The door slams shut, taking with it the chaos raging outside, though the echo of drums still reaches your ears. The couple leads you through a kitchen, then a darkened room that smells of beer, and into a large hall lit with torches. Hey! I said through the room. The beer can wait. Keep moving!
As you gather in the hall, you see long wooden tables and benches, and a large chair. Stuffed game birds and beasts of prey, old hunting implements, and a couple tapestries adorn the walls. Steps lead up to a gallery surrounding the hall, and through the upper windows you catch flashes of light from the flames burning down the barn and the gatehouse. There are no windows on the main floor.
Two women are seated, a young one weeping, an older one offering comfort. A tired-looking man, dressed in the humble clothes of a servant, stoops before them, trying to do the same. A boy of about ten looks up at your approach, and then at a man walking across the room toward you. The man's red hair is peppered with gray. He is wearing chain mail.
"Well met, friends," he greets you in a Traladaran accent, extending his hand. "I am Pyotr. This," he says, nodding at the couple who escorted you in, "my son Taras, his wife Alfana. My brother Stephan hire you, yes? I bid you warm--"
At that you here a crash in the yard. It sounds like the gatehouse collapsing. Pyotr turns his head toward the noise, sighs, then continues. "A warm welcome to Sukisykn." The older woman looks up at him, frowns, and then turns to you.
Actions?
