Making Up for Lost Time

Before your eyes are even open, the sweet scent of mead fills your nose, the pleasantness soured by an undercurrent of vomit. A pulsating pressure in your head builds to a throb as the sounds of shouting and singing emanate up through the floorboards. With hesitation, you open your eyes and find yourself hunched over in your chair with your head on a rough wooden table.

As the grainy filter of sleep fades away from the corners of your vision, the room becomes clearer. A few candles flicker at the center of the table, casting shadows on a few flagons and a torch sconce against the doorframe to your left illuminates the rest of the room. The music from below is growing to a crescendo as a uniquely out-of-tune voice belts out a chorus in a language you don't understand. Through an open window, you can hear a few horses trudging through the mud as a thick sheet of rain pours down.

Your left hand begins to ache and you wonder why. Peeling off one of your leather gloves reveals a crude tattoo of an "X" on the back of the hand, stretching from knuckles to wrist. It feels like a burn on your skin. Finally, your mind wanders back into focus and you try to assess the situation. You try to remember how you got here, but it's blank. You can't even remember what town you're in. You remember leaving that place you called home almost 6 months ago, but everything since then...you just don't know.

However, you do remember your name and what it is you do.

Who are you and what do you do?

you're the man who for horses

forge four horses

you're the man who for horses

Mr. Hayes loves to blaze.

Raymond Hayes, stablehand.

Your name is Alastair Krog and you're the apprentice to an alchemist

Alastair. Alastair Hayes. Right, your name is Alastair Hayes. Before you left your home in Albruck, you used to work for Calaman Jaffey, the only alchemist in your puddle of a town and the owner of the stables. You're still not sure why he owned two businesses, but between talking to the horses and mixing together potions in the cellar, he was definitely the most interesting man in town. He taught you everything you know about horses and the natural philosophies. Instinctively, you reach for your backpack, which contains all of your alchemical equipment. It's not on your back and you scramble wildly before you find it under your chair. A quick inspection reveals all your things are in order.

Glancing at your hand, you're perplexed again by this marking. You're sure Jaffey would have had a field day with it. He'd probably say something like, "By Glittergold's buttocks, that's a right wonderful piece of work on those there twiddlers! Looks like a spinner caught your fiddler in its web, it did!"

Haha, oh man...Jaffey was crazy.

But he wasn't here now. In fact, you're not even sure where you are. The music below has died down to a single plucked-out tune on a lyre or a harp. As you look around the room, you see you're not the only one in here. Around the table are 3 others, all slouched in their chairs, just like you were.

Who are these people?

Jalaman Caffey, as he is now, master impersonator. No one knows his true name, and he chose the current one knowing it'd get a rise out of you. It's not your fault that everyone else thinks it's real.

Lanbar Betomin, local smith. Trying to relax from the tedium of work - a steadfast person with good values.

Raam Dorchet, member of one of those anti-magic organizations. Maybe she's here to search out targets, but you won't take chances like this.

Leslie Noel, the chipperest bard in the 12 lands
Gregin Dire, a goblin tinkerer
Joseph Alucart a palidin in training
Bort Norsby.. Honestly you dont know what this guy is or what he does, but he's the luckiest alcoholic village idiot youve ever seen. It borders on eerie

Just as you notice them, the others begin to stir from their slumber. One by one they raise their heads groggily. The first is a beautiful woman in a pale-blue and gold sherwani. Her black hair falls in a tumble of loose braids over her hazel skin. A black, embroidered symbol on the left breast of her jacket seems alien to you. As she opens her eyes, you can see her irises are dark purple, almost black. You almost get lost in those eyes before she glances in your direction and you hurriedly shift your gaze towards one of the others, who is starting to rise. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her clutch her gauntleted hand and begin to remove the armor.

The next man is almost engulfed in his breastplate. If it hadn't started moving, you would have sworn somebody had just left the armor sitting on the chair. The armor is decorated with faded white paint and a few silver and gold decorations. Suddenly, a shock of red hair pops out of the neckline of the plate, quickly followed by the face of a young man, younger than anyone wearing that much metal should be. Beneath the hair you can barely see a pair of long-slender ears. He glances worriedly around before he spots you and ducks back into his shell. The sudden movement is too much for the chair and it cracks under the armor's weight, letting the boy land with a thud on the ground.

The sound rouses the third body in the chair to your right. After a quick jolt, the first motion this person makes is to pull a small flute from the folds of their vestments and blow a shrill, piercing tune. The note, although unpleasant, wakes you up and somehow instills in you a sense of health, like a shot of espresso without sugar or cream. After the last echoes of the note disappear, the flutist swings up in their chair, flings their cloak off their chest and leans across the table to the woman in blue. Only now do you recognize her as a woman. Her blonde hair is tied in ribbons of varying colors, keeping it out of her bright and beaming face. She glances excitedly around the table and finally settles her gaze on you. She leaps forward, nearly toppling her chair and flipping the table, knocking over all the drinks and a few of the candles, sending them rolling to the floor. She extends a hand, "Leslie Noel at your service! Greatest musician and teller of tall-tales in twelve territories!"

Now what?

You might not know what's going on but as I always say: fake it till you make it
"Alastair Hayes, pleasure." Turning to the other two "and you are..?"

Fuck conversation. Check the door.