of this saddle. No matter how many years I have been riding, it still doesn't make it any less comfortable." Cathlyn then turned her gaze to her other companion, eyes taking in his appearance, "How fairs your own arse, my lord?"

The thick black mane of Wind Walker suddenly caught a breeze and smacked the tired and hungry Lord of Levenstead quite suddenly in the face. He huffed, cursed and batted it down as his horse whinnied kept up his best parade trot as the large black beast of a horse came up beside Shadowmyst, his large head coming down to nuzzle at his would be brother, cousins in fact but Mallach was not about to argue with the charger.

"The sores on my ass are starting to have sores." He replied oh so matter of factly, when in fact he was so used to riding during the war that his saddle was more comfortable to him than his overly soft bed. But, he didn't wish to make Cat seem upset by saying otherwise. "It didn't help this horse you gave me bit me on the arse as I was climbing into the saddle this time." That however was the truth, Wind Walker was many things including quite the ham where Mallach was concerned. A demon to basically anyone else.

"Form up, we're almost there. And then we can get these beasts some food, along with some for our own bellies." The two small columns of Royal Guard following the trio did not go unnoticed to many. It was to be expected the Voice of the King would have an escort, even as small as this one. Something Mallach argued, but his Majesty insisted and the word of his brother-in-law was not to be questioned on such things.

"Although I don't believe I should be eating much.. Otherwise I may be vomiting later this evening.." He groaned at the thought. Oh yes, his love of food was well known across the land. It was no wonder why he was asked to come and try many a delicious item at this festival and award best dish. He only wished there wasn't a lake so close by.. All those fish courses...

Trailing somewhere behind the column of the riders, Mhairyn Dirson, daughter of Mallach and niece of the King, ambled along in that awe-struck silence that comes with the novelty of being somewhere new. She hadn't been outside of the castle in Vertholt before, and this entire journey was new and wonderful, and she couldn't keep her excitement contained, much to Mollandir's epic disapproval. Despite all of her training, little Aryn's curiosity still won. The horse beneath her, a tiny painted gelding by the name of Haffingar, plodded along patiently, ears flicking in apparent agreement each time his master made a comment about the scenery, the flora, the fauna, or the straggling festival-goer; his gait was smooth despite the long journey, something his master was silently grateful for.

Conversely, the dainty mare snorting and prancing beside him made the eternally grumpy Mollandir even moreso; each of Aryn's comments were met with an increasingly frustrated grunt of indifference, though this was mostly due to her youthful endurance and less-painful behind. Safyria was not, despite her beauty, a pleasure to ride. Truly, the bodyguard missed his faithful mule. With a sigh, the poor man briefly entertained the idea of asking Aryn to swap horses for a few hours, but as his sullen eyes flicked to the head of the column, he thought better of it -- he was hired to protect Mhairyn, not to facilitate her demise.

"Oh!" the girl suddenly cried out, dismounting her horse in a flurry of fabric (which may have contributed to a startled cry from the bodyguard beside her as his horse spooked and sent him into the muck and an angry ripple down the line) and bending to check the feathered leg. "You poor thing," she cooed, stroking the beast's warm neck as he gently put his foot down. The girl frowned as she waited for Mollandir to right himself and secure his mare. After Safyria's third or fourth attempt at escaping the column, she had suggested that, maybe, a little extra weight would prohibit some of her flighty behaviors, and both of their camping packs were secured to her back. And in one of those packs was the pick that would remove the stone caught in Haffingar's hoof.

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Ah, the famed Festival of Fools! Long had it been, since it was last held in the famed -and once downtrotten- city of Southpeak (or at least, a certain red-haired individual would call it that). Or so he had heard. Hell if he knew why, though. Maybe the late Lord Eventine had lost his sense of merriment ever since his wife died. Or maybe he just didn't like the name of it. 'The Festival of Fools' - why was it called that anyways? Was everyone who took part in it a 'fool', hence why it was a festival of fools? Or was it supposed to be a festival dedicated to 'fools', like the jesters and the what not? Was it a true day for the appreciation of those professionals -or naturals- who would act stupidly and mess up in order to amuse others? Was it a way of apologising for the mocking snickers and the condesending gazes directed at them? For the kicks that their behinds would receive when other grew weary of their antics? Or for the fact that even when they were on the receiving ends of such humiliating treatment, said fools were forced to just keep up a smile and not defend their honour? Then again, maybe the entire thing was nothing more than a whole day dedicated to mocking said fools even more. Then again, maybe the purpose of the title was nothing other than to just motivate the participants to relax, let off some steam and act foolishly. Now that he thought about it again, maybe that was it, for when taking part in a festival called 'The Festival of Fools' only the most prideful and snobbish of individuals would not take the opportunity to embrace the spirit of the celebration and act, well, a little 'foolish'.

