Rumors of the Friendly Arm Inn

[paw]

Some time after the night skies light up near the Friendly Arms Inn, and battle pursues, the elves of Doron Amar find their way into the Glimmerwood to consecrate a small area within against the possibility of the taint of evil caused by a bloody mass that fell from the sky. The remains being a bubbling mass of blood and goo, slowly dissolving on its own.

[Snarfy]

Those exploring a few of the surrounding areas near the Friendly Arm Inn might discover an odd sight or two...

In the central Sharpteeth woods the body of a brigand, not dissimilar to the dirge-singers that might be found within the caves of Ulgoths Beard, lays face down, his body cleft several times by a large bladed weapon. Likewise, a frail looking(and quite living) female novice mage, the type that are often encountered within a certain alcove in the Baldurs Gate sewers, might be spied in the same forest... likely wearing a bewildered expression at how she arrived there.

Some time later, in the central Cloakwood, a female shadow druid might be spied standing alone on the far south east bend of the stream, warded by a stoneskin spell and clutching a folded missive in her hands. While typically these shadow druids possess a rather careless, and oft suicidal, demeanor towards adventurers, this particular druid might be the exception... as the dark and twisted forest around her had likely changed dramatically in the numerous winters she had been absent, and, perhaps, due to the contents of the missive she held.

The fate of the rogue-mage and the shadow druid, however, would only be known to those who crossed their paths after they were, seemingly, deposited there...

[kham]

Sit down to be regaled by the tale of Reginald a.k.a. Not Floyd a.k.a. Floyd, a simple man who’s acclaim to fame is his grotesque mustache which has thus served to successfully secure his virginity. Dear Floyd would find himself the subject of derision and ridicule despite his best efforts to impress upon ladies that frequented the tavern in the Friendly Arms Inn. Every utterance was an unforced insult, every gesture invoked revulsion, his mere presence eventually became an offense in itself. It was unclear why he even existed. Floyd string of continuous fails even inspired a ballad in his honor:

An Ode to Floyd
By: Ashley Gloomraven (a.k.a Rebecca)


A young man once, with a moustache so grand,
it curled and it twisted, quite out of hand.
He'd twirl it and groom it, with utmost care,
But women, it seemed, would stop and just stare.

"Stare with envy! Envy!"
Though thick and majestic, it caused quite the plight,
For romance stayed hidden, and just out of sight.

No winks, no smiles, no love ever bloomed,
For his facial adornment had sealed his fated doomed.
Yet he wore it with pride, and never did dash,
this poor, lonely soul with the ridiculous 'stache.

The entire ordeal left Floyd a even more broken, dejected, and emasculated man-child. It’s likely Floyd even earned the wrath of the Frost Maiden by denouncing Winter while in the presence of two of her faithful. As if insulting deities wasn’t enough Floyd continued to cover himself in glory by insulting a faithful of Sharness and probably the goddess of pleasure herself. Fortunately for Floyd a creepy guy in a mask rescued him from the hole he dug himself and whisked him way from the company of insulted woman to talk about creepy icky stuff.

A lesson to all you men and Bar-Boy-Elf-Girl-Man: Don’t be Floyd!

[Heretic]

The following parchments are posted on bulletin boards about Baldur's Gate and the Friendly Arm's Inn

It has become apparent that allegations have been levied against the Matron of House Divine by an entity who we shall not dignify to name. The entity falsely alleges the Matron conspired to have the entity assassinated during the recent Gauntlet of Champions. The entity also admits to having in their possession evidence incriminating the Matron, which the entity has presented to anyone willing to grant the person an audience. However the entity has yet to submit said evidence to the proper authorities thus suggesting the entity is only interested in promulgating false claims and slander rather having the matter properly investigated and adjudicated.

The Matron stands ready to happily submit herself to interrogation by Ducal authorities should the matter reach judicial review.

[zavox]

A half-blood by the name Murgs was found laying around in a half drunken state outside the Friendly Arm Inn.

Thok the half-blood warrior took it upon himself to see him out from the street and was seen leading the half-blood called Murgs into the Inn with a Promise to pay for lodgings, a full tenday was paid for, all inclusive.

[Lethze]

By the dawn of 16th of Nightal, a line of four cloak roaches were aligned in a line outside the Friendly Arms Inn, brandishing the glory of advanced clockwork machinary by their proud owners who just acquired them the other day from the depth of Upperdark.

