You have made your way to the outskirts of the town of Last Keep, a lonely little place that sits north of nothing and south of nowhere. Home to a collection of trappers and huntsmen that supply the towns only trade goods, the pelts and furs of the regions peculiarly sized wildlife. They eek out a hard living in the thick forests that surround a singular mountain that sits three days march to the north. Odd rumors have been trickling out of the area for years, but of late they have reached a fever pitch. Only you and the Gods know what motivations would bring a man to such a rough outpost at the ends of civilization.

The light of day is failing as you arrive outside a small inn, just off the shoddy dirt path that passes for a road in these parts. A weather worn two story stone building with thatched roof, flanked by two small stables on either side lies before you. A warm light seeps through a pair of thin glass windows that sit on either side of the door. Above the door is a crudely painted sign depicting a huntsman clad in green stumbling about, carved in the front of the door are the words "The Huntsman's Hangover".

A strong wind is picking up from the west and a quick glance skyward reveals a thick bank of storm clouds rolling in. Despite the could cover a few stars seem to be blazing particularly bright.
 
Your life of adventure begins here, may fortune favor you.

Brogar Redshirt, a tall narrow man, even in his armor gladly reaches for the door handle, his feet tired and his back sore, and his old wounds from his time in the Baron's army fighting along the borders in the north bothering him something fierce. He may have great plans for adventure and the glories of treasures, but at this moment, he wants only a good seat and a hot meal out of the weather.

Quobbles the halfling, a twitchy specimen of his race with a crumpled appearance suddenly appears from the undergrowth.  A fierce light of intelligence glints in his eyes, tempered with a basic kindness.

He addresses the tall warrior irreverently, but not aggressively:

"Well met, lanky!"

With a laugh, followed by a cough, the lanky fighter turns and replies, "Well met yourself! Let's get out of this weather, eh?"

He opens the door and steps inside, hoping for the smell of something good to eat.  He holds the portal open for the short guy.

"Very kind, and I thought we'd travelled beyond the bastion of good manners to get to this sketchy place."

Quobbles ducks under Brogar's arm and peers around the interior of The Huntsman's Hangover.  He mutters, partly to himself:

"Now, what I really need is a dumm-I mean assistant-to lug around this baggage.  It's been too many miles!"

He pats a bundle under his arm, which clinks quietly.

Inside you are greeted by the acrid smell of a roaring hearth, the stink of cheap ale and the low rumble of a dozen conversations. A bar runs the length of the back wall, save for the stairs that sit to its left, the right most wall is taken up by the great hearth. Seated at the tables that occupy the center of the room are a gaggle of locals, gruff looking men and a few gaunt, stern featured women. A small group of raucous young men stand round the hearth trading stories of their physical prowess, some of which may even be true.

A tall, lanky man with thinning hair and a smashed nose is moving amongst them all, serving drinks from a platter. He nods in your direction "Welcome to the Huntsman's Hangover, or the Hangover as we call it round here. What can I do for ya lads?"

"Hello fellow.  Some grub and maybe even some conversation, if you serve that.  We'll start with an ale apiece, and then whatever you've got cooking."  He looks at Brogar:

"These ones are on me."

Once the drinks arrive Quobbles will approach the rowdies by the fire, and be ingratiating, favouring the stupidest of the group, if one is apparent.

Weary from his long day of walking, Donovan Nevalaps opens the door to the Huntsman's Hangover and walks in lightly as a chilled wind ushers him inside effortlessly.  He turns and pushes the door closed as the last wisps of wind flutter the ends of his church tabard.  He cuts quite a figure with his chain mail armor, shield with church symbol emblazoned on it, and his new mace at his hip.  

As all eyes turned to fall upon him, Donovan gives a sheepish grin and steps up to the long wooden bar that runs the length of the back wall.  He takes off his backpack and drops it at his feet, and then puts his shield over the pack and stands between his belongings and the bar.  He gladly meets the gaze of any patron with a firm, but weary, smile of friendliness.

Speaking to no one in particular, Donovan says in a firm and loud voice, "good night for a warm cider, is it not?"

"Come take a load off, Father!" Says the lanky fighter, his own spear and shield leaning on the wall behind him, the device on which declares him a muster out of the Baron's service.  For a fearful gaunt face he looks rather friendly.

Donovan smiles at the soldier and picks up his belongings and walks over to his table.  He sets his stuff down next to his chair and sits down.

"Thank you, friend," he says once seated and looking across from the soldier, "it was a long day of traveling and my feet are sore.  This place was a welcome sight as I was not looking forward to a wet camp under the stars this night."

"My name is Gareth Cutpurse, I am the owner and proprietor of this establishment. Drinks are 3 coppers a piece, a bowl of stew is 4 and the conversation is free" the lanky gentleman serving drinks beams at Quobbles. One of the locals chimes in "With those prices now ya know why they call him Cutpurse." "There's not wrong with my prices, you lot are just cheap" Gareth retorts.

Several of the locals nod greetings at Donovan, a few mumble a polite "Father". Quobbles and Gareth exchange coin for the food and drink. Quobbles approaches the youths carousing near the fire, he spots one immediately as the perhaps the dimmest and loudest of the bunch. He is a tall, broad, young man of perhaps 20 summers with thick brown locks and a handsome face, busily regaling the others with tails of his might.

Quobbles winks at Brogar and the holy man now joining him before addressing the loud simpleton.

"So many famous deeds you've got to tell of, good sir, and you so young!  Either I should hire you as my assistant straight away, or you're economical with the truth!"

OOC:  Hopefully he's not so dumb that the job offer passes him by.

The young man cocks his head and replies, "econma.. econmig... what now?". One of the other youths pipes in, a lean, rough looking lad with a sharp look in his eyes "He wants to hire you for something Holt". Holt pauses, his slow mind pondering as if perplexed by some great mystery "Nah, I don't think so, I don't work for no one but myself".

OOC: just a heads up I am rolling for reactions as per the book, not intentionally trying to make things difficult.

Donovan smiles and nods politely at those who addressed him, and then turns to the soldier at the table.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he says in a friendly tone and demeanor, "my name is Father Donovan Nevalaps.  It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Brogar is my name.  I'm from a village in the Barony, a baker's son." He smiles.