In any case, there was no need for fear! The festival would get its 'fool', even if nobody else was willing to 'sully their honour' or allow 'mud' to 'smear their image'. For you see, there was someone individual who was not concerned about keeping up appearances (not all of the time, anyways) and truly knew how to relax, kick back and act in a foolish, immature and 'naughty' manner. That someone was a certain red-haired rogue who, having seen an opportunity for both fun and profit in the festival, had borrowed a table, a few cards and had set up a rather fun 'stall' in front of the central plaza's fountain (I'm assuming there is a central plaza/town square with a fountain, just go with it). Well, it was going to be more fun for the 'fool' in charge of it -him- rather than the 'fools' who had let 'foolish' greed for money, 'foolish' lust for gambling or 'foolish' merry-brought curiousity seduce them into essentially wasting their gold. Oh well, it wasn't going to be that bad, for the young, energetic lad was not planning on sucking the poor townfolk's purses dry like some sort of malevolent, overgrown parasite. Nay, he was just not going to come out of this game he had set up with less money than he had while he started it! Oh yes, he was most definitely going to get off his table with a profit, a profit which he would then freely waste upon the 'foolish' attractions, trinkets and tasty consumables that all the other stalls were offering o the 'fools' who had gathered today to celebrate.

"Come up people, come up! The game is simple! Find the Fool! I have 3 cards here - two duds, one fool! You see them, I put them down, I switch them up! Find the Fool and win cash! Let the Fool slip, and you lose cash! Come and bet, come and play!" announced Ephraim loudly, trying to get even more participants -or at least onlookers- than he already had. Not that they were not plenty, but sooner or later they would leave - one by one, or all together. He sat upon the hard, stone ridge of the fountain -not exactly a comfortable spot but he was going to manage- with his table and cards laid out in front of him. He gave a grin to his next victi-ahem, 'challenger', who stepped up and placed his bet on the table, the previous participant having left after losing more coins than he would've liked. The cards were laid down in front of the table, face-up, so that everyone could see that there were indeed 2 duds and one Fool (imagine a Joker card).

"We have a challenger then! Alright. You know the rules, if you find the Fool then you get back the money you've bet, and I have to give you just as much as well! If you don't however, I get to keep your money. You ready? Eyes open? And in three....two....one...." and the game began.

Having long since become an expert on card tricks and the sort -also called cheating by some groups-, he was capable of moving his hands quite quickly, a skill which gave him an invaluable advantage. The true nature of this game, you see, was more of a contest between the 'dealer's' skill and the challenger's observational capabilities. The challenger was shown the cards face up, then they were flipped - of course, said challenger still knew where the Fool was. But then the 'dealer' would start to switch the position of the cards, usually starting with a more slow, manageable pace before gradually speeding up. If the player's eyes were quick enough, they would not lose track of the card and their victory was assured. If they found themselves outmatched however, it became a one-in-a-three chance gamble, as they were forced to pick a card at random and hope that luck would smile upon them. That is, provided that the dealer was not a cheater *coughEphraimcough* and did not sneakily replace the Fool card with a dud card, thus leaving no Fool card for the player to find and making it impossible for them to win.

"Here is the Fool, there is the Fool, here is the Fool, there is the Fool, here is the Fool, there is the Fool..." he kept repeating as his tempo neared its peak. He decided that he wasn't going to cheat this time, though he wasn't going to let him win either. He would just leave the man with his 1-3 chance at winning, as he was confident that the older male would not manage to keep track of the card. After a good 10-15 seconds of swapping the face-down cards around he stopped, pulling back his hands and turning his face up at the man. "Where is the Fool?" he asked, giving him a playful smirk. The whole ordeal was quite showy, and so was his expression, but this was a festival in the end. Even if he wasn't going to entertain the people's purses, he could at the very least have enough courtesy to entertain their spirits.

