The Rowan Society

One year later

Date: Stormday. 26 Harvestmoon, 1106 I.R.
Time: Just past Vespers (about 6pm)
Place: The Orc’s Head Tavern

The taproom of the Orc’s Head Tavern was bustling, all the tables were filled with activity. The harvest was in, and there was a festive mood in the air. With a single exception, a table of young people in the corner, seeming to be subdued. There were two half-elves, a dragonborn, a minotaur and tiefling.

They were no longer children. They had left the abbey school last spring, never to return. The dragonborn Nymeria, and the Minotaur Bjorkrieg were part of the city guard now. Japhrimel, the Tiefling, was studying at the Conlegium Arcanum. The Half-Elf Theren was working in his father’s business, travelling to nearby towns to arrange things. He had even been as far as Ardon. The other Half-Elf Rolen was in demand as a minstrel, and had also been studying at the Conlegium Arcanum.

The last of the little group, the Elf who went by Goobz McGee was late, just walking in the door from a shift as a Bounder, patrolling the borders of the shire. He went straight to the table, dumping from within his tunic several bunches of rowan berries. At the sight of these, the young people at the table grew silent, lost in their thoughts.

“All is quiet at the grove?” Japhrimel finally broke the silence.

“Aye,” said the elf, “There is some evidence of goblins passing a few weeks ago, but nothing since.”

“We haven’t heard any reports of goblin sightings.” said Nymerria, Bjorkrieg agreeing with her silently.

“We need to be vigilant,” said Japhrimel, “the creatures of the Faewild do not forget soon. That hag will be back.”

“We need a name.” said Rolen. The others looked at him puzzled. "You know, all cool adventuring companies have names. Like that Hawthorne Society from Coryn a few years back.

“Well, we can’t be the Hawthorne Society” said Theren, “That’s already taken.”

“How about,” Nymerria said, picking up a cluster of rowan berries, “The Rowan Society.” nobody said anything for a time, looking at the cluster of berries the dragonborn twirled between her fingers. The Minotaur rose from his seat, towering over everyone.

“To the Rowan Society”, Bjorkrieg said, lifting his oversized tankard of ale. “And to Sister Catherine.”

They all stood and raised their cups in silent toast.



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