Hunnerd gold! Normilan demands Teleport. Brunt accuses the transcriber of Orwellian retcons galore, but good god that’s too much effort. Last time, they’d rescued a brass dragon and killed an allosaur, ruining a circus. Now they run their horses nearly to death, then kill them and animate their corpses? Exhausted, they finally make camp with SO MUCH FLAVOR TEXT – it’s going to be one of those games, folks. Tasha aggressively dies of dysentery.

Tasha: So has enough time passed that we’ve healed?
DM: No!
Tasha: You just said we’ve been gone for hours.
DM: --and with the carriages being yahed forwards and you all on high alert expecting attack from a psionic source at any moment, there’s no rest!
Normilan: If Tasha tries to sleep, I’m going to slap her awake.

Flavor text continues to flow like waterfalls. Giles moves to climb a great lone pine for vantage.

Normilan: Time to get all sappy.
Brunt: And check out the butterflies fluttering over the treetops!

Clambering up, Giles sees nothing – though it is the middle of the night, so who knows what he wanted? They speculate a while why the carnival is not pursuing them.

Tasha: Putting us on display doesn’t exactly bring them the same money as one of the monsters would…
Cruroar: We kept our disguise.
DM: I dunno, a Count might be worth pretty good dough. ‘Behold the captive noble,’ they’d say.
Tasha: And how would they prove that he’s a noble?
DM: You’ve got seals and paperwork, don’t you? Maybe they could get an affidavit from the kingdom.
Normilan: We’re not brandishing that stuff.
Cruroar: Most of that stuff’s back at the castle, at least the important stuff. I couldn’t really have a disguise and then have paperwork for someone else.
Brunt: Sorry, thrallherd, but our count is in another castle!
Normilan: ‘Cruroar? Who is Cruroar? I am Guy Incognito.’
DM: How about famed apprentice to Tyraen? Destroyer of elven kingdoms? Ooh, Ensign of the Hands, I bet that’s worth a couple of views.
Brunt: Ensign MAJOR.
DM: There’s a Major in there? That’s awesome!

No one realized this entire time the DM was in-character as Quirion. Suddenly, they hear a strange noise from the roof of the wagon: M. BISON! Apparently! Something gasps for air atop the wagon.

Tasha: Stowaway!
Normilan: It’s Quirion, masturbating.
DM: ‘Wow, how am I doing that?’

The DM calls for a Will save from Eilnys, who is flinging open the rear doors to the cart. Naturally, she rolls very well.

DM: “AAAACHOO!” A blast of magical breath washes over you, and sleep briefly tugs at the fringes of your senses, but you shake it off and find yourself looking straight into the muzzle of a very young brass dragon, who even now is rearing back for another sneeze. Telltale signs of pepper and spice dot his muzzle.
Normilan: Oh. He’s been getting into it.
Eilnys: “You’ve been getting into the things, lad huh?”

Eilnys tries to converse. The dragon sneezes more and falls out of the wagon, finally managing to gasp how hungry it is. They feed it Bimmy. Tasha tries to Create Water and fails because the gods angrily stripped the spell from her due to her constant abuse of it. Then she creates food.

DM: Bland, boring food appears in front of the dragon.
Eilnys: That’s why we have spice.
Brunt: I don’t think he’ll be in a hurry to have a go at that again.
Cruroar: I enter the cart, attempting to clean up the mess.
DM: Fortunately, things aren’t too bad. It only nosed into one barrel of spice.
Normilan: He almost did the cinnamon challenge.
DM: As a dragon, he could have.
Tasha: Next is the Tide Pod challenge. Here, dragon!
DM: You’ve changed its breath weapon, it now breathes clouds of stupid.

The DM makes Tasha roll a Wisdom check to try to remember how to use Create Water for its intended purpose. Tasha is outraged!

Tasha: Come on, dude?! Why are you busting my balls over Create Water – this is like an actual useful time to create water!
DM: That’s why it’s so hard for you to do it!

Cruroar takes Tasha’s side, or possibly just takes the side opposed to the DM, as the DM points out how many times Tasha had openly blasphemed and attempted to abandon her god. Normilan renames the dragon ‘Omar’, then ‘Hope’. A weird argument erupts between the DM and everyone else, since Tasha keeps insisting there are only 8 people in the group and everyone else insists the DM is just riding Tasha’s ass. The DM struggles to get them to rest and heal up. Glimmer curls up to sleep.

Brunt: I like him.
Giles: I think that’s cute.
Brunt: I’m gonna make it a point to keep him alive. And only internally call him Lockheed. Not where he can hear.

Giles climbs a tree again to check out the area and verifies that the concept of west exists. He plummets back down the tree – the DM is just full of sass tonight.