"My apologies, of course," Gwyneth replied in a tone appropriate for the words she spoke. Upon reaching the upper landing of the porch, her delicate nose scrunched almost imperceptibly as the smell of smoke from Bard's pipe wafted around her. She would never ask anyone, let alone a person at their own residence, to cease their vices, but even Gwyneth, with all her manners, couldn't prevent the entirety of her natural reflexes to exposure.

She would, however, decline to join. "Thank you for the offer, Bard," she said. Using his given name didn't come as naturally as her previous address; it left her voice sounding almost stiff. "But I am afraid that I will have to decline." While the establishment itself had a rustic appeal to the lady, it catered to the consumption of the things she disliked most; alcohol and meat. She had no doubt that Bard could serve other beverages if she was so inclined, but she was there on business after all. "Pray tell, have the festivities brought more business through your doors?"

His eyes, ever-attentive, searched strenuously for any identifier of his sister. Weaving in and out of the crowds like a needle with thread along a fabric canvas, his taller frame allowed for a clearer scope; head spanning in unison with his adroitly-built figure. "Where are you?" He muttered inaudibly to himself, slithering his way down the main street. She had to be close... had to be greeting the people respectfully... Where else could she have been at a ceremonial time like this...? His eyes then widened slightly when he found her: the Lady Eventine... was at the Tavern, on the porch? She was indulging in conversation with the man whose son had thrown his father, Lord Barrett Eventine, out; not that he didn't blame the commoner trying to uphold his business, he was a bit surprised. But, his sister did have a kind persona, something he seemed to lack, most of the time. Moving with grace and an upright posture, like any soldier would have, he'd approach the steps but cease motion; heart thudding boisterously against his chest. Maybe it was the anxiety of greeting his sister, maybe the burden of guilt he faced, but he called out, lump pressed against his throat, "My Lady, Gwyneth." He ascended up the stairs, hand moving to pull off the "tragedy" mask, revealing his familiar face to his sister. He felt a little uneasy going up the steps, but he pulled it off fluidly, moving to stand near both Bard and Gwyn. "It's been a while, but it's still always a pleasure to see you, Sister." He felt awkward hugging her, so he stood out with his arms dangling slightly by his sides, one hand grasping the mask; its fingers fiddling with the contour and shape. He looked to Bard after any sort of greeting had been initiated with him and his sister, asking hesitantly, but modestly and respectfully. "You must be... Sir Alric... yes? It's nice seeing you as well." The man who ran the tavern looked similar to what he vaguely remembered, but he noticed subtle differences... He had to be the same man though, right?

"It's hard to capture the beauty of this village when there's a festival going on..." She muttered incoherently to herself as she wandered around, sighing as the streets were flooded with people. Funny thing - she forgot to claim her prize for her winnings before! Raewynne soon resorted back to stand gazing, finding herself intrigued at the man toying around with cards: Ephraim, the swindler, the cheat... although she wasn't aware of his 'crimes'. She stood nearby and watched his spectacle, hoping his current contestant would have the luck or skill to pull the joker from the selection. Mask still plastered upon her face, she quietly observed, arms lightly crossing upon her chest.

"Well Gwyn, you weren't wrong..." he admitted, allowing himself a small smile. "The town needed its tavern back, and it is good to be home again. Business has been booming." He hadn't been this peaceful in a long time. His warrior's heart had been satisfied for the time, and now he wished to settle for a while. He could make a good life here, he knew. His father had, his grandfather had, and his grandfather's grandfather had. Bard just hadn't thought he'd be here so soon...a long life of glory and adventure cut short by fate. Well, at least he'd had something...even if all he had left of it were stories and an axe.

His suddenly uplifted moods were promptly ruined by the arrival of a young man, Gwyn's brother, who after a polite greeting inferred that Bard was old enough to be his own father. "Look here, Malavai Eventine." He growled, frowning deeply beneath is beard. "Just because the last time we saw each other, you were still wearing diapers and suckling at your mother's teat, doesn't mean I'm a hundred years old. I'm Bard, SON of Alrik." Done embarrassing the man, Bard puffed on his pipe for a moment, drank down the last of his mead, and smiled at the younger man. "Now then, welcome to the Notched Axe. Can I get you a drink?"