What's out of ordinary is, one of the clock roach, owned by the Selunite priest Lunaethar Silverbloom, had acquired a voice, unlike its clockwork kindreds, and repeatedly uttered disturbing words, addressing the people as "organism", and spoke of an age of automaton, be it malfunction or possession.

With a crowd gathered around the gate of the inn, as usual, the faulty clock roach also became more and more restless. As it was asked whether or not it had received divine provindence for its voice, the roach answered, "No Gods, No Men, Only Machines", then ran off while eminating an obnoxious siren sound towards the north.

Now firmly believed the clockroach had gained sentience, the gang went on after it as its ownder Lunaethar worries that it would start cause harm to people. They went to the temple of Mystra for Archmage Extreme Sirion to scry on the automaton, but yields no result other than an image of pitch blackness. After a survival expert Alfny was hired, tracking it till the band of Chionthar, in which the sign showed that the clockroach had escaped to the bottom of the river. Alfny believed that it had been burried under the mud in the dept of the water, and that it would stay there, thus concluded the hunt of the rogue clock roach.

The farce appeared to be over with the loss of the hauler forver sink under the stream of Chionthar... or is it really that simple?...

[Flights of Fantasy]

In the dimly lit corner of the bustling inn, where the crackling hearth cast flickering shadows upon the walls, a solitary figure cloaked in a dark robe sat apart from the throng. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the low murmur of patrons seeking refuge from the biting cold of winter. Laughter mingled with grumbling voices, tales of wretched weather and longing for merriment echoing through the wooden beams.

With a gentle grace, the lone figure responded by reaching for her lute, the instrument gleaming faintly in the firelight. She begins to play on the delicate instrument, her fingers strumming the silken strands like a spider weaving its web. A soft melody floated into the air, weaving through the din and drawing the attention of weary souls as her voice, smooth and enchanting, begins to tell a tale, each note resonating with the warmth of hearth and heart. The patrons hushed, some captivated by the haunting beauty that emerged from the shadows, other just glad for a diversion from current circumstances, as the winter's chill faded, if only for a moment, beneath the spell of the song.



As the tale unfolded, a few patrons, their brows furrowing in bemusement, began to lose interest in the song’s almost childlike whimsy. Yet, none dared to interrupt; only the most ill-mannered would object to such free entertainment gracing their ears. However, as the music began to wane, the listeners found themselves puzzled, for the story felt incomplete.

With a graceful rise, the figure dipped her hooded brow in a gesture of humility, her voice soft. “Apologies,” she murmured, “the rest of this tale must await another day.” Without further elaboration, she glided from the inn, leaving behind a lingering sense of wonder and unanswered questions, as the warmth of her melody mingled in their memory with the chill of the winter night.

[Lethze]

In the deep of the night, Lunaethar Silverbloom, the priest of Selune barged out of the inn and smashed the door behind. Different from her usual uplifting, cheerful demeanor, tonight Lunaethar left with exasperation on her face, walked straight out of the inn and into the depth of Cloakwood.

[DM Mimic]

In the deep of the night, Lunaethar Silverbloom, the priest of Selune barged out of the inn and smashed the door behind. Different from her usual uplifting, cheerful demeanor, tonight Lunaethar left with exasperation on her face, walked straight out of the inn and into the depth of Cloakwood.

Bentley Mirrorshade, owner of the Friendly Arm Inn, frowned at the splintered oak door, the result of Lunaethar's reckless behavior, as startled guests murmured uneasily nearby. Though the damage was minor, Bentley’s commitment to order left no room for leniency. With a firm nod, he declared Lunaethar banned from the inn property until the spring equinox of Ches 19 (//Around March 19!), provided a fine of no more than 250 gold was paid, and a full day of monitored chores was completed.

[dak12attack]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the events of last night at the Friendly Arm Inn the travelling techsmith Eberc Smitherman can be seen, heard, or rumored to be fixing the hinges of a door in the downstairs lounge. Between his hammer blows, he mutters on about possibly creating a swinging hinge for the innkeeper. Today he seems more weary, lacking in sleep from whatever transpired the night before. He sports a nasty bruise on his forehead but seems more concerned for fixing the door to appease the gnome-owner of the Arm Inn, Bentley Mirrorshade.