DM: Everybody is my worst enemy. ESPECIALLY me. But ESPECIALLY Brunt.
Brunt: But no pursuit.
DM: He did not see any pursuit.
Brunt: It’s on him if we die, it’s not on me.
Cruroar: You did phrase it, ‘you do not see THE pursuit.’
Normilan: Ah, the definite article.

Tasha gets Glimmer to serve as their scout, and the flight speed of dragons emerges as nothing short of amazing. The journey shifts into montage mode as the wagons roll on, eventually reaching the wide flat plains of the west. The DM checks for Knowledge(history) and Normilan rolls to discover they’re in something of a no-man’s-land between the Clans and the kingdom; the latter doesn’t have the population to settle this fertile land and likely won’t for centuries, the former is nomadic and rarely roams this far. A history lesson also ensues on the Clans: the Great Star is both the head god of the pantheons and the title of their leader.

Giles: What are the clans?
DM: Now here Normilan’s knowledge is not so great.
Normilan: Damn.
DM: This not being a common area of study—
Normilan: A 36!
DM: Yes, it’s very—
Normilan: I’m teasing, I’m teasing.
DM: You know there are seven clans. Shock!
Normilan: That’s like a 10. No, that’s a 5.
DM: It could have been a historic name. There USED to be seven. Five perished in the great war. Now there’s just two douchebags who maintain the name for legacy…
Normilan: Two individual guys.
DM: The seven clans all have – they’re basically all different nations entirely. They have vastly different cultures. Some of them are not even human – you know one of them is composed of half-giants, for example. But they all share the same sort of nomadic lifestyle out here, for example. They all worship the stars and the sky. And they all joined together for leadership of the Seven Clans. It is a HIGHLY volatile system. The Seven Clans are constantly squabbling with each other on every level of politics, martial, magical, all trying to gain the seat of the Great Star. When someone finally DOES earn that seat, however, it all comes to a dramatic pause. There’s still politicking, there’s still intrigue, all of that sort of stuff, but for the most part, respect for the Great Star themselves carries everybody through, and the Great Star can unite them and lead them as none other can.

The DM explains further that the position is hereditary but the heir is fair game, so it almost never gets passed on. Giles attempts to confirm a few times that the target is the hair.

Cruroar: Don’t worry, guys. I’ve hired this expert tracker. Fudd, come on forward.
DM: ‘My name is SANWARD, god damn it!’
Cruroar: ‘We’we hunting hawes.’

Sanward kills them all out of vengeance, because it’s been so long he’s had time for the ultimate training montage.

Brunt: I don’t remember making him an enemy.
DM: You kept calling him Sandwich!
Normilan: That was me…
DM: He BRISTLED, remember!

On they head. Tasha continues to create food for them, sparing them the hassle of dealing with rations.

Normilan: This food is almost as bland as Marros’s.
DM: Marros’s food had tons of taste. All bad.
Normilan: Salt. Fur.

Everyone misses Cheltonbourne. The clouds above them grow ominous, and the group prepares themselves for a hurricane. All they have to endure, however, is lightning crackling through the clouds and a pouring rainstorm, all poured on with gallons of flavor text.

Tasha: Is there high ground, like a mound?
DM: I can’t emphasize how flat these plains are…
Tasha: I suggest we make camp. Let’s dig a trench—
Brunt: Dig a trench?!
Tasha: A run-off trench. Obviously it’s about to start raining on us, and raining heavily…
Normilan: Yeah, the DM and I know about wet tents.
Normilan and the DM: (laughter)
DM: (increasingly bitter laughter, through clenched teeth) Everybody roll a saving throw to get your hair caught in the tent.
Normilan: And that’s when the DM learned he was not only able of cursing, but cursing well. Cleanest mouth of all of us. DM, why don’t you cuss?
DM: Fuck you.

More rain-related flavor text, along with 0 points of damage being inflicted. The DM describes this in religious terms, relating it to why the Seven Clans worship the sky. The group huddles in the cart, wrapping tents around themselves apparently.

DM: It’s actually pretty cozy in here.
Brunt: Gau will show back up eventually.
Normilan: ‘Ugh, the garlic sausage is catching up with me, guys…’
Tasha: All of a sudden, we hear Bimmy and Jimmy and Quirion. ‘They’re attacking!’

Glimmer is outside enjoying the rain, apparently, and the group is oddly sympathetic to their draconic hanger-on.

Cruroar: It’s a pity he didn’t have a parent to tell him the horrible truth. We come outside with the storm over, there’s just a rust dragon. Died with a smile on his face. Oh shit, someone didn’t roll a Knowledge check…

Cruroar wonders if he has a magic bedroll; Normilan tries to sleep in his haversack. The DM openly states he’s set a cinematic scene for roleplaying should they care to do it, subtlety having failed.

Tasha: ‘All right, so we go in through the front door, kill all the guards, murder everybody in sight—‘
DM: The night passes.

Cruroar suggests and the DM encourages them to prepare for their infiltration, picking false names and practicing backgrounds. They promptly imprison Glimmer again so they can pose as a circus.

Brunt: Prole Eagle Outfitters. Fucking Jay Cruroar, that’s fucking brilliant, that’s fucking awesome. Jay Cruroar.

The transcriber finally gets it, even as Cruroar envisions quitting the nobility.

Cruroar: The prince is over there waiting, the new king is waiting for us to bring it, but we just decided, ‘man, we’re making hundreds of thousands of gold a year. Why are we kidnapping this…?’
Brunt: (incredulous) We abandoned the main questline to become merchants.
Normilan: ‘Man, this is the life.’

Cruroar threatens the group with Preston Garvey, and then they actually start talking plans. They envision two people staying with the wagon while others work the crowd. Brunt tries to roleplay.

Brunt: “I can stay with Graves and Calbash at the wagons…” That’s their names! Their actual names!
DM: Bimmy Graves and Jimmy Calbash.
Cruroar: “I’ll be doing what I can to spread the world about our caravan—“
DM: (laughing) He’s so mad!
Normilan: He looks so sour!
Brunt: It’s partly Starburst, it’s partly trying to roleplay and being mocked for it.

Their biggest concern seems to be how much freedom of movement the group will have. Tasha finally remembers they’re kidnapping and not killing, but only out of character. Cruroar plans a laborious five-day plan, which interestingly involves kidnapping the heir on the fourth day and not actually running till the fifth. He is actually taking all this very seriously, insisting faithfulness to their disguises. A lightswitch rave erupts…? The DM wanders back from a phone call.

DM: You guys only roleplay when I’m out of the room. I need to leave any time I want you guy to do anything in-character.
Normilan: Because you’ll JUDGE us.
Tasha: Especially when I just ask for clarification on the parameter of our mission.
Normilan: ‘Um, are we going to kidnap her or kill her?’
Brunt: Asked in good faith…
DM: As good faith as Tasha can ask.
Brunt: There’s no way it doesn’t sound sinister…

Tasha stumbles on the idea of faking the heir’s death, only for the others to point out this kind of misses the point. The DM urges them to mind their spelllist.

Giles: What’s everyone’s names?
Cruroar: We’ll go over the made-up names later on.
DM: Biff Fistly. Marros. Prince Aundon.
Cruroar: I was gonna as Maldrake, just go in. This is another dimension.
DM: (ridiculous accent) ‘Evil dragon? You’re named ‘evil dragon’? What kind of a name is that?! Evil – are you an evil dragonfire adept? Is that what you are? Can you breathe fire? Can you breath lightning?’
Normilan: They’re all Cockney assholes.
DM: …best damn accent I’ll ever do. What the fuck was that, self? I wasted it! I fucking wasted it!

The DM dissolves into whimpering. Knowledge cautions them not to do anything religiously-contrary things, though they needn’t pretend to be devout followers of their gods, and the DM then bludgeons Tasha over the head with how maybe she shouldn’t Persist Visage of the Deity.

Normilan: Normilan says, “I’m sure it’ll be fine!”
DM: If Normilan says it, it must be right. He’s told you everything else he knows so far.

Normilan lapses briefly into RP, indicating he has much to discuss with the others; the DM questions if they will let the openly-suicidal mage wait that long. Tasha threaten to Persist a weather-prediction spell, still traumatized by the hurricane.

Brunt: Would an openly-suicidal mage take the trouble of having a mage’s tower built?
DM: Good place to hang himself from.
Normilan: ‘Books. Waste of time. Only delaying the inevitable: failure.’

They set off into the plains, and after a short time Glimmer reports to them that horsemen approach their position! He elects to make himself scarce for this whole thing.

DM: He wings his way back to the east. You wonder if you’ll ever see the dragon again.
Normilan: Probably not.
DM: 30 arrows strike him and he falls.
Normilan: Oh well. Easy come, easy go. Hey, none of us died.
Cruroar: Don’t worry, by the time we get to the next place, there’ll be another caravan, with another circus, with another dragon to save.
Normilan: (angrily addressing the DM) You are a hack writer.
DM: I’m sorry! I didn’t have time to work on the adventure this month!
Tasha: ‘This one has a RED baby dragon.’ I think we’ll leave this one alone.

The DM inquires as to what they would have done if the dragon had been evil; they woulda left its ass there. A gem dragon leaves them questioning; they portray all gem dragons as coming from the Neutral Planet. They quickly work to get their names and stories straight, half of them naming themselves after other characters. The DM challenges them to make a Writing or Calligraphy check.