Haru had heard a lot about the festival of fool's... sadly that was the extent of his interaction with it. His family was always rather disapproving of such "frivolous, mindless festivities". He wasn’t quite sure how a group of soldiers getting drunk in the tavern any night they weren’t on duty was different, but when he was a young boy he had not the time nor the gill to truly argue with his parents. Then came the Seeker and his entry into the Order Of the Sun, which made his life quite busy. And in between that the Tragedy of Lord Eventine cast a dark shadow across his life, and by extent, the life of the whole village.

Of course, as soon as he caught wind of the festival making a return, he could feel that warm feeling of excitement and anticipation brewing deep in his stomach. Of course, with all the responsibility that came with his current role in life, there were more than a few obstacles in the way of him coming to Southpeak, but in the end, here he was, and he could see other members as well, enjoying themselves in the background. In the end, it was all that mattered.

He was enjoying himself quite a lot to, though in a manner which might seem a bit...unusual. He was clad in his more casual attire, a light green tunic and a pair of red trousers. What was more unusual was a mask on his head, one resembling the visage of a teddy bear, even with the outer layer being of fur and filled with fluff. The mask cost him a good dime, but it felt worth it. As he was browsing through the market wears a child near him started to cry for one reason or another. On an impulse he put the mask on and tried his best to cheer up the child. An hour or two later, the younger Gifted had bought the mask and was wandering the town, amusing any children who came near, and even their parents if his jokes managed to earn a chuckle. Perhaps taking the name of the festival a bit to literary, but being here brought him such joy, he was glad to spread it around.

As the party moved further into the city, he couldn't help but steal a glance this way and that. The last time he was here was during war time, and it wasn't nearly as pretty then as it was now. Of course, the little caravan was noticed by the populace and as ever Mallach had to put on his best diplomatic face, as much as he hated doing so. He considered himself still very much a soldier, yet his dear brother-in-law disagreed and told him he needed to act the role he was given. So, he acted.

And he thought he did a rather good job of it too.

Waving to the crowd here and there and offering them smiles and nods he lead the caravan through the crowd of small folk for several minutes before turning in his saddle to look back at his daughter. As wondrous of a transformation he thought this city had experienced he couldn't help but wonder what she thought of this new and exciting part of the world. Turning his eyes to Cat, he saw she was much the same and couldn't help but bark a laugh.

"Feel free to get down and stretch your legs, I'm headed to the tavern to get a pint." He declared oh so matter of factly to the guards nearest to him. "Select a few men to stay with me if you must, however have the rest do as they please and tell my daughter to do the same please.

"Let her explore and enjoy what the festival has to offer her." The guard nodded, did as he bid and rode off four horseman remaining near Wind Walker's rump which Mallach was sure the great beast did not appreciate to much. Eventually, he came to the tavern in which he was staying and dismounted and began to guide his mount toward the stable boy. "Be careful with this one lad, he likes to bite." He rummaged into his pack, presented an apple to the horse then tossed it to the boy and smirked. "Offer him this and he'll be less likely to take a mouthful of yer hair boy." Smirking the boy took the horse by his reins and baited him toward a stall with the apple, the horse trotted after swishing his tail this way and that, knowing full well he was going to get a treat if he continued to behave. Chuckling, Mallach snatched up his shoulder bag off the back of the saddle as Wind Walker was taken away and headed toward the tavern doors.

Stepping through the doorframe the aroma of pipe smoke, food and drink filled his nose while laughter and good cheer entered his ears. He smiled earnestly and held the door open for his lady and then released it once she was through. Hefting his bag over his shoulder he looked for a barmaid of even the tavern keeper before spotting an empty table. Deciding to just make way toward it rather than interrupt the merry making, he chose a seat in which he could see the whole room and plunked himself down with a weary sigh.

Following the band of cheery soldiers, the twins dismounted their chargers, Cathlyn tickling Shadowmyst's velvety snout with her fingers, cooing all the while at him as the little pup of hers whipped that white fluffy tail of hers, letting out a yip while Azoth pulled out a lump of sugar for the crotchety mare of his. Both handed over the reins of the stable hands, Cat giving a hand signal to Solo, the pup following the horses. After that, Cat began to follow after Mallach, her brother waving at her to get her attention, "Hey, I'm gonna peruse the area, that way I'm not intruding on anything." And off the dark haired male made his way through the crowd, Banshee following him like a shadow.