[toolongusername]

Less than a week had passed since Squire Copperchime, in an act of what he believed was generosity and practicality, had donated some of his finest "Fish-skin" armors to a druid of Doron Amar, Aerakiir. To his utter dismay, Aerakiir had casually shattered his understanding of materials with a single statement: "That’s not fish-skin. That’s dragon hide." Alan, ever the scholar of unconventional discoveries, was baffled. Dragons shed their skin like snakes? That was news! He imagined great wyrms wiggling out of their old scales and slithering away in their fresh, gleaming hides. Unfortunately, Aerakiir was not about to let him enjoy that mental image. The druid elaborated and explained this comes from dead dragons. Likely ones that were hunted and skinned.

Alan blinked. The information seemed to bounce harmlessly off his...at the time well-armored skull before finally sinking in. His expression shifted from vague confusion to dawning horror. That’s bad... Dragons are smart, no? And not just smart—powerful. He had always admired them from afar, collecting Dragon Knight swords and marveling at their legacy, but he had never really studied dragons. Clearly, that needed to change!

Thus began his noble quest for knowledge.

His first stop? The Gate's library.

His results? Utter disaster.

The librarians probably had misunderstood his research interests, because rather than academic treatises or tactical bestiaries, Alan found himself drowning in such literary masterpieces as:

"Taming the Wyrm" - When duty calls, but so does the smoldering gaze of a cursed silver dragon in human form.

"His Hoard, My Heart" – A young wizardess thought she was just breaking into a dragon’s treasure vault. She never expected to steal his love.

"Scaled and Scandalous" – A rebellious noblewoman, a misunderstood red dragon, and a society that just doesn’t understand their love.

"The Oathbreaker" – Sir Aldric swore an oath to slay dragons… but that was before he met her.

"From Flames to Forever" – They were enemies in war, but in the heat of battle, their passion burned brighter than dragonfire.

"How to Train Your Boyfriend" – A sassy bard, a grumpy brass dragon, and the fake relationship trope done right.

"Knightfall" – A knight tasked with slaying a dragon finds himself caught between duty and destiny (also, she has really nice wings).

Now, Alan can often be found seated at the Friendly Arm Inn or on a bench at the Silver Rose Keep, nose buried in these forbidden tomes of dragon knowledge. Sometimes, a tissue is in hand, dabbing at his eyes.

When asked about it, he sniffs, clears his throat, and insists: "Something got into my eye."

[BattleBee47]

A call to arms is issued across the coast in finely penned handwriting. Notice is posted outside of every major organization that serves the greater good of the coast.

To the Leaders, Protectors, and Scholars of the Sword Coast,

A great and terrible darkness walks among us.

Through sorcery and calamity, an Obyrith long lost to time -- The Mother of Demons -- has been unleashed upon the world. Her will is unknowable, her power vast, and if left unchecked, she may reshape the very fabric of existence itself.

This is not a war for coin nor conquest. This is a war for survival.

The forces of the Hunter’s Moon Lodge call upon all who would stand against this tide—warriors, mages, priests, and scholars alike. No single blade, spell, or banner will be enough. This is a battle that must be fought together, across faiths, across factions, across every line that has ever divided us.

A gathering of leaders and allies will be held at the Friendly Arms Inn, where strategy and knowledge will be shared. Whether you come in service to a god, a kingdom, or the simple will to protect what is ours, your presence is needed.

The Mother of Demons walks free. If we do not act, it will not be our descendants who suffer—
It will be us.

May moon-light guide our path,
Maevyn Edgar
Proprietress of the Hunter’s Moon Lodge

Hidden: show

Meeting to be held 2/28/2025 7:00pm CST ((1:00GMT)) // 28 Alturiak 1361 > Location > Friendly Arms Inn!
Feel free to PM for more details. Aiming to include as many as possible here. Cheers!

[toolongusername]

From Squire Copperchime to Boa Protector Slither Strike

Squire Copperchime, apparently took a break from sobbing over Knightfall (click for more content), wiped his tears, and made his way to The Inn - where absolutely nothing would go wrong, surely. Fresh off a heated moral policing session - arguing that maybe people shouldn’t trust the Dreadlord who hawks souls in exchange for magical death beams, Alan found himself embroiled in yet another debate. This time with the Knight Commander over the ethical implications of wearing an armor made from the hide of a slain Blue Dragon. Their philosophical clash was cut short by the arrival of a recruiter for a newly-founded criminal organization, who, as a fun icebreaker, had already attempted to assassinate Alan several times.

