Following his encounter with a shrubbery, if Dima chooses to continue his journey northward:
As the sun sets on the horizon and the stars appear one by one overhead, there can be seen not-too-distantly the glow of a campfire.
Nearer, it can be ascertained that the fire is about thirty feet from the trail in a clearing, and two figures can be seen seated on stones forming a ring around the firepit.
<.>
He knows he ought to halt his travel soon.
He knows better than to linger long where strangers stay.
But! The thing is. There's nothing furtive about this fire's presence. And it can't hurt to take some measure of whoever, or whatever, is responsible for the fire.
And maybe (maybe!) whoever this is knows something of these pernicious bushes.
So. For the moment, Dima would like to pause where he is, and listen to see whether he can overhear anything, or sense anything odd in the air.
[PERC: 13, with advantage bc dumbass crit failed his first roll]
<.>
Listening, he can overhear the sounds of faint, calm conversation, but can't really determine the subjectmatter. There's nothing exceptional about the site: it appears to be a well-traveled area, used frequently by those taking the road to and from Awich. Of the two figures, one wears a hooded cowl which in the twilight obscures their face; the other's is turned towards their hooded companion and thus their back is to Dima, but from this distance, it's easy to determine their build is slight, perhaps the same height or slightly taller than Dima.
<.>
He'd like a better look at these probable travelers. He'd like to determine whether they have anything worth knowing.
So Dima moves up the path fifteen feet or so. Moves to stand precisely on the path's edge, then—
Well.
No.
Before he steps foot off the path, he'd like to take a look at the shrubbery around. Does any of it appear to be. Rustling with ill-intent?
[ARC: 14]
<.>
Everything seems quiet; however, due to his background in the magical arts, Dima has probably learned that certain types of malignant foliage can appear to be absolutely normal until it moves.
One thing has changed; when Dima pauses at the path's edge, the figure facing his way gestures to indicate his presence and the other falls silent and turns back to look at him.
<.>
Well! No use playing coy now, is there? (And he'll simply have to keep his very well-remembered lessons in mind, and keep an *eye* on all of these bushes.)
[q: What can he see of the figures’ faces? ]
<.>
From this distance, both faces are thrown in shadow by the firelight.
<.>
Dima takes a few steps - moving with care, but without hesitation - off the path, toward the firelight. Then speaks, voice self-assured but not over-loud: "Staying for the night?"
<.>
The figure in the hood seemingly cocks their head, then exhales a sound that could be a mirthful - if muted - snort. Though they face Dima, their features are still thrown in shadow, but their traveling clothes - worn, a not-uncommon mingling of leather armor and linen fabrics - can be seen. A blanket wrapped around their shoulders and their hunched manner of sitting obscures their build.
The figure nearest Dima, now in clearer view, is an older human male, his greying hair somewhat tousled as though after making his trek all day, sweating and mussing it, he has hastily attempted to bring it to order. His clothes are dirtier than a day's travel would suggest.
He casts a glance back at his companion , then, turning to Dima again, offers a welcoming grin. "The woods are treacherous at night. All sorts of buggery about. Better to be well-rested for safer travel, wouldn't you say?"
<.>
Buggery? Well— That's one word for it.
Dima's eyes narrow briefly as he considers - looks from one figure to the other, taking in what glimpses he can through the shadows - then nods once, firmly. "So I hear.
"Have you room for one more?
"I won't keep you long, but as you say, the woods are— Mm. 'Buggery' isn't precisely the term I'd choose, but it serves the purpose. And I could stand a moment's respite."
<.>
"Oh, you'd have to ask my friend here," the man replies, gesturing almost theatrically.
The hooded figure shakes their head, then gestures with one large hand to the third of the encircling rocks.
"Can't get him to shut up." The first man makes this jest as he rises, presumably out of courtesy, and extends a hand. "I'm Wythall. This is - well, I didn't catch his name, but he's generous with his campfire, aren't you, boy?