Cathlyn gave a nod to her brother as he left and quickly slipped through the door Mallach had opened, sticking close to him in the tightly packed tavern. "Looks like this place is quite the place to be." Of course, Mallach had to move to the most difficult to reach table, having to squeeze through the patrons nursing their drinks and being boisterous. Too much contact with different people for Cathlyn's liking. Once at the table, Cat just had to nit pick at the man twice her age, "Why the sitting? We've been sitting for the past four hours. I want to see the town and the stands!" With that, she plopped unceremoniously into her seat, curling a leg under her to give her poor bum a rest from something  so solid. Her hand that was wearing her Eiphyre scraped at the grain of the table as she watched her surroundings absently. Once they were approached by the barmaid, Cat asked for a mug of milk, for she had the sudden craving for dairy.

"So, I know you might be wondering and worrying about this, but I promise that I won't enter the contest and kill you with my cooking." The woman shifted in her seat and twisted so her shoulders let out a 'pop!' a sigh following after. "I prefer you alive anyways."

Meanwhile, the Nuëmenoïr lad had made his way to a table near the fountain, watching the card trickster do his magic. One thing was certain, the man thought, Cathlyn would hate this game. 

Fortunately, the mismatched horse and rider were placed at the back of the column, and Safyria's antics were greatly ignored by the majority of the escort – most of whom had already dispersed into the city while the silly mare spooked at her own shadow – and Mhairyn had ohsopatiently waited for the pick. The stone wasn't large, so it wouldn't impede the pony's burden (not that Mhairyn was burdensome), but while she waited, she observed. Mollandir had a bad leg, and though he tried to hide it, the combination of week's worth of travel, the flighty mare, and just plain grumpiness, the man just looked painful.

It took a few minutes of patient explanation and gentle persuasion, and soon the duo was back to travelling toward the city, Mollandir begrudgingly on the back of the pinto and Mhairyn guiding the flighty mare with a firm hand. The rest of the adventure was uneventful, even as the pair of horses were stabled – Mhairyn had a natural way with animals, a soft heart, and a pool of infinite patience. As the exited the stable, the girl's energy renewed itself and her eyes widened in excitement.

With a sigh, the bodyguard hobbled after her, and in a quick two-stride step, he closed the distance between the two and snaked his arm around her waist – firm, protective, but not overbearing. "This way," he muttered in her ear, using the palm of his hand on the small of her back to steer her. "Tavern first...." It was his goal to secure a bed for his charge, despite the fact that her status would ensure one. Plus, a hot, fresh meal would do wonders for his mood, and a pint of ale would numb the pain.

Almost furtively, he ushered her inside, his dark eyes glancing about as though to predict someone who would do her harm. In all likelihood, no-one would physically accost her, but she was naïve and too trusting, and well, it was a big gathering of people and not all people were nice. "Stay close," he muttered as he felt her leave his hand, and disappear amongst the sea of heads and clouds of smoke. Sighing again, he limped his way to the bar, his grumpy demeanor giving him a slight berth as he waited, patient.

Mhairyn, swept through the crowd by the hustle and bustle, found herself in a sea of strange faces and offensive smells – smoking was prohibited by the Order of the Sun. She coughed and sputtered and whorled about, struggling to make her way back outside, to the cleaner air.

The so-called card-trickster would patiently wait for the 'customer' to have a shot at the cards. As mentioned before, he had lost sight of the Fool and so now had to pick a card at random. He clearly seemed to be a little hesitant, his hand twitching as he made slight hints of a movement towards a card, only to change his mind. Again, and again, and again. The red-haired youth on the other hand was much more calm. Maybe it had to do with the fact that chances were in his favor, or then again maybe it was that he wasn't all that worried about the outcome. He wasn't going to get off this table penniless after all, and some times it was better for him to come up on the losing side. So what if the man won, so what if he left early with his meager winnings, before Ephraim could cheat them back along with a small extra? That was fine, that was perfectly fine. That way people would be less suspicious of him when he takes a good chomp out of the purses of the next 3 people. If you constantly win, people will start to believe that you cheat. If you win every one in a while however, most will just assume that you are skilled, or plain lucky. Not that there are not those who could see through the ruse through pure intuition, but the redhead didn't have to convince everyone about the legitimacy of his 'establishment' - only most of them. And most of them he did, usually. And besides, even if things got on the rough side, he always had a pair of strong and really fast legs that always got him out of trouble. No need to stab -or get stabbed- over a few coins after all, even if some of the people who had caught him cheating in the past had said otherwise.


