Day 1: Part 1 (Stopping a Duel)

 DM: The bustling city of Havenreach surrounds you with its sights and sounds as midday sun warms the cobblestone streets. You've only been here three days since leaving your quiet elven hometown behind.

Ahead, a growing crowd gathers in the city square, their excited voices rising above the normal market chatter. As you approach, you see people forming a ring around two fgures - one a well-dressed nobleman brandishing a rapier, the other a weathered city guard captain with a grimexpression.

"Last chance to retract your accusation, Captain Voss!" the nobleman calls out, twirling hisblade with practiced fourish. "Or meet me in proper duel!"

Flerbilian Piquélric: Do I recognize the nobleman?

DM: A fash of memory cuts through your thoughts. Lord Atherton, yes. A minor noble, known more for his famboyant duels and questionable honor than for any true accomplishment. His family’s crest, a prancing unicorn on a feld of gold, is recognizable enough, though they hold little sway in the true political machinations of Havenreach.

The crowd holds its breath as Atherton, with a theatrical bow, prepares to engage Captain Voss.

The air crackles with anticipation, the potential for blood to spill palpable even from your vantage point. It seems this public display is about to turn deadly.

Flerbilian Piquélric: Would Lord Atheron know of my noble family?

DM: Given your family's rather... distinctive reputation among the gentry, it's highly likely Lord Atherton would know of the Piquélric name, even if he didn't recognize you personally. The whispers of your family's sycophancy are a common enough jest in noble circles. However, his attention is entirely fxed on Captain Voss, his rapier now tracing menacing circles in the air. The crowd murmurs, some egging on the duel, others gasping in anticipation of the frst strike.

Flerbilian Piquélric: I walk in the center of the circle and say, "uh, hi, Mister Atheron, what's -uh- the problem here? There is a problem, right? Sometimes, I have problems because people say my face is really 'punchable' and then they pretend to punch me, but they don't, but then I flinch in fear, and they laugh and point at me. Then, they usually try to pinch the head of my penis through my pants, so I run away, but they just keep chasing me with their hands in like a pinching position... so is there, like, a problem, good -uh- sir?"

DM: The tense silence is shattered as you, Flerbilian Piquélric, stride ungracefully into the center of the ring, interrupting the looming duel. Both Lord Atherton and Captain Voss pause, their eyes, and indeed the eyes of the entire captivated crowd, snap towards your gangly figure.

Atherton, rapier still poised, blinks, a look of utter bewilderment, then irritation, clouding his arrogant features. Captain Voss, however, lowers his guard slightly, a ficker of surprise and perhaps a hint of confusion crossing his grim face. A few mufled snorts and titters ripple through the crowd, quickly silenced by those eager to see the duel resume. The air, thick with anticipation, now carries an uncomfortable blend of confusion and awkward silence as everyone waits for your explanation.

Flerbilian Piquélric: I say, "oh... uh... I'm Flerbilian Piquelric. I probably should've introduced myself." 

I curtsy like a woman, but in the middle of the curtsy, I realize that it's the wrong kind, so I awkwardly transition into the one done by men, but I lose my footing and fall face frst. I give a defeated grunt, and the impact with the ground makes me loudly expel the fact I was holding in.

DM: You stammer out your name, a belated introduction, and then, with a fourish, attempt a curtsy. It's a disaster from the start, a half-hearted dip that morphs into a lopsided, unbalanced bow, sending you tumbling forward. Your face meets the cobblestones with a dull thud, and a defeated grunt escapes your lips just as a rather undignifed, resonant expulsion of air bursts forth, echoing in the stunned silence of the square.

Dust clings to your pale face, and your warlock robes are now a bit more rumpled than intended.

Lord Atherton stares, utterly speechless, his rapier now drooping slightly. Captain Voss struggles to maintain his stern composure, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The crowd, however, can hold it no longer; mufled snickers erupt, quickly turning into outright gufaws.

Flerbilian Piquélric: I resign myself to just lying on the ground face-down on the ground, instead of picking myself up. This is clearly not the frst time this has happened. I whimper, "just pretend I'm not here, please. It was nice to meet you, Sir Atheron." 

I whimper a little more before loudly pleading to the crowd, "Please, give me a second to muster the courage to stand up, and no one try to put anything in my butt. Last time happened, someone thought it'd be funny to try to plant a carrot in there. They missed, though, and just ended up stabbing the back of my scrotum with the carrot. It hurt... like... a lot."

DM: You remain sprawled on the cobblestones, your face pressed against the rough stones, letting out a series of pathetic whimpers. Your voice, mufled by the ground, still carries enough to reach the ears of the bewildered onlookers. Your desperate plea about carrots and scrotums hangs in the air, creating a truly bizarre tableau in the city square.

Lord Atherton, his face a mask of utter bewilderment, fnally lowers his rapier fully, his dueling stance completely abandoned. Captain Voss pinches the bridge of his nose, a sigh escaping his lips. The laughter from the crowd dies down, replaced by a mixture of uncomfortable silence and outright confusion. A few individuals shufle their feet, clearly unsure whether to be amused, appalled, or simply to back away slowly.

Flerbilian Piquélric: I slowly get to my feet. I thank everyone for not assaulting me while prone. I turn to Captain Voss. "Uh, what seems to be the problem, oficer?" I ask, my voice timid and cracking.

DM: With a great deal of efort, you manage to scramble back to your feet, dusting of your robes. You offer a mumbled 'thank you' to the surrounding crowd for their unexpected restraint, then turn your attention to Captain Voss. He rubs his temples, his gaze meeting yours with a weary exasperation.

'The problem, Master Piquélric,' he begins, his voice tight with barely suppressed annoyance, 'is a simple matter of Lord Atherton here attempting to bribe one of my men to falsify testimony in a land dispute. When I caught him, he insisted on "satisfaction" for the insult to his 'honor'.' 

He gestures vaguely at Atherton, who now looks more annoyed than offended. 'An act of blatant corruption, now complicated by... this.'

Flerbilian Piquélric: "Oh... is that not allowed? Is the land dispute with another noble or, like, with a peasant? Because one time, my dad had a land dispute with another noble. I mean, the other noble told him to give him a hamlet on the edge of our lands, and my dad just laid down on his back with his hands pressed to his chest to show the noble his belly to show his submission. It turns out it was a big misunderstanding due to a faulty census taken a few hundred years ago..." I stare of in the middle distance as I remember the event.

DM: Captain Voss listens, his expression shifting from weary to utterly blank as you recount your father's rather… unique method of dispute resolution. Lord Atherton, on the other hand, lets out an incredulous snort, clearly fnding your family's history as bafling as it is irrelevant.

'Master Piquélric,' Voss interrupts, cutting across your distant gaze, 'while your family's history is… vivid, the matter at hand involves Lord Atherton attempting to subvert the city's justice for personal gain. It matters not if the land dispute is with a commoner or another noble; bribery of a city guard is a serious ofense.' He eyes Atherton, who now seems to be searching for an escape route from the conversation. 'And challenging a captain of the guard to a duel for refusing said bribe is an even graver one.'

Flerbilian Piquélric: I turn to Atherton. "Wait, your name is Atherton? I thought it was Atheron. Oh my gods, I'm so embarrassed. I didn't mean to mix them up. Why didn't you say anything? Now I look like a total dingus! Ugh, I'm so stupid." I keep repeating "I'm so stupid" as I continuously hit the heel of my palm to my forehead.

DM: You spin to face Atherton, a fresh wave of mortifcation washing over you as you realize your phonetic error. "Atherton! Not Atheron! Oh, gods, I'm so sorry!" You begin a rapid series of thumps to your forehead with the heel of your palm, muttering "I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid" with each self-inficted tap.

Lord Atherton recoils slightly from your sudden intensity, his face a mixture of utter disbelief and growing horror. His rapier now points aimlessly at the cobblestones. Captain Voss merely closes his eyes for a moment, a long-suffering sigh escaping him as if he's mentally reviewing his life choices. The crowd watches, a few more snickers breaking the silence, now mixed with genuine concern for your mental well-being. This bizarre interlude has completely derailed any semblance of a duel.

Flerbilian Piquélric: I turn to Captain Voss. "Okay, well, if Atherton says he's sorry, can we, like, pretend this didn't happen? Sometimes, people say mean and hurtful things when they are sad. Like, one time, a village girl threw a potato at my brother's head, and it hurt him, and he was too afraid to yell at the girl, so he just screamed real loud and punched me in my testicles while sobbing."

DM: Captain Voss stares at you, a flicker of disbelief crossing his weary face. He glances at Lord Atherton, who now looks utterly mortifed, wishing the cobblestones would simply swallow him whole. Your attempt at empathy, punctuated by another vivid family anecdote, only seems to deepen the Captain's exasperation.

'Master Piquélric,' Voss says, his voice dangerously calm, 'while I appreciate your... unique perspective on human sufering, a public oficial attempting to pervert justice and then challenging an officer to a duel is not merely "saying mean things when sad." It is a breach of law and order within Havenreach.' He turns his stern gaze back to Atherton. 'Lord Atherton, you will cease this charade and accompany me to the guardhouse. Now.'

Flerbilian Piquélric: I look down in defeat. My bottom lip quivers. Holding back tears, I turn to Atherton. When I speak, every syllable is interrupted by a sharp inhale as I blubber, "I'm. So. Sor-ry. I. Was. On-ly. Try-ing. To. Help. You. Have. To. Go. With. Mis-ter. Po-lice-man. Now."

DM: Your bottom lip begins to quiver uncontrollably, and large, glistening tears well up in your eyes. You turn to Atherton, each word an agonizing struggle as you try to convey your regret, punctuated by sharp, hiccuping inhales. "I'm. So. Sor-ry. I. Was. On-ly. Try-ing. To. Help. You. Have. To. Go. With. Mis-ter. Po-lice-man. Now."

Lord Atherton stares at you, a complex mix of pity, horror, and profound embarrassment washing over his features. Captain Voss watches your breakdown with a weary, almost resigned expression, his hand moving to his forehead as if to stave of a headache. The crowd, which had been murmuring, falls silent once more, a few sympathetic whispers mixing with the general awkwardness. The tension of the duel has been utterly replaced by the sheer, unadulterated spectacle of your emotional collapse.

Flerbilian Piquélric: I scamper away, letting my arms to fail about. I try to find the nearest tavern.

DM: With a final, desperate blubber, you turn tail and scurry away from the lingering awkwardness of the city square. Your arms fail wildly as you weave through the thinning crowd, a blur of gangly limbs and disheveled robes. The last rays of the sun have long since dipped below the rooftops, and as you navigate the bustling streets, the gas lamps of Havenreach begin to glow, casting long, dancing shadows.