Somewhere, a wrinkled hand dips a Pegasus-feathered quill into a small glass vial.
Quickly and without pause, the old one begins to pen the details of the day. He writes with brevity. He laughs occasionally. He furrows his brow when fate has interceded and played her hand. He knows he should not express his own concerns, impose his own will upon the events that will soon transpire and light up the world known as Faerûn. But he cannot suppress the desire. He is as old as time itself, and yet, for some unspecified whim, he has taken an avid interest into the peninsula of Chult, where something developed a use for magic the gods did not intend. Nevertheless, the volumes of books stacked around him represent the multitude of adventurers who flocked to the jungles of that old and ancient world so few had ever seen.
Gold ink races across the pages of the book now beneath his nose. He knows he must hurry. He knows he cannot see the far future, only the imminent glimmer, as the future comes sharply into focus, and molds quickly into the present. The old one must know.
He can still send aid, if only he knew… the destiny of the Death Knight.
It never ceases to amaze you, Madalyn Oana Maddison, how children’s laughter can right a topsy-turvy day. Squeals of delight from a dozen children—all of whom you either know by name, face, or that little green dragonborn who can never seem to keep his finger out of his nostril—spill onto the grassy hill, cheerfully surrounding you, shouting, “O-Nana! O-Nana! We miss you! We have been waiting for you all morning. Please read to us! Please, oh, please!”
They swarm you, hoping to find comfortable spots right at your feet.
Daumu (duh-OOH-moo) as is usual will be last to arrive. The young firbolg is hard pressed to keep up with his light-footed friends. Thirty feet away, he’s at the bottom of the hill, catching his breath. He carries a shaped wooden club strapped to his back. He’s told you its name. Splatterbranch. He waves to you.
Polenth (PO-lent-uh), you know, the oldest and bravest and loudest of the bunch, commands her motley crew of orphans with a fiery spirit, red hair and freckles to match. “Take your places, everyone. Be nice about it. No shoving—” the ten-year-old half-elf starts.
But the shoving is already underway.
It’s a contest as to who among the Filthy Dozen can snatch the prized grass-floor throne, closest to you, front and center, for when the story begins.
You bring these bright eyes more than friendship, you know. You lift them up, up and away into a world of fantasy and magic, far from this savage, unpredictable world they have come to know; here, outside the western city wall, beyond the Merchant’s Ward, on a stretch of grass inches from the bay, where no one ever pays them any mind—except for the undead. Zombies and skeletons sometimes crawl out of the jungle looking for prey, which is why perhaps you have decided to stick around.
There’s more to life than undead, though, if these children are to become who they were meant to be. Maybe still, you have other far more noble, perhaps less complicated, reasons as to why you keep a close watch over them. Those reasons, if any, you have yet to voice. No matter. Laughter is one of the greatest sources of magic. It requires no material component, no incantation or gesture to bring the spell’s effect into being. And when cast, can prop even the darkest heart right up and over the clouds.
Baaba (BAH-boo), it seems, has decided that in order for him to secure the grassy throne, the six-year-old Chultan must resort to violence. He most of all needs the most redirection. He is much too angry for one so small.
He pulls his arm back, readying a punch for Zaduni (zuh-DO-knee). The precious little halfling has slipped around everyone. So agile and small is she. She’s preparing to take the grassy throne, blissfully unaware of the four knuckles racing toward the right side of her face.
** Correction. The phrase outside the eastern city wall should have read "outside the western city wall". I fixed it. ;) **
The Sixth day of Marpenoth in Port Nyanzaru is like any another day in Port Nyanzaru. You could blink twice, Poppy, and nothing would change. Why anyone would spend their last coin to board passage on a ship to cross the sea for a chance at fame and glory is beyond you. And yet, here you are, immersed in one of your favorite titles, passing the time, waiting for something to change. Chult, you have discovered, is slow to change. Slower than even the drow at deciding whether or not they should abandon the Underdark for something a little less repetitive. Much like the Emerald Springs, the tavern you are visiting today in the Red Bazaar. You see the same people, and hear the same mindless chatter. It’s the same—always, and forever, the same.
A twist of salty sea air spins through the street and around the front door, stirring everything in its path. Nyanzaru is anything but dull, you know, as a parade of dinosaurs led by a handler passes by. You’ve seen Sshavan Gluh around town before. He hires little children to run errands for him. He can be cruel, especially to the fingerlings, young thieves that dangle wires over passersby, and the urchins. Nyanzaru’s forgotten.