The nameless festival-goer took a deep breath before making his final choice. Reaching out for the card on his left, he grabbed it by the very edge and, after a brief pause, flipped it with a sudden movement. It was a little dramatic, if Ephraim would have to say, which fit his sense of style just fine.


"And we have a winner!" he announced loudly with a smile, opening his own purse and putting 5 shinies on the table, right next to the challenger's own wager of 5 gold coins. He was not bothered of course, if anything he decided to grab the bull by the horns and stretch out the older male's winning streak.


As you might have guessed, the challenger did not back down after a single victory. Enticed by the taste of success that had just barely scrapped his lips, he would go for another round, betting all of the 10 gold pieces that had been accumulated in the 'pot' from the first round. He was hoping to win again, to make a dime, and then go get himself wasted on several mugs of decent ale, not the watered down, overly cheap piss-water that he had to deal with whenever times got tough. A bit of a shallow goal but hey, he was your everyday peasant, and this was a festival after all. Regardless, his wish would come true. Ephraim flipped the cards once more and started to scramble them around. Just like before, he began with a steady and manageable gait before gradually speeding up, until he had reached the showy, rapid and practically overwhelming tempo of someone that could be called a 'card-trickster'. This time however, he was going to cheat - only in a different way than most would assume. Instead of removing the Fool and making the game unwinnable, he instead expertly switched the two duds with two Fools. As such, when the cards settle on the table, the challenger had to choose between 3 Fools! The game was now a sure win for him!


Regardless, the man took a good 10 seconds to finally decide on a card. Ephraim hadn't made it obvious that he wanted him to win after all, so as far as the challenger was concerned, there was only a one-in-a-three chances of winning just like the previous round. He gathered up the courage however, or maybe the greed, and picked the card on his right. What initially was a pair of thin, tightly-held lips filled with uncertaintly quickly turned into a confident, beaming smile that clearly showed his not-so-clean rows of teeth. Raising up the card he let out a short, loud celebratory exclamation before throwing the card on the table and asking for another round, now much more confident thanks to his second victory. Of course the youth would oblige, gathering up the cards and -quickly switching out the two Fools- showed them to the challenger before resuming his trickery.

Gwyneth was rarely described as anything but amiable, but her normal mien always held a reserved air. Even that last stronghold of formality faded away as she was greeted by Malavai for nothing was more important to her than family. The lady's eyes lit up and her cheeks flushed ever so slightly with the heat of excitement.

"Brother!"

Gwyneth's exclamation was followed by one fluid movement that closed the gap between siblings before she embraced him. There was an entire twelve inches between their heights. For all the grandeur in her poise and carriage, it did nothing to lessen the fact that Gwyneth always looked like a child next to Malavai. She loosed herself from him after a moment as he and Bard addressed each other. It was not her place to interrupt, but it was clear that she was brimming with questions for her brother so she settled for saying, "It is good to see you again."

Hmm...while he had no intention of claiming to understand the plight of an exhausted parent lamenting just how unruly their child can be, he felt that today he had gotten a pretty good taste of it. He wasn’t complaining too much, after all he donned the mask of the bear on his own accord. He was simply prepared to try and cheer up a single girl, then a few other kids. But then as more and more people gathered, it was getting a bit out of control. Not only was he starting to run out of ideas to entertain those around him, the children were getting more and more...restless. He could feel at least a half of dozen kicks to his shin, constantly grasping at his robes, one even tried to take of the mask as he hoped on his back. It was all in good fun (maybe besides the kicks to his shin...it was starting to hurt a bit.

After a little while, a chance to escape provided itself, a slightly bigger crowd of people gathered around. Giving the children a quick bow, Caden would slink his way into the crowd, hearing a lot of disappointed cries and a lot of parents trying to keep their children in check. Ehh...it as fun, but he had to see what else the festival had to offer...after he got out of this crowd...especially away from the smoker

Waving through the crowd, coughing slightly as in the general chaos someone blew a rather big poof of Tabaco smoke right into his face, and right after that he had bumped gently into someone. Looking towards the point of contact, he smiled brightly at the person before him and said "Aryn! So you came too?!". What he didn’t think about that with him being in a fuzzy looking bear mask, and with his voice being a bit hoarse from just having a small choking fit...it might make it a bit harder for her to guess just who was addressing her in the middle of this crowd.

