Nevertheless, you decide to see what happens.
You sort of recall that you all agreed to meet at the Whitehorse this morning to plan your ascent to fame and fortune, so you head there as soon as you are able.
Outside the door you meet three other strangers...or are they? They all look as bleary and hung over as you are...this must be the bunch.
You go inside, take a table, and order willowroot tea...lots of it, and eye your companions. They eye you in similar fashion.
Who are these people, anyway?
Dressed in a black robe and cloak with high black leather boots, the high elf Lore strides forward to meet the small group. Looking out from underneath the long black mane of hair, his bright green eyes survey the group at large. Barely recognizing the group from the night before he extends a hand of greetings and with a gruff soft voice says..."ah...hi....the name is Lore in case you forgot."
Standing slightly over 6', Relan leans his weary body on the side of a building. His shoulder length black hair seems unkempt, and his brown eyes are tinted with a crimson red. His symbol of St. Cuthbert seems to be no help to his throbbing head. "Ah the ale served in that tavern surely must be made with demon's blood. Greetings to you Lore, I am Relan." The sudden movement to greet the new freind has set the mace at his side swinging. He stedies it quickly after it crashes with a loud "clang" on something metal on the wall, then goes back to resting his head.
The usually somber Lore stifles a laugh..."You look like your in worse shape than I am. So tell me...how much do you remember about last night?"
"That was only last night? My mouth feels like I've slept for 2 days".
Relan takes a swig from his skin, sloshes it about, and spits it dicreetly beside the building. "All I remember is that we were to meet here, now. Oh, and the barmaid still thinks I can cure her of a certain ailment she aquired one night a few weeks back"
Someone else comes walking to the table and sits down. "Shh... Not so loud. Darian is my name by the way just in case you don't remember my name any better than I remember yours."
He glares at Relan. "You, I remember. Why did I let you talk me into just one more mug? The other five or six I had was more than enough."
"How else was I to be certain you would keep buying my generous friend"
Darian touches his money pouch. "So, that's why it feels so empty. Well, then, the tea is on you."
Darian wears a grey cloak with the hood pulled up. Light brown hair peaks out from the hood and plain brown eyes. His face is not remarkable and is easily forgotten. He is short for a man. However something about his face tells you that he is not human, but an elf, even though you cannot see his ears.
You can see the chainmail on his arms and you note that his shield bears an emblem of a fighting hawk. He carries a bow and quiver on his back along with a backpack.
"Any of us who can hold anything in their stomachs this morning I shall buy it for them, as I have respect for their strength. It seems my gut and my head are at war with each other, and I am stuck in between."
Lore, in a halfway serious tone, says..."Well, I never pass up a free meal. Lead the way!"
Relan slowly lifts his head from the wall and wearily says, "As one may have gatherd from my attire and my words, if not by my hedonistic actions of the previous evening, I am a cleric of St. Cuthburt. At least I was yesterday. May I inquire of the talents and abilities you will bring to our new found allegiance?"
Lore looks towards Relan..."I'm a magic user."
"I am Darian. I am a warrior and a spell thrower."
Lore looks at Darian with amusement, shakes Darian's hand, and says, "Well met Darian."
The last of the four, slowly stirs at the sound of conversation. Last night he had boasted of just how much he could put down...and he did, and he paid the price. Gathering himself, bleary eyes, and all, a young man in his mid-twenties takes out a pipe, puffs it a few times, puts it out, almost in ritual fashion.
"I fell better already."
Tall and strong looking, the man has grey eyes and brown hair braided down the back of his neck. He has a short-cropped beard. His fox-fur cloak conceals a very nice set of chainmail. Two swords are at either side of a large black leather belt, and the long bow and quiver lie beside him. "And just what was it that I said last night? That I would swear on my life to accompany you all to slay the Chromatic Dragon. . .?"
Relan grimaces and opens his eyes for just a moment, and an expression of realization comes over him. "Hey, I seem to remember there is one more member to our band. I couldn't even tell you his race, or his gender for that matter, but only that he claimed to be a warrior." Relan looks around the room as if he could recognize the lost one if he saw him/her passed out on another table...which isn't so unreasonable as that is where he last remembers seeing this person. "No use."
There is one more person here...a human fighter...head resting in his arms atop the table, snoring...his pallor decidedly green...
As you talk, sip tea and nurse your hangovers, the door to the street opens and a large group of people enter. Obviously a party of adventurers going by their garb and equipment, there has got to be at least a score of them. You see humans, elves, dwarves, a gnome, half-elves, men, women, fighters, magic users, clerics, a paladin, druids...a veritable mob.
They sit themselves down at a number of tables in the common room and order breakfast. The staff of the Whitehorse hustle to fill the flood of orders. When the plates of steaming food - bacon, sausages, eggs, fried bread - come out, you feel your stomachs churning.
They eat their fill as if they have not had such a meal in months. Perhaps they haven't.
At last, though, they are done. One woman - a drop-dead beauty in plate mail that seems to have a glow all its own - rises and speaks to her companions. Sitting descreetly behind a potted palm, you listen in.
