(North, east, west or ask)
(When in a new town, and doing things I haven’t done before, why not ask?)
Dude wants 10 gold crowns to tell him. No thanks, I’m good.
You flick your heel against Bracer’s flank and urge him towards the dingy street. Here, only a few houses show any light, and this through the knotholes and cracks of their bolted shutters. At length you come to a junction illuminated by a solitary street lantern. You are trying to decide which way to turn when your eye is distracted by something moving in the shadows. From out of a darkened doorway steps a pale-skinned woman wrapped in a black velvet cloak, edged with scarlet silk.
‘ ’Tis no night to be out ridin’,’ she says, her voice syrupy and seductive, ‘not ’less you be lookin’ for company.’
You tell her you have no need for her company and turn your horse to leave, but suddenly you find yourself transfixed by the woman’s eyes and unable to move. They seem unnaturally vibrant, as if filled with a flickering green fire; she is using magic in an attempt to charm you. Instinctively, you draw on your innate psychic Kai powers to try to dispel the charm, but her magic is unusually strong.
(Do I have Kai-Screen? I sure do!)
Using your formidable mind skill, you create a protective wall around your will which deflects the woman’s psychic power-charm. Her spell rebounds and the suddenness of this reversal completely overwhelms her senses. In an instant the light vanishes from her eyes and her face becomes blank and expressionless, like that of a mask of a mindless automaton.
You command her to raise her right hand and she does so without hesitation. On her index finger you notice a platinum ring which you sense at once is magical; it is the source of her psychic power. The ring is fused to her hand and cannot be removed. Having no wish to sever her finger, you command her to lower her hand and tell you where you may find the Crooked Sage Inn. Obediently, she gives you clear directions to Tavern Lane, the street where the inn is situated, and less than ten minutes later you find yourself at a signpost which marks the entrance to this narrow thoroughfare.
You ride slowly through the clammy fog which carpets the cobblestones of this ill-smelling lane. Clamped against the walls of the surrounding buildings are oil-soaked torches which serve to illuminate the signs of wine shops and taverns. They are crudely painted with emblems—a bloodied battle-axe, a winged horse, a watery sun rising from a broken skull. There is not one that resembles a crooked sage and you are beginning to lose heart when suddenly you hear the sound of drunken revelry coming from a two-storey building at the end of the street. Its oaken doors hang open and the vivid orange glare of its roaring hearth spills invitingly into the dank night gloom. Although it has no painted emblem, you sense at once that you have at last found the Crooked Sage Inn.
At your approach, a sallow-faced stable boy limps from a wooden hut which is leaning precariously against the side of the tavern wall. For one Gold Crown (erase this from your Action Chart), he takes charge of your horse and shows you to the taproom door.