SPOILER: Click to show

{Spoiler}{Spoiler}Let's get this going again! Feel free to join if you haven't, and apologies for the delay!

The siblings shared a warm embrace. At first, the lad was reluctant to return the gesture, but for once he felt comfortable. It was far too long to be without the company of his sister and the small smile showed proof that he missed her terribly; even if they looked silly with the height difference! That was an embarrassment he'd never feel shame about. He was blushing and grinning cheekily, for a moment...

Crap, did he hit a sore spot. Malavai took the brunt of Bard's offense, head reared back as he seemed to go off. It was a pure honest mistake to mix him up with his father -- it'd been a while since the Eventine son had even trekked inside the walls of Southpeak, let alone Bard returning as well. At least, to the Eventine man, it seemed like an eternity. And here Bard was: beard, skinnier than what he remembered and... just... not what he recalled. Malavai's hand ascended to rub the nape of his neck anxiously, embarrassment unfolding. In fact, a deep shade of crimson enveloped his alabaster cheeks, ashamed of what was said. "Forgive me, Sir Bard. But, the resemblance is uncanny -- deepest apologies, though." Surely the bar owner would understand? He shook his head with a chuckle, "I'll have to decline -- need to be at peak efficiency." The Sentinel wasn't much of a drinker, but if Raewynne was concerned with an ulterior motive of this festival, then he needed to be guarded. Hopefully there wasn't any funny business.

"Likewise, Gwyn. I truly love what you've done here -- Southpeak is flourishing and bright once again, because of you." He admitted with an honest, soft tone. It was... enlightening... to know he made the right decision? Or was she burdened? Like the Matriarch, Malavai had many questions. But, he figured that was best for another time.

Raewynne didn't dwell on the card-tricks for long. The man had won, least 'fairly' -- she wasn't entirely interested and invested in picking out con-artists. And, with troubled thoughts, it was hard to settle on something. She was restless -- running around and trying to find this ever-elusive ulterior motive to keep herself occupied. Too bad that it wasn't existent, considering the woman began to realize that, maybe, things were as they appeared at face value. The festival workers weren't thieves, weren't criminals bent on taking coin. Sighing softly, she meandered around in defeat, eventually stumbling upon a delicious aroma. Her eyes were closed as she inhaled the scent, to which they then fluttered open to witness the feast lying in front of her. It was a boar roasting upon an open flame. Honey-irises surveying the lawn, she then noticed the nature of this building. "A tavern." Her gaze didn't wander amongst the people, though it was evident the place was packed. Business was booming, and while she debated entering the bar for a drink -- face scrunching but concealed by the laughter-mask -- Raewynne didn't notice Bard, Malavai and Gwyn conversing on the porch. Maybe she was stuck on better days. Leaning and hunched against the fence outside, she couldn't help but chuckle, her gaze set downward. As much as it pained her, she found herself reminiscing over the days of old -- days she spent enjoying a casual drink and great company. In that moment of a head-decline, some tresses escaped the hood that obscured her features. And, while the smell of food made her hungry and she longed for a drink, she stood there for a brief moment, allowing herself to indulge in one memory.

Bard smirked at Malavai and shook his head. "Egads, you Eventines...you know I do keep plenty of tea in stock, right?" He patted Gwyn lightly on the shoulder, tilting his head towards the slowly roasting boar. "I need to go tend to that, so I'll leave you two to catch up. If you go in, let Shae know you've got a free drink on the house." He nodded to Malavai and headed down the steps, still puffing on his pipe. As he approached the boar, he gave the spit a few slow cranks to bring the underside face up, allowing the back to roast over the low coals. He slathered on another layer of his sauce, a mixture of cider vinegar, brown sugar, honey, and pureed tomatoes. A mix of spices finished the sauce, making it perfect for sweet and succulent meats like pork. As he worked, he let himself get drawn up in it, and began to whistle a old marching song from his early years. He didn't notice Raewynne leaning against his fence, barely registering the presence of the crowds. The boar was almost done, for certain. Turning his attention to the porch, he noted that Shae was nowhere to be seen, likely inside cavorting with the customers. Still whistling, he shrugged and drew a short, sharp knife from the sheath on his belt, and sliced himself off a small portion of the roasting pig flesh. He took a bite, sampled it, and smirked. "Ah, Da, the old recipes are always the best..." He murmured.