"Here we are at last safe from the pursuit of the gods of Cthul - er - the gods of Sinnar," she says, "But still I am not comfortable. It has been many years since I last trod in the woodlands of Earth, and I can feel them calling me. I must be off...I cannot tarry. Does anyone else wish to accompany me?"
Many people in the group stand. In fact, the only five of them remain seated.
"Uhhh, we'd like to explore Greyhawk a bit," says one of these, a man in the robes of a magic user.
The lady smiles.
"I understand, Mort. Greyhawk is a grand world, and full of riches and magic. I have bad memories from my last visit here, though, when I visited White Plume Mountain and was killed by ghouls. Ugh." She shivers. "Should you ever visit Earth, seek us out. I am going to seek the counsel of a great arch mage in the city of Sandas, Ray Jay. After that, I want to visit my family in Strabath. Fare well."
They say their goodbyes, and all but the five seated take their leave.
As they head out the door, three scruffy-looking individuals pass them. They seat themselves near you, and order breakfast. While they wait, they talk, and you listen...as do the five others...
"Aye, that's some story about Castle Greyhawk, in't it?" says one.
"Which one is that?" asks the second. "The old ruins, the wizard's lair, or the new Castle?"
"The new one, whot's ruled by Akitrom The Merely Worried," one replies. "His dungeons are being overrun by monsters, and to top it all, the Druids of the Golden Bough have declared war on him."
"Well, what's he expect," asks the third, "Holding a festival for mages called the Herzog's Fireball Fun in the Forest?"
"Yeah, but it's the dungeon that he's worried about, 'cause the monsters are coming up into the Keep itself, now. He's put out the call for help."
"And then there's the old mage's ruin nearby, too," adds two. "Them's supposed to be loaded with loot."
"And monsters guarding the loot..."
"And the oldest ruin...from before the Cataclysm I heard..." says three. "Probably stuffed full of goodies, too."
"So what are we waiting for?" demands two.
"Awww, it's too far away."
"Are you kidding? It's only a half a day north of here...just follow the signs!" says two.
"Shaddap. We've got an appointment at the guild in an hour," warns one, as their food arrives.
They start to eat, and say no more.
The five remaining from the just departed large party exchange wordless glances.
As one they rise and make for the door.
All of you know of Castle Greyhawk. The ruins have taken on near legendary status amongst Greyhawk adventurers. Originally the lair of the great arch-mage Zagyg, it has been a ruin for centuries. Many have cut their teeth exploring its dungeons. Consisting of three ruined towers and the halls beneath them, each of you have heard of rumours of the place...
Although there is little change in his expression, Lore's green eyes brighten to the point of almost giving off light..."I don't know about you guys...but that's and adventure waiting to happen. Just think of what we might find in those old ruins....I'm definately going to take a closer look into this...are you guys game?"
Relan, now more awake than ever, sits up and says with conviction, "I agree. But I feel we should go to the aid of the one called Akitrom. We could rid his castle from the evil plague that has engulfed it." No longer noticing his ailing stomach, he absently bites into the bread he had bought for those who wanted it.
Quietly sipping some herbal tea and looking a little better, the young man with the braided hair and short beard stands up, smoothing his clothes and making sure everything is still with him.
"My name is Gwenned. I have recently come from the area of Hommlet. I too am a warrior, but I also am a man of the woods. A ranger I am called. Not too long ago, I kept the rural villages safe from the ravages of orcs, goblins, ogres, and worse. But now, circumstances have forced me to leave (a note of sadness in his voice). Castle Greyhawk is indeed a wondrous place, so they say. But beware, it is rumored to have a terrible curse upon it. Either way, I am with you, though my conscience tells me to destroy evil first, and the foul hordes of giant-kin most of all."
"Well met Gwenned. I am Relan, loyal cleric of St. Cuthburt. Together we shall destroy the evil that plagues our lands."
At the mention of Hommlet, the human fighter suddenly stops snoring and wakes up. "Hommlet? Did I hear someone mention Hommlet?" Looking over to the group, he gets up and wanders over to the group. "Ah, that place brings back so many memories. Battles against Orcs and hobgoblins. I would love to go back there sometime. Beutiful countryside if I may say. Oh, excuse me, my name is Stump. Are you going adventuring? My I love adventures." With that, Stump pulls up a chair and joins the group.
You gather up your goods and chattels and set out.
By noon you are out of the City and walking down the Greyhawk Road as it parallels the River Selintan. The road is busy with other travellers: traders, caravans, and peasants. Occasionally you spot the other group of five a mile or two ahead, walking their horses.
By 3 in the afternoon you have reached the village of Ickham. A road branches off of the main thoroughfare here, and of course there is a signpost:
The Greyhawk Road: N: To Backburn Inn, Yardley.
S: To Greyhawk, Nancledra, Padstow.
SE: To Jamestown, Machynlleth.
You stay on the main road.
You spend a quiet night encamped in a woodlot off the road.