"And who might you be?"
<.>
His 'friend.'
Interesting. This... 'Wythall' has an interesting way of choosing words.
It doesn't feel entirely rotten to be invited toward the circle. Dima also isn't ready to trust a man who smiles so readily at strangers.
He steps forward, gives a suspended look to the man's hand—
And doesn't reach for it.
Instead, Dima glances at the silent figure, looks to Wythall again.
And Dima would like to attempt to discern whether there is anything trustworthy about this scene at all.
[INS: 21]
<.>
The seated figure seems sketchy as fuck in his hood, with his taciturn behavior and curt gestures.
Upon reflection, Dima might get the feeling this is intentional, as though he has just walked into the middle of something.
Wythall apparently genuinely wants to make Dima's acquaintance.
Roll another perception check?
[PERC: 11]
There's nothing about either of them to trigger alarm bells, but Dima notices Wythall isn't wearing shoes.
<.>
The sense of walking into the middle of something doesn't deter Dima in the slightest. If anything, it only encourages his curiosity.
His eyes linger on the man's feet a moment longer before he looks up again. Still not reaching for Wythall's hand, though he bows his head in acknowledgement, and speaks with undaggered courtesy: "A pleasure, Wythall. And it is a rarity, to meet such companionability in the midnight wilds.
"My name is Altair." He cants his head in a sideways nod, then looks toward the seated figure.
"And you? This fire is your work?
"I take it you bear a name, as well?"
[DEC: 15]
<.>
"Oh! Well, we have a gentleman in our midst!" Wythall is grinning now, speaking - apparently - to his companion, though his theatricality causes his voice to project somewhat. It seems he has interpreted Dima's nod as an actual bow.
The hooded man has only watched through this exchange, drawing his hand up to what is likely his mouth in apparent contemplation. When addressed, it takes him longer than one might expect to respond.
"Might as well call me 'Altair', too. The fire's mine. The name isn't.
"But you might as well, since it's not yours, either."
The Party Gathers: If a Tree Burns in the Forest...
As the sun sets on the horizon and the stars appear one by one overhead, there can be seen not-too-distantly the glow of a campfire.
Nearer, it can be ascertained that the fire is about thirty feet from the trail in a clearing, and two figures can be seen seated on stones forming a ring around the firepit.
<.>
He knows he ought to halt his travel soon.
He knows better than to linger long where strangers stay.
But! The thing is. There's nothing furtive about this fire's presence. And it can't hurt to take some measure of whoever, or whatever, is responsible for the fire.
And maybe (maybe!) whoever this is knows something of these pernicious bushes.
So. For the moment, Dima would like to pause where he is, and listen to see whether he can overhear anything, or sense anything odd in the air.
[PERC: 13, with advantage bc dumbass crit failed his first roll]
<.>
Listening, he can overhear the sounds of faint, calm conversation, but can't really determine the subjectmatter. There's nothing exceptional about the site: it appears to be a well-traveled area, used frequently by those taking the road to and from Awich. Of the two figures, one wears a hooded cowl which in the twilight obscures their face; the other's is turned towards their hooded companion and thus their back is to Dima, but from this distance, it's easy to determine their build is slight, perhaps the same height or slightly taller than Dima.
<.>
He'd like a better look at these probable travelers. He'd like to determine whether they have anything worth knowing.
So Dima moves up the path fifteen feet or so. Moves to stand precisely on the path's edge, then—
Well.
No.
Before he steps foot off the path, he'd like to take a look at the shrubbery around. Does any of it appear to be. Rustling with ill-intent?
[ARC: 14]
<.>
Everything seems quiet; however, due to his background in the magical arts, Dima has probably learned that certain types of malignant foliage can appear to be absolutely normal until it moves.
One thing has changed; when Dima pauses at the path's edge, the figure facing his way gestures to indicate his presence and the other falls silent and turns back to look at him.