The criminal, clearly not a man of subtlety, waltzed into the inn with an anrgy audience following. Alan, despite common sense and survival instincts, decided to follow—curious as to why someone was so hell-bent on feeding him to snakes. Two tower-shielded knights, each built like a walking fortress, loomed behind him. Now, Alan, blessed by the absolute worst interrogation and diplomacy skills known to mankind, proceeded to bungle the conversation so spectacularly that he nearly walked away with exactly zero useful information.

However, things took a sudden turn when it was revealed that the criminal wasn’t just recruiting for standard villainy—he was gathering sellswords to overthrow another criminal gang that was holding innocent people hostage. The knights refused to get involved in this. Alan, however, heard “innocent souls” and immediately shot up from his seat. “Deal. Let’s go.”

The Knight Commander, promptly stripped Alan of his Squire title. Alan, without a word of protest, handed over his cloak. And thus, in the span of one conversation, Alan went from Squire of The Silver Roses to Honorary Moron of the Underworld. Accused of being a criminal, aiding criminals, and being an absolute idiot who threw away everything he worked for, Alan responded with a stunning lack of argument and prepared to leave with what little dignity he had left.

Except—he wasn’t going to leave in peace.

The scene erupted into chaos. People shouted accusations left and right. Knights started arming themselves. Dogs bolted through the crowd sniffing people as if this were some absurd drug security check. In the midst of the noise, someone swore they heard Alan casually inviting the Dreadlord of Darkhold to join the mission—because, at this point, why not?

Then, suddenly—a scroll soared into the air.

And with a puff—a set number of people within the scroll’s casting range simply vanished.

The Hellgoat and The Knights were left behind.

The Aftermath

Now, Alan—the dishonored ex-squire, suspected criminal, and possible village idiot—still loiters around the Inn, making zero effort to deny the rumors of his criminal affiliation.

However, whispers circulate that the teleported group successfully rescued the hostages, buried the dead, and even turned in the last surviving criminal mage to the Abbot of the Church of Tyr. (The mage, for the record, apparently Hellballed his own unconscious comrades, because some people just can’t resist a dramatic exit.)

[Afendaria]

A lone woman walked through the gateway of the Friendly Arm Inn just as a gust of cold winter wind caught the hem of her white cloak. It was if the wind was trying to pull her back. Her Entropium armor gleamed beneath it, marred with battle scars, each one a story she no longer wished to tell. With a sharp breath, she tore the white cloak from her shoulders and flung it into a rusted trash bin. The fabric crumpled like a discarded past. She didn't look back. Whatever that cloak had once meant—duty, burden, expectation—was no longer hers to carry.

[toolongusername]

DRAGONS ARE PEOPLE TOO

Having just finished Knightfall, Alan - ex-squire, ex-criminal, and hopelessly weak to attractive fantasy dragons—is now on a Very Important Mission: to honor the disgraced dragons of the world and attract like-minded, completely normal individuals with his latest business venture.

"DRAGONS ARE PEOPLE TOO!"
"BUYING DRAGON HIDE!"
"DONATE YOUR DRAGON HIDE!"

Beneath the signs, a vague explanation: all dragon hides will receive a dignified burial at a top-secret location. Some believe Alan keeps the site undisclosed to outwit grave robbers. Those who actually know him suspect it’s because he still hasn’t figured out where yet. Later, after another eventful trip to the Glimmerwoods - and yet another conversation with people whose faces he definitely recognizes but whose names remain a complete mystery - Alan returns looking… conflicted. He exhales dramatically, grabs his paint, and updates the sign:

"LOOKING FOR A PRIEST DRAGON!"

A note underneath clarifies: he needs help with the burials. Possibly with rites. Maybe even with some dragon-related theological debates. And what he does not mention, but what is extremely evident to anyone who has spent more than five minutes watching this unfold—is that he is also in dire need of help with his rapidly spiraling existential crisis. Yet, despite all evidence, all logic, and some elves last remaining braincells, Alan does not come to the conclusion that dragons aren’t people. No. He merely concludes that the world… isn’t ready for this truth. (But the readers of His Hoard, My heart are.)