Yes, even here, far from the Sword Coast, there isn’t that much luck to go around. It’s strained between the Death Curse and those family members who have put the fate of their love ones in the hands of any healer whose god might still answer a call for divine magic.
Beside you, a shadow stretches out on the floor. It’s attached to a pair of well-worn military boots.
“What are you reading,” a voice asks, six feet above them.
The words belong to a human male in a tabard. The garment is embroidered with a fist wreathed in flame, the symbol centered over his chest. His black hair is slicked back flat with paste, pulled into a tail just above the shoulder line. He is otherwise clean-shaven, and wears no jewelry, not even a plain silver band.
He dips his head in greeting. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Omaha. I’m a lieutenant with the Flaming Fist.” He extends a hand in greeting.
Him, though, you have never seen. He has an aura of intrigue about him. He’s entirely too comfortable this far from Baldur’s Gate. You’re familiar with the expeditionary forces of the Flaming Fist. A number of them are stationed at Fort Beluarian, about a hard day’s ride northeast of the city. It’s a reputable outpost. The soldiers there keep the undead from spilling into the city, or into the bay.
You have heard disconcerting news, though, about companies of Fist soldiers stomping through the jungle, hacking down branches, clearing out trees, delving ruins. You’ve heard of Fort Vengeance. You’ve seen soldiers return from there, afflicted with a mysterious malady. The healing tents in the city are filled with them.
Omaha smiles. He leans to one side, intending to catch a glimpse of the title of the book you are reading. “Last time I saw someone reading a book, he decided he’d better raise his holy symbol to turn a herd of zombies. The elf survived, I might add. He smartly holstered his long sword, and walked right out of the jungle, all smug and no smile,” he adds with a light bit of humor. “Elves. They just don’t know how to have fun.”
Not too far from you, Poppy, over your left shoulder, a group of adventurers you have never met, but whose futures will soon become intertwined with yours sit around a wooden table, wondering why they even bothered to visit Chult.
Boredom has united Herman and Brit Hahnu’heim (there might be others, but it’s likely they’re gathered around another table) in the Emerald Springs tavern (or haven’t arrived yet).
A cocoa-skinned human female, her hair gathered into a maxuacti—a waterfall bun festooned with small hermit crab shells—slides a serving tray across your table. The tray is topped with ales across the amber hue.
Yes, she is beautiful, stunning. And yes, you easily surmise from her toned, athletic frame, that no man could easily win her affections. Sh’varra is no prize to be won. She must be fought for, consistently, without fault.
Her every move is captured by every hungry male within the vicinity.
“Drinks,” Sh’varra says. Her voice is strong, her poise confident. The Chultan waitress looks around your table, addressing you without a single word, and then says, “Drinks are on the house, travelers. Courtesy of that gentleman there.” She points to a Flaming Fist soldier. He’s talking to a woman with a book in her hand.
The dwarf has been standing there on the street for the better part of a minute before he smiles, and says, “Hello, wee lad. I beggin’ the pardon. I be hopin’ you don’t mind me sayin’ that ye have a look about ye. A look I’ve been havin’ meself the passed few months here on Chult. I want to go home.”
He opens his backpack and pulls out a waterskin adorned with native runes painted in bright colors. They glisten in the sunlight
“Thirsty?” he asks, offering you, Ferriman, refreshment.
“The water is clean, lad. Mountain’s honor,” he says, rapping a closed fist over the chain-mail shirt he’s wearing. “This here waterskin was a gift from a shaman, lizardfolk. Nice fellow. Damn shame he was swallowed up by that kamadan. A big cat with snakes growin’ out of its shoulders.” He shivers. “Nasty creature. Not unlike a displacer beast, just the jungle variety.” He lowers his head in shame as if revisiting a painful memory. “He trusted me to keep an eye out for him. I did me best. We were separated. I stood me ground. He was torn apart before I could surround him with sanctuary.”
The dwarf clears his throat. He shakes his head. The terrible moment passes. He returns to the present and smiles warmly once more. “Me name’s Thordrin, lad. Thordrin Rockseeker.”
