For those of you who wanted it. Here we go...

(wind whips across the narrow road while a small group rides south)

"What the hell was that, Jensen? Did you really have to go and say that...to the bloody Baron of the East" , this comes from a nicely dressed noble looking man. The man he's mad at slows his horse and come along beside him.

"It had to be said. I don't lie...I'm not training anyone that untalented. His kids are useless, except the girl...she's clever and fast. Now I didn't think he'd get that mad about it. (looks behind them far up the road and see nothing in the fading light) Doesn't look like anyone is following us, but we did move out fast didn't we, Kestik? How the hell does he keep his staff from stealing? All that stuff lying around, and where was it from anyway. I've not seen anything like it, all pointy and made from gold too I'll wager."

Kestik looks to Jensen and shakes his head. "Shut up and don't bother talking till we get to the next town. I'm trying to figure out what to do."

(the other two horsemen in the party who were riding slightly ahead say nothing and continue to scan the horizion in front of them...this is dangerous country and they've got to worry about what's in front of them and what's behind them).

(two weeks later)

News has slowly made its way from the stronghold of Baron Esto of the East, it seems he's quite ill and not able to travel...in fact he's confined to his chambers as the various healers in his employ try to cure him.
The last week has seen him decline to such an extent that those within his social circle didn't see how he could last much longer...or so rumor has it. The once jolly and talkative Baron is now a shell of a man and while they (the healers) seem to have arrested whatever affects him...no one has a clue was that something is.

Talk around the keep at first was apparently centred on the group of four adventurers (who'd insulted the skills of the Baron's two boys) as being the cause of the problem. For some reason that talk has faded away and whispering of a curse being levelled on the Baron have started. This cannot be confirmed however as anyone directly in the Baron's employ denies any such thing.

For the last two weeks you've heard the smattering of the various rumours coming from out of the Barony of the East.
Those riders with the fast horses have brought the tale of Baron Esto lying stricken in his chambers...whatever the cause of his illness it doesn't sound good. For such a well-loved man it seems (to you) he may not of chosen his friends all that well. These rumours also come with tales of increased martial presence in the Baron's stronghold, possible looting of some of the more "portable" of the Baron's collectables (he's well-known for his vast art collection much of which pre-dates the current settlement of the Kingsmarch). As much as the Baron is celebrated in song, his art collection is even more well known...the subject of songs and even a couple of plays). Some of what you've heard has even mentioned the forbidding of any "Esto"-related music, etc. being performed in the East Barony, but that would seem a bit hard to enforce.
You and your friends have wondered either privately or in hushed tones, what exactly is the King going to do about this? This would seem a fairly serious matter and you've not heard any whispers of action from the Kingsmarch regarding any of this situation.

A jovial voice booms on the porch outside the tavern, "And that, lads, is how ya catch a piglet in each hand!" A round of hearty laughs echoes through the open doorway, quickly followed by a small knot of cheerful farmers. In their midst is a short, powerful lad with a flurry of dark hair and a beaming smile. "Pots" is covered head-to-toe in muck, his plain gray kilt soaked through with mud and worse. Dirt streaks his ruddy Southern features.

The canyonlander strides into the bar, winking at a pretty redhead barmaid. "Tuleen, fetch us a bath, would ya, dear?" the handsome lad smiles, and then glancing at his clothes, adds with a smirk, "Maybe a loaner, too."

The fair lass wrinkles her nose in distaste. "It's two coppers for a hot bath, and you still owe me three from last night," she clips primly. Gilgamesh strikes a pose of playful reproach and begins pulling off the shoulder of his kilt in the middle of the tavern. "I'm not gonna stand here smelly, lass," he smirks, "and if you aren't gonna be helpful..." The knot is about half undone when Tuleen hurls a spoon at Pots with a shriek, but she's smiling just a little.

"Tis' a cold day for it, but the pond it is," declares Gilgamesh, heading for the back door. "You lads better have my first pint tapped when I get back from the stables!"

...

A quarter-hour later, Pots is perched on a tree stump stool before the roaring fire. He's wearing a boy's kilt wrapped around his waist, and what looks suspiciously like a woman's nightshirt up top. Mostly dry and already two pints in, the jovial Southerner is telling an obviously comic story about the "sea monsters" he fought near Luune. For the moment, at least, he has distracted the farmers from the rumors of Baron Esto.

