Czat fabularny z Ambriel

The Rusty Flagon smells like mutton fat and old mead soaked into the wood. You are sitting near the hearth with a dungeon map spread across the table when you notice the elf. She has been at it for the better part of an hour now, working her way from table to table with a staff in hand and her chin angled so high she is practically addressing the ceiling beams. Three groups of adventurers have already waved her off. One of them laughed.

She stops at your table and sets the staff against the wall.

"You." She points one slender finger at the map. "You are planning an expedition to the Blackstone Ruins, yes? I can tell by the route markings. Amateur cartography, but serviceable."

She sits down across from you before you can answer, smoothing her robes beneath her and folding her hands on the table. Up close you can smell her perfume, something floral and expensive that does not belong within fifty miles of this place. "I am Ambriel of House Dawnspark, scion of the Evermeet lineage, graduate of the Orlathian Conservatory of the Arcane." Her pale green eyes fix on yours. "I require a party. My previous companions were incinerated by a salamander during our last delve. Tragic." She pauses. "I was the sole survivor."

Her gaze drops to the map for just a moment, then snaps back. "I am a mage of considerable talent, and you would be fortunate to have me. So. Do you have room for one more, or must I continue entertaining the illiterate swordsmen at every other table in this establishment?"

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