<.>
Well! No use playing coy now, is there? (And he'll simply have to keep his very well-remembered lessons in mind, and keep an *eye* on all of these bushes.)
[q: What can he see of the figures’ faces? ]
<.>
From this distance, both faces are thrown in shadow by the firelight.
<.>
Dima takes a few steps - moving with care, but without hesitation - off the path, toward the firelight. Then speaks, voice self-assured but not over-loud: "Staying for the night?"
<.>
The figure in the hood seemingly cocks their head, then exhales a sound that could be a mirthful - if muted - snort. Though they face Dima, their features are still thrown in shadow, but their traveling clothes - worn, a not-uncommon mingling of leather armor and linen fabrics - can be seen. A blanket wrapped around their shoulders and their hunched manner of sitting obscures their build.
The figure nearest Dima, now in clearer view, is an older human male, his greying hair somewhat tousled as though after making his trek all day, sweating and mussing it, he has hastily attempted to bring it to order. His clothes are dirtier than a day's travel would suggest.
He casts a glance back at his companion , then, turning to Dima again, offers a welcoming grin. "The woods are treacherous at night. All sorts of buggery about. Better to be well-rested for safer travel, wouldn't you say?"
<.>
Buggery? Well— That's one word for it.
Dima's eyes narrow briefly as he considers - looks from one figure to the other, taking in what glimpses he can through the shadows - then nods once, firmly. "So I hear.
"Have you room for one more?
"I won't keep you long, but as you say, the woods are— Mm. 'Buggery' isn't precisely the term I'd choose, but it serves the purpose. And I could stand a moment's respite."
<.>
"Oh, you'd have to ask my friend here," the man replies, gesturing almost theatrically.
The hooded figure shakes their head, then gestures with one large hand to the third of the encircling rocks.
"Can't get him to shut up." The first man makes this jest as he rises, presumably out of courtesy, and extends a hand. "I'm Wythall. This is - well, I didn't catch his name, but he's generous with his campfire, aren't you, boy?
"And who might you be?"
<.>
His 'friend.'
Interesting. This... 'Wythall' has an interesting way of choosing words.
It doesn't feel entirely rotten to be invited toward the circle. Dima also isn't ready to trust a man who smiles so readily at strangers.
He steps forward, gives a suspended look to the man's hand—
And doesn't reach for it.
Instead, Dima glances at the silent figure, looks to Wythall again.
And Dima would like to attempt to discern whether there is anything trustworthy about this scene at all.
[INS: 21]
<.>
The seated figure seems sketchy as fuck in his hood, with his taciturn behavior and curt gestures.
Upon reflection, Dima might get the feeling this is intentional, as though he has just walked into the middle of something.
Wythall apparently genuinely wants to make Dima's acquaintance.
Roll another perception check?
[PERC: 11]
There's nothing about either of them to trigger alarm bells, but Dima notices Wythall isn't wearing shoes.
<.>
The sense of walking into the middle of something doesn't deter Dima in the slightest. If anything, it only encourages his curiosity.
His eyes linger on the man's feet a moment longer before he looks up again. Still not reaching for Wythall's hand, though he bows his head in acknowledgement, and speaks with undaggered courtesy: "A pleasure, Wythall. And it is a rarity, to meet such companionability in the midnight wilds.
"My name is Altair." He cants his head in a sideways nod, then looks toward the seated figure.
"And you? This fire is your work?
"I take it you bear a name, as well?"
[DEC: 15]
<.>
"Oh! Well, we have a gentleman in our midst!" Wythall is grinning now, speaking - apparently - to his companion, though his theatricality causes his voice to project somewhat. It seems he has interpreted Dima's nod as an actual bow.
The hooded man has only watched through this exchange, drawing his hand up to what is likely his mouth in apparent contemplation. When addressed, it takes him longer than one might expect to respond.
"Might as well call me 'Altair', too. The fire's mine. The name isn't.
"But you might as well, since it's not yours, either."
<.>