The serving girl known by others as "Shae" was indeed busy with the patrons over indulging within the Notched Axe. Not only where they drunken fools, they were also quite handsy. It took every ounce in her being to keep from sticking a fork into the greasy pigs that tried to come onto her. No matter how much hate was festering within Kuerina's tiny heart, she kept a smile plastered to her face, a giggle to hide the foul words that threatened to spill from her full lips. This was definitely not something she had seen herself doing.

After another terribly long half hour of dealing with customers, "Shae" called out to Molly, "'Ey, Imma head outside fer a breather. I cannae stand anuther minute in this place." Without another word, Kuerina turned and headed for the exit, breaking through the mass of people before sneaking outside.

Straightening out her skirt, Kuerina took in a deep breath of air as she leaned her body heavily against the wall of the tavern. After a few calming breaths, the young woman finally glanced up and turned her dark gaze upon her surroundings. Just so happened, big ol' boss was nearby.

"Heyo, boss man. We's gettin' low on the food. Yer pig nearly done?"

Mallach's Post:

As Mallach settled into the wooden stool at the table, he was relieved to find that one of the raunchy barmaids slammed down a large mug of the Notched Axe's finest brews, along with the jug of milk for the lady at his side. Nodding to the lady as she scampered off, he laughed heartilly at his woman's comment, leaning back against the wall -- the two were situated in one of the corners, which helped him scope the entirety of the tavern. "Milady, I may be older, but that doesn't make me any less capable -- and, well, with my skills, reach, and my rugged good looks I managed to land you, didn't I?" He paused, clasping the handle of the mug within his hand, taking a large swig of the booze. "Besides, a man needs a few drinks after a long travel. Wouldn't you agree? Er, well..." He glanced at her drink, head shaking as he playfully smiled. "I suppose you wouldn't understand, being that you're sitting in a bar drinking milk like a babe." Perhaps his jest would warrant a worse reaction than expected, but he was rather amused to find Cathlyn's mind was pondering about the cooking contest.

Taking another gulp of beer, Mallach snickered. "Well, yes... I certainly don't need you to poison me, dear -- but I'm glad you'd rather have me alive than dead. I feel much more assured about us." Another joke! He thought about the contest himself, now that it came to mind. And, well... it then turned into a nasty thought, considering someone would prepare a fish dish. It was inevitable, unavoidable... the nasty, dreaded fish dish. But, as if to lessen the brunt of his jokes, he suggested, "I don't suppose we could cook together, if you'd find that amusing?" His gaze wandered over to her features, awaiting a response. It was nice to enjoy her company in a place like this, with festivities abound. And, well, he had to admit, the Notched Axe had quite the brew.

Gaze lingering on his lady, Mallach knew that Cathlyn was eager to explore, but she just had to be a little patient. They'd get there, soon enough! And she'd forget she ever complained.

Mhairyn exited the tavern and breathed deeply, though the clouds of smoke had followed in her wake. She coughed and sputtered in an inglorious fashion. Still reeling from the severe and sudden change of scents, the girl slowly meandered through the crowds, taking in the sights and sounds of a city undergoing a renaissance...or at least a festival.

Mollandir, on the other hand, felt his "Seeker's Sense" tingling, and as he turned to glance over his shoulder to check on the whereabouts, and watched with minute horror as his charge left the building, unattended. Forgoing his place in line, the guard limped out of the tavern and wove after Mhairyn, dodging happy peasants and grumbling under his breath.

The girl, hardly recovered from her stint with tobacco smoke, stumbled forward when Caden bumped into her; it wasn't a hard bump, not enough to send her flying, but she did lose her balance for a moment and falter. As she recovered, she glanced upward, eyes widening in surprise as a man with a beast-mask spoke her name, cheerfully, and inquired about her presence. His voice was distorted (from both the mask and the coughing fit), and she quipped quietly, drawing her hands to cover her face, as benefitting a lady of her station.

The Seeker charged through the crowd, on Mhairyn's heels, and watched as a very different scene unfolded before his very eyes: Mhairyn was the target of some unfortunate drunk's advances, and he, Mollandir, her protector, would have none of it. With a quick, staggered stride, he interposed himself between the girl and Caden, her would-be attacker, with a fairly hard shove; it wouldn't have been enough to send the priest toward the ground, just enough force applied so that Mollandir, despite his short stature and uneven gait, would be in charge. "Milady," he asked, locking his dark eyes on the bear-figure before him, "are you injured?"