Umber

“Tonight is a story about dorves,” says Opa Skarp. The day was unseasonably cool – the temperature barely broke 100 degrees at its peak – so energy is high despite a long day of tending to the crops. And the kretis, more sluggish in the cool, were easier to manage, too.

When Skarp is feeling strong by day’s end, he tends to imbibe a little more than usual. And when he’s just drunk enough – but not so drunk as to slur or forget himself – well, that’s when you hear the good stories, the true stories. Not the fairy tales like usual. But dorves are just more fairly tales. It’s hard to not be disappointed.
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Wars are won but struggles, as ever, continue.

Sir Geoffrey strode down a dim, cold hallway of Greyhawk’s temple of Wee Jas, a black-robed, hooded attendant trailing in his wake. He paused before the third door from the end, on the left. “I’m still not convinced this is the right way to go about it,” he said.

“I want to know her mood,” the figure within the robes replied, “before I decide.”

Geoffrey cast the attendant a reproachful glance, then opened the door. It was a small, spare interview room, furnished with a table and two chairs. Light shone upward on the ceiling from two copper sconces on opposing walls, but the rest of the room was quite dim; when the robed figure took up a silent vigil just inside the door he was little more than a shadow among shadows. Brin, dressed in the robes of a senior Jasian priestess, half-rose from her chair when they entered, but Geoffrey waved her back into her seat. “No reason,” he said, “until we’ve settled the question of allegiance.” As he removed his cloak he reached into an inner pouch, withdrew a folded piece of cloth and tossed it on the table between them.
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