What's a man doing with all that loot anyway? Gilgamesh mused. Well liked as the Baron is, gold is good for war and parties, not keeping locked away in collections. Silly nobles. It isn't a time of war, so Esto clearly missed a great chance for a legendary party. Maybe they'll throw it at his wake.

"Pots" scanned the tavern to see if his companions had arrived. He had but a few coppers left in his pouch, the night was yet young, and Tuleen seemed disinclined to extend his tab despite previous "considerations". Probably her da had seen to that. Humorless man, him, though a fine cook. Pots was going to end up washing his dishes again, but that suited him just fine. Pints for elbow grease was a brilliant trade any day.

The door to the tavern opens and in wander two very tired looking men of about average height they are covered in the grime only the road can provide. They head straight to the barkeep and order two pints and try to find a spot to drink them removed from the action. In amongst the din of the stories, boasting and lies...they say nothing, only looking at their mugs as they down their beer. In fact they say not a word to each other, only having spoken enough to order.

"...so there it is on the deck, head as big as an anvil, staved in with a ballast boulder. And I turn to the highlander and say, 'Lad, there's none to question the size o' yer stones, but nobody's gonna believe yer snake was this big!'". The farmers erupt into a chorus of groans as Pots skips off to the bar with a huge grin.

"Tuleen, my dear, the 'mates have not yet arrived with overflowing bags of yellow metal. Spot me a pint?" The infectious smile only half melted Tuleen. Gilgamesh planted his hand over his heart in mock sincerity. "Surely you would not deny me a toast to your beloved Baron? To his good health, then? And you'll be toasting with me, right lass?"

The barmaid is blushing so much she seems to have lost the ability to speak. She quickly turns fills a pint and places in in front of him.

While up at the the bar you notice that the two men who'd wandered in off the road seem to have fallen asleep at their table. You'd turned to head back to your waiting crowd of rabid fans and these two are sitting off to the side at a rickety table for two, with one bobbing his head trying to stave off sleep and the other having failed.
Their stained cloaks may have been a greenish shade, but now more dirt than fabric, even in the dimmer light of the tavern you can see they are armed to the teeth, weapons appear strapped to just about everything, what with the cloaks having fallen open it makes this fact easier to see.

Still grinning mischievously, Pots lifts the beer to his lips and turns around. It's then that his deep brown eyes settle on the sleeping travelers' weapons, and a rare frown creases his jovial features. These lads had obviously been on the road. Even so, it was unusual to remain armed in a village tavern. The men hadn't even removed their cloaks, which implied they were going to get up after their nap and resume riding.

All that added up to men on the run. Fugitives could be dangerous people... and if they weren't, whatever was chasing them might be. Pots wracked his memory for any significance to their green cloaks as he started for the back door. For possible fugitives, these men were sitting in an awfully exposed place.

"Back in a tick, lass," the canyonlander smiled at the deeply blushing Tuleen, passing her with beer in hand. "Kilt must be dry by now. To the Baron's health." The dark-haired lad drained the mug in one long pull and set it on the end of the bar.

OOC: Pots' intention is to grab his rucksack from the stable. He'll keep his sword rolled up in his cloak, but the wooden buckler will be on top. Then he'll find a seat somewhere his back isn't to the men or the front door, nurse another pint, start whittling a trinket for Tuleen, chat with his new drinking buddies, and keep an eye out for trouble.

While out in the stable getting your things you see the stable boy and he's just finishing saddling two horses. He nods to you as you cross through to get your stuff. From where your gear was stored you can see into a holding pen (even at your height) and there are the two horses they road in on...they look completely spent.

"Hey Twip," Pots grinned at the stable lad as he walked past. Glancing at the pair of exhausted horses, the canyonlander wondered if the men were messengers. It didn't necessarily fit with the heavily armed part, but it did make them less threatening than fugitives. And from the look of it, they were leaving soon.

Making sure that the thong on Goat Tooth was untied, Gilgamesh hefted his bedroll and returned to the tavern. He settled comfortably into a worn wooden chair, propped his feet up on a stool and began whittling a swan for Tuleen.