Normilan: Nope.
DM: Welp, I guess you’re not able to add fancy flourishes to your letters and you’ll have to proceed sans serif.
Eilnys: I’m going upstairs.
Normilan: Boy, I hate you so much. Tasha, what’s your new name?
Tasha: Nora Sunburster.
DM: That’s her porn name.

The DM complains that Normilan keeps writing ‘Urm-Vessing’ as “Urmvessing’, because he is a man who hews to his damn worldbuilding and expects everyone else to do the same down to the letter. Quirion gets renamed ‘Stayinthetent.’

DM: “With two t’s, please. And an umlaut. Oh, I accidentally became ‘Stayinthetaint.’”

The horsemen at last approach, racing towards the wagons swift and sure.

Brunt: ‘Riders of the Mark!’
DM: Look, the fewer references you make to that, the less painful this will be for me.
Brunt: Okay. I didn’t mean to insinuate…
DM: I can’t help it that it has that flavor, it just does.
Brunt: I just look for the opportunity to spew those quotes, I wasn’t actually going there with that. (a pause) ‘Ridersofthemark!’
DM: It seems like they’re riding slow, but really that’s just the illusion of how great these plains are, and how vast and flat they are.
Cruaor: I just imagine – we see them –
Brunt: (Chariots of Fire theme)
Tasha: I picture Monty Python with Lancelot.
Cruroar: Why are they riding in slow motion?

The riders burst upon them as the PCs challenge them to a game of chicken. The horses split and encircle the wagons, a dozen warriors around them. The PCs decide they can take them! Initiative!

DM: The leader slowly dismounts. He steps over to you. Metal begins to coalesce around him.
Brunt: What?
Tasha: He’s summoning his armor to himself.
Cruroar: He’s fucking Iron-Manning it up in here!
Brunt: Is it flying from off the plains or is it materializing?
DM: It’s materializing, rainbow light flashing until moments later, the fully plate-armored warrior of the plains stands before you.
Tasha: Bluff check? (clapping stupidly)
DM: He holds out one hand, and into it bursts a weapon, long and wickedly-curved, the size of a two-handed sword yet single-bladed. As it appears, he slowly brings it over his back, letting it rest in two hooks on the back of his armor that are solely for the purpose.
Brunt: ‘Twilight Sparkle, is that you?!’ (noticing the DM’s expression) Oh. I’m getting one of THOSE looks. Is it Fluttershy? I didn’t mean to mistake you…
DM: Where did THIS come from?!
Cruroar: “Truly impressive armor. Compliments to the armorsmith and the mage that imbued it.”
DM: “I’m sure they’ll be grateful. You have come under the sway of Talenda. Here you shall stand down, surrender your goods, and be taken in chains to be put into the slave pits.”
Normilan: (rolling Knowledge(nobility)) Oooh, 37. …nope, 27.
DM: Nope, this name does not ring any bells amongst you. Would anybody care to roll a Sense Motive?
Cruroar: Yeah. 21.
Tasha: 23 on Quirion.
DM: You suspect, Eilnys and Cruroar, that this is a bluff. He’s trying to see if you, you know, agree. Clearly you know that merchants have come in here before in the past, and have not been shaken down and sold into slavery. Most likely this is just a play.
Cruroar: “Had me going there. Much as I would like a nice tour through the slave pits, I have goods to trade.”
DM: He steps forward, looking down at you for he is a tall man.
Normilan: Very tall, he’s on a wagon.
DM: I thought you got off!
Cruroar: I was still sitting!
DM: That’s rude of you!
Cruroar: I didn’t have a chance to get off!

The group cheerfully squabbles over this for a bit, and the man is now not looking down at Cruroar.

DM: Emphasizing in every motion he makes that he is two times your mass and probably three times your strength. His nostrils quiver with the force of his indignant exhalation. I want you to give me a Will save as he tries to Intimidate you.
Brunt: Brunt’s all, Balrog in a Steet Fighter movie. His buttons bursting on his coat. ‘Oh THIS bastard things he’s strong, huh?!’
Cruroar: A modified 23.
DM: Very nice. For a brief moment you’re inclined to quail, but your resolve hardens within you. The magical powers that are your legacy surge beneath your skin, and you remember that no matter how big and strong he is, you can put up a fight.
Cruroar: Can I return the level of Intimidate? Intimidate is like my highest fucking roll, so a 29.
DM: That’s super-nice.
Cruroar: “I did not survive this long… See men as great as you, demons and monsters, I’ve traded in wars. I will live to see another day.”
DM: He blinks at you, then bursts into laughter. Claps your shoulder, reaching up to strike it. You’re jarred almost off the horse by his casual use of strength. “Ha ha ha ha! Welcome, traders! You’ve come at an auspicious time!”
Cruroar: “Good! That means good sales, I hope?”
DM: “Tell me, is it luck or knowledge that brought you here?”
Cruroar: “A little of both! I heard many good things going on, just not quite what!”
DM: “Luck it is, then!”

The two banter for a bit, the horseman cheerfully disparaging their wagons and Normilan adopting a ridiculous accent. The Clansman proudly proclaims they are celebrating WAR this night, as they form up again!

Cruroar: I would have loved him to say, ‘Tonight we celebrate the FALL OF THE EAST!’ How long were we gone?! We leave, they crush the capital behind us!
Tasha: We shouldn’t have saved the dragon.
DM: You get over there, you see the prince naked except for a loincloth, being whipped.
Normilan: Huh.
Tasha: ‘Damn it, Brunt! All because you wanted to go see the circus.’
DM: It was a supernatural circus, an hour inside, a month outside. The Circus of Time and Space.

The horsemen tell them they will be the honored guests of Niron, and they will escort the caravan to the Moot. The DM forces Cruroar to roll a Bluff check not to roll his eyeballs. Niron, as Tasha finds out, is this clan. They ride, chatting with the horseman about their alleged trade opportunities and name-brand recognition. The group bursts into song, and the PCs are whipped. In the distance they can see smoke, then signs of activity on the horizon, and they draw closer over time to spy the countless hordes of the Clans in a frenzy of activity. The sun reaches the horizon just as they reach the gathering.

DM: “Come! Honored guests of Niron! Soon the Moot will begin, once the last light of days have failed.”
Brunt: That’s an odd…
Normilan: Turn of phrase.
Cruroar: Niron’s probably like the smallest, smallest clan.
Normilan: They are overcompensating.
DM: You have stepped into a foreign world. Nothing here is anything familiar to you. Even the tents you are looking at are stitched together from the hides of beasts you do not recognize. Perhaps some of them had been in that circus before they were tanned. Perhaps some of them don’t even exist any more, hunted into extinction by these Clans, their tents passed down over time. Even the fires seem to burn strangely, since they are not wood but great bundles of grass and reed, put together and cunningly worked with some sort of pitch or tar so that they burn for long period of time. The people are all the stranger, a motley assortment, strange barbarians. Many of them have curious facial markings, tattoos or warpaint. You see a hint of fang here and there. Women and men travel about entirely together. There appears to be no division among the gender, even among the races you see – for there are mainly humans here, but many others as well. Tall half-giants lumber through the encampment, careful not to bump themselves on any of the ropes or ties that keep these many tents upright. Here and there, half-orcs lurk around with sneering, surly expressions, though some catch notice of the burly laborer in the back and give him a nod of camaraderie. (noticing Tasha standing) Tasha bails out.

They head off to one side of the encampment to a horsey-er area, and the Clan bids them hitch their horses for care. They also hear that due to a full Moot, there’ll be no sales tonight. Someone makes Brunt squeak like a leaky tire, completely throwing the DM off his game. Cruroar fishes for more information and gets his nobility sneered at. The group cracks up at all of this, even as the DM soldiers on with volume. As is usual, a DM in this group is fighting a losing battle against goofassery around the table.

DM: He stalks toward the center of the camp, motioning you all to follow.
Brunt: How does he stalk?
Tasha: He says, ‘Walk this way!’ (ridiculous gesture)
Brunt: Does he goosestep?
DM: He has an easy rolling gait.
Brunt: Like a horseman’s gait, I assume.
DM: Yes.

The DM impresses on Brunt that their escort is a strong warrior, and his weapon is the cultural equivalent of a no-daichi – a horse-killer and armor-crusher. He tosses them roasted meat as a show of hospitality, leading to a strange discussion of how good the food is. Racism is redacted, but it ends up with the group offending the Thousand Island culture of the clans and being pilloried.

Giles: And this was called the War of the Dressings.
Brunt: The Seven Condiments War.
Cruroar: The Seven Condiments Under 1000 Islands.
Normilan: (to the DM) You are a hack writer!
DM: Oh, they’re not going to like my adventure to the Land of the Five Beans, are they.

Somehow it gets WEIRDER.

DM: “Dragon” is another word for “Toblerone”.
Cruroar: Oh no – the moment – the DM – all of us walk out and he goes up and is like, ‘You’re eating – DRAGON MEAT!’ You see the corpse of Glimmer – done! Done!
Tasha: ‘We feast tonight! My men caught a brass dragon!’
Brunt: After the eating of the skewer, we tell him to get on with the ceremony.
DM: It tastes like despair and brief moments of hope. Normilan knows this taste well.
Normiln: Yeah.
DM: Every time he sucks his thumb.

Normilan and Cruroar threaten to stalk the DM in his sleep; the DM encourages the group to get all the goofing off out of their systems now.

Normilan: Nope. It’s going to be a wild ride, you hack.
Brunt: Jeez!
Normilan: I was kidding!

Tasha attempts to hand out free samples, getting anger from their guide, who informs them flatly that they will be watching the ceremony and basking in the radiances of the Clans. The land is almost completely dark with sunset. Brunt unhelpfully contributes Star Wars music, but amazingly the DM is so deep in his flavor text he somehow misses this entirely. Their escort moves through the rest of Clan Niron to an old man, with the DM pointing out that the Clans are obviously distinct on the surface.

Tasha: Did we even get his name?
Normilan: Nope.
Brunt: He did not offer it.
DM: As the old man regards on the horsemen, he drops to one knee. “Star of the Clan, we have guests.” The old man motions, and even now those of you with martial skill or simply good experience with combat can see that despite his age, this is a man who is still fluid in his movement and strong in his bearings.
Brunt: He is one Sanches Villanovos Ramirez.
Tasha: The most interesting man in the world.
DM: And then, his piercing eyes look up at the rest of you. Despite being motioned to rise, your guide has not done so yet. “They are merchants, Star of the Clan.” “Merchants. How fortune for us that we were the ones to find you. I trust you repay hospitality with first shot at your wares.”
Cruroar: “Of course. Would not have it any other way.”
DM: “Grim has named you guests of the Clan. So be it. I am Shinosair, the Old Man – and yes, I am certain it is strange for you to hear that title worn with pride, but amongst my people it is. What do you bring to sell us, oh merchants of the East?”
Cruroar: “Spices. Blades. An odd combination but truly usable in almost any occasion.”
DM: “Certainly both will be used soon enough. Well then, the Procession will begin momentarily. At the signal.”

The DM clarify his title, position, and so forth. Eilnys wanders off, and this conversation gets so weird while she’s away that the group actually begs to get on with the story. Somehow Brunt ends up rolling a new character, leaving him and the DM arguing about whether or not he truly is perpetually close to death. Cruroar also rolls a new character, coming up with one that has an Int of 4. The DM proposes incredibly un-PC benefits for these low stats, and hopelessly sucked in, starts rolling his own character.

DM: Having greeted you and spoken to you, the old man turns his attention back to the great open circle in the midst of all seven Clans. For those of you clever enough to look around, you can see amongst all the great tents there are a few huge ones, pavilion tents. The largest of them all sits some distance away. Doubtless this is the tent of a very important person, and knowing what you know about the Seven Clans it probably is unlikely that anyone is more important than the Great Star or that the Great Star would allow anyone to have a larger tent than him or herself. This then may very well be your destination.
Cruroar: I am NOT looking forward to this mission any more, This just got kick-in-the-ass harder.
DM: It sounds like the rain from the other night, a whisper of voices, a constant susurrus filling the air, but none speak too loud. And indeed, as time passes, it seems to grow quieter and quieter, with great expectation.
Normilan: Hey, who wants to play the penis game?
Brunt: The sun has died.
DM: At last—
Brunt: The sun has died!
DM: The sun is no more.
Normilan: It has been—
Normilan and Brunt: Vanquished.
DM: Blackness takes over the sky, and at that precise moment a great noise rings out. Every torch and every fire dies out, and you are in darkness. Now you understand why the Seven Clans use stars as gods, for above you stretches countless distance into the heavens, lights beyond measure, a great streak of gold splitting the sky. A galaxy, we’d call it; to you it is just a magnificent display. Somehow it seems brighter and clearer out here than it ever has in the nights you spent in Spindlethrift looking upwards.
Tasha: (looking at the ceiling light, then to the DM) Why’d you turn off that light?
Cruroar: Effect…
Brunt: No reason!
Tasha: I’m just curious…
DM: Why the fuck not, Tasha, why the fuck not…
Cruroar: I take a moment to absorb.
DM: A low chanting fills the air.
Tasha: Durazh ardul, durazh ardul—
DN: Sonorous and mystic as light fills the center of the gathering once more. Low lights race around the outside and fill the center. Normilan can tell you this is the Dancing Lights spell cast many times over, highlighting those who step into the middle. You look among them, their strange outlook and garb. Robes dominate here. Many of them carry swords. Some of them look almost savage in their ferocity. And yet throughout them, runes glow on their armor and skin. Their blades shine with curious light. They march into the center, form a circle within the circle, then all as one lift their hands to the heavens. The old man, in a very quiet tone, speaks for your benefit. “Surias.”
Brunt: That’s someone’s name? Or is he telling us that it’s serious…
DM: “Surias.”
Brunt: …does he offer nothing else?
DM: That’s what he said. As one, the Clan in the center turns. Those who have weapons draw them, bring them down, then strike with them in a perfectly synchronized display, cutting furrows in the ground. Those who do not have them raise their hands. Light erupts around their outstretched hands and then they too strike at the ground, scattering sparks through the trampled grass. The lights around them retreat to the outskirts of the circle, and in the shadows within this clan returns to its spot. For a moment there is naught but silence, broken only by faint whispers of voices. The silence breaks abruptly with the chime of bells. From the next position, the clan of half-giants steps forwards. Clutched in their hands are poles, from which racks of bells hang. With each regimented step, they chime out, filling the air with noise. Behind them two more half-giants proceed, one carrying a great brass gong, the other striking it in time with every step. They keep coming in great numbers, four poles of bells and one gong, marching around the outside circle. As they do, the half-giants break their step only to lunge at each of you, as they’ve done with several of the other clan members. This seems fully expected, and no one bears any evidence that they’re under any sense of danger or threat. This is all posturing.
Tasha: Do WE know this?
DM: They do not start with your clan. In fact these are the ones that have come from nearly the opposite side. Once they have made the full circle, this long line stops. Two of the gong-wielders step into the center of the smaller circle they have formed, shut their eyes. The two who wield the mallets do the same. Abruptly they are much larger than before, towering over their comrades. The gongs, too, have grown in size, as have the strikers, and the next crashing note seems to shake your bones as it rolls out. The dancing lights retreat, and this clan too begins to march off. The old man again speaks for your benefit. “Girel.”

Realizing these are clan names, the players begin erasing and adjusting notes – having all agreed without a single word between them that they need this list.

DM: The next clan, the ones who step out are not human, nor orc nor dwarf. A wolf steps out, followed by a bear.
Giles: A wolfman and a bearman?
DM: No, a wolf and a bear.
Giles: Okay. I’m sorry, Final Fantasy XIV actually has a wolfman.
DM: I’m aware.
Normilan: That’s where he got the idea from.
Brunt: You hack.

Cruroar lusts to roll Knowledge, but doesn’t have (nature). Eilnys, though, believe they are shifted druids. Also joining them are people in robes who glitter like the stars, probably from glass or sequins.

DM: As they step out, the voices of the humans and humanoids among them lift into a song, all vowels and reverent worship. The animals join in, the cry of wolves adding an undertone to this chorus, the growls of bears punctuating the chorus. They proceed around, almost as if they are summoning something greater than themselves. But not foul – in fact, Tasha of all people might be the most comfortable with this ceremony, carrying as it does a feeling of comfort, of reverence, not for your own god but nonetheless a greater power. The old man speaks. “Cenopas.”

Tasha goes for Knowledge(religion) to learn a little bit about this; her knowledge tells her that each of the Clans is named after a different star, which is a god in their pantheon. The Great Star is the sun, as it happens, and the Great Star the leader is a chosen incarnation of that god.

Tasha: So having the name ‘Sunburster’ is a bad idea…

Cenopas steps out, and the next clan enters at a martial clip, quite the contrast from other clans up to now.

DM: Warriors step out, quickly assuming positions around the ring, falling into formations more advanced than anything you’ve seen from this people. They march across, weaving through each other with great efficacy, demonstrating a training and discipline that is equal to even the great armies of Urm-Vessing. In the midst of this, out of nowhere, a great eruption bursts out of the center. A huge chimera, forming out of a fissure in the ground. Again, no one around you reacts to this as anything out of the ordinary. The warriors abruptly burst into motion, descending upon it with, again, great coordination and great ferocity – striking as one unit rather than a disparate group of ragtag barbarians as you might expect them to. The chimera is shredded beneath their onslaught almost instantly, and the pieces cut from it turn into birds which flutter away, before the wizards hidden amongst the outskirts of the circle drop their illusions and sweep a bow inwards. The warriors salute them and the clan marches off, even as the old man identifies them. “Raltai.” The dancing lights do not return to the center. The clan that moves in does so purely under the cover of darkness, so you hear them, catch faint glimpses of them as their lighter shadows brush the darker ones. Silence. And then abruptly, a torrent of energy crackles into the air. Bolts of eldritch energy leash forth from upraised hands. Long tongues of lightning and cones of fire shot forth from the throats of upturned heads. You recognize the force more than anything – you’ve seen that come out of Cruroar’s hands often enough. “Nedeb,” the old man says, as the lights fade.
Brunt: Now I see why they didn’t want you peddling spice in the middle of all this.
DM: And then the old man himself is in motion, stepping out as the people beside you part, and outwards thud the hoofbeats of horses, rushing so close behind that you can feel the whip of horsehair against your cheeks and shoulders as the mounts barrel past.
Cruroar: That’s the great horse clan, okay.
DM: Whereas the Raltai had shown their promise in formations on the ground, the Niron show theirs on horseback. However, these two carry a certain air of reverence to it. Every one appears to be devoted – not to what they’re doing, but as a supplication. As if their acts are being placed in the hands of higher power. Acts of worship. It’s a strong, powerful sense that you get… again, the feeling that something greater is here. You know this clan, you’ve already been introduced to them. And soon enough, the display is over. The horsemen come thundering back.
Normilan: Trampling you all.
DM: The old man leaps off his, lands lightly beside you as his horse, riderless, saddleless, thunders along with the rest of the group, back to be cared for by the lesser of this clan. He turns deliberately, looks back at the circle, and then turns his back. As one the rest of the clan amongst him does, and you notice the others of the clans that have already gone do so as well.
Eilnys: “Should we do the same, Elder?”
DM: “Watch if you will. You do not share their disgust.”
Normilan: Oh they hate this clan.
DM: Perhaps it is understandable why they hate the next clan, for what steps out onto the field appears to be less of a man and more of a great figure of bone. The illusion, not the literal magic illusion but the perception of some figure you’d be more likely to meet on the battlefields to the east persists until the dancing lights grow closer, at which point you can see the man who has stepped into the center, despite the backs turned to him, is dressed in armor made entirely of bone. Human bone, undoubtedly.
Tasha: I was afraid it was gonna be the undead. He was gonna see us and be all, ‘I KNOW YOU!’
DM: Stepping besides him onto the field are a mixture of black-clad warriors and shambling corpses.
Brunt: Morden’thal’s here?
Giles: Is there any living among the clan?
DM: Yes, you can see black-clad warriors who appear to be living shambling in, but there is no coordination to this display. It is in fact almost a deliberate front to the idea of order, as the undead lumber around, no harmony, no lines, no ranks. In the center of them all the bone-clad man draws his sword, a mighty two-handed weapon, turns it, and plunges it into the earth. He folds his hands on the pommel and watches as the display unfolds around you. No one dignifies this with a look but you all, and after a short period the clan retreats to its proper place. As they exit, the clans turn as one to face the center again. In the center, where there had been no one before, now stands a man of perhaps fifty, fifty-five years. There’s no pretense about him, he’s not dressed in fancy armor. Simple black robes. Turns and sweeps everyone with a hand. As he sweeps his hand across, those he sweeps it past fall to their knees, each of them offering a different salute. As the horsemen around you fall to their knees, you recognize the salute your comrade gave his elder. And soon every member of the Clans is kneeling before this one.
Eilnys: I won’t kneel, but I’ll give a gesture of respect.
DM: “Let! The Moot! BEGIN!” A great cheer deafens you all briefly as they all leap to their feet, and just like that the great ceremony has ended.

Drinks and food appear as the formality dissolves, and they hear fighting and sparring off to one side. Tasha questions the last clan, who Shinosair dubs Sentaris the disgraced. He grants his guests run of the Moot. They run. The players let off the steam that had built during that whole ceremony, which they had sat through with SHOCKING respect. Eilnys gives Shinosair a gift, a fine bracelet. With a puzzled expression, Shinosair accepts it.

DM: “Your thanks should not be for me. It is the will of the Great Star himself that all visitors, especially merchants, be welcome to this moot tonight. But I take your offer with gratitude.

Shinosair cheerfully plans to go bet on himself in the battles, and Tasha hurries to get in on this action. Cruroar heads that way too out of curiosity, wondering why Brunt isn’t coming.

Brunt: “I am just a worker. The thought of battle frightens me.”
Tasha: Till I dungeoncrash you into your horse!

They split up! Tasha and Cruroar urge Giles to go dice and roll Gather Information checks. The DM calls for Charisma checks, and then they head off. Normilan goes to watch the wizard duels, which are primarily conducted with illusions and are challenges of creativity.

Normilan: ‘BORING—‘ no, I’m kidding, I’m kidding.
Tasha: Normilan gets in there. ‘Fireball.’
Brunt: Like watching the Lantern Corps go at it.

Brunt ends up sticking by Cruroar after all, and Giles does indeed wander over to the gambling, only to be addressed by no less than the Great Star himself?!

Brunt: Oh god. Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up…
Normilan: ‘Hi, where’s your daughter?’

The group gets horrible for a while.

Giles: “Yes, did I need to know something?”
DM: “Know something? Quite the contrary, but I thought you’d be curious about our people and our culture, having come so far and seen so much. Perhaps you’d care for a tour?”
Giles: “Things are a whole lot different from the lands we’re from. I guess one thing I’m not super familiar with is the war that’s going on?”
DM: “What of it?”
Giles: “I completely forgot what the war is…”

Plunder and conquest, the Great Star says in so many words, out of a general love of battle. He offers to show Giles the riches of the kingdom, so to speak, and drags the rogue off on the personal tour, which apparently involves bursting into ‘See My Vest’?

DM: And on that utterly non-suspicious and non-ominous note—
Normilan: Nope – no, fucking doubt seed’s been planted!

That is the end of the game for tonight, and now the transcriber dies.