I fudged up >.< This is what I get for never familiarizing myself with play by post games ^^;
"Baaba!" Madalyn shouts to get his attention, showing furious red eyes thanks to the thaumaturgy cantrip. "If you injure anyone, then I'll have to have you go home. You don't want that, do you?" Madalyn says in a slowly more soothing tone, her eyes slowly going back to their usual grey coloring. "Although that does remind me, I've been meaning to talk to the guards about assessing your strengths. After all, your anger reminds me of my father back home who would often go into huge fits of rage, but only if someone hurt me physically or emotionally. Other than that, they were very kind and gentle. I feel like if you can find something or someone to protect, then you'll turn out to be a fine man like him one day. Who knows, maybe a general in the military?" Madalyn says while appearing to think to herself for a second, placing her hand on her chin, tail swinging back and forth. "How about we head to the guards after storytime today? It'd be a real shame if we let your strength go to waste just because you keep getting told off for it. In the mean time, you are to come here and sit at my feet so that I can keep an eye on you." Madalyn then, after Baaba sits at her feet, tells a story about a valiant knight slaying a dragon and saving a princess. A little cliché, but it's enough to keep the children happy. As she tells the story, she keeps an eye out for anyone coming up the hill.
The Grand Coliseum erupts with applause as the announcer calls out, “Welcome, welcome, all. Today, in Port Nyanzaru, it is my undying pleasure,” he cackles madly, “to present to you, the Pile.”
Hundreds of people cheer. A raucous roar builds into a crescendo. “The Pile,” the people stomp. “The Pile.”
It seems that every living soul has poured into the arena today. Where they all came from is anyone’s guess. The city is small, compact, even by Phandalin’s standards.
The air is choked with the bouquet of body odor secreted by the many races crammed inside the domed building. It’s hard to move around, Grimfang. It’s even harder to keep track of who is moving in and around your space.
Make a Perception roll, please, as hands brush your shoulders, arms, and torso.
The small figure, covered in a drab, hooded gray robe, is sitting on a pack just inside the opening of a narrow alley, his back to a grimy wall. Hunched over, with elbows balanced on knees, the creature’s sagging posture seems to be on the verge of collapse over a piece of parchment resting lightly upon two outstretched tan hands. A tuft of flaxen hair dangles down from beneath the top of the hood.
At the sound of the dwarf’s voice the figure flinches. The hands hastily but gingerly fold the paper neatly down the middle—there was already a single prim crease—and tuck it under the right arm, opposite the dwarf, out of sight.
Thordrin easily recognized the document from afar: a standard License of Exploration issued by the Flaming Fist. By his estimation it was purchased a mere five minutes ago. If the bureaucratic blocks of texts weren’t enough to help identify it, the brazen wax seal at the top of the page, bearing the crest of the mercenary company, was a dead giveaway. Thordrin knew well, from experience, that after a few weeks in the humidity the seal melts and flakes away, leaving only a perfectly round, red stain in its place.
The cloaked figure turned ever-so-slightly away from the dwarf’s waterskin, responding to the offer with a stoic grunt of rejection. A deep but strangely hollow voice croaked out, “My home is where the winds take me. And besides, true wisdom lies in…” the voice cracked and faltered, “um, in nourishment of, uh, not-the-body-but-the-mind.”
After the dwarf shares his tragic story the small figure stands, a lean two-foot-ten, and turns away to face the alley. “The commie-dawn is a fierce creature of this land,” he says, again in the raspy, deep voice. “Only the mightiest of warriors, with calm hearts and still minds, can defeat it. You passed your test. The shaman, I’m afraid, did not.”
The figure’s hooded head turns quickly to the left, towards, but not facing, the dwarf. “I’ve bested a commie-dawn,” he says, with an edge of slight sass.
Then the head lowers. A thoughtful sniff punctuates a moment’s silence. “Sorry about your friend,” the voice offers gently.
After the dwarf introduces himself the short figure snaps around to face Thordrin completely. “I am The Nameless One, wandering halfling Master of the Circle Eye Order of Monks.” The halfling bows deeply and slowly at the waist. From his left hip hangs an odd assembly of three polished hickory sticks and gleaming steel chains. The ends of two sticks bear a simple carving resembling a perfectly round eye with three lashes on top.
When The Nameless One straightens his posture, sunlight spills slightly under the hood, dimly revealing a young — startlingly young — halfling face. This fellow can’t be any older than nineteen. Despite his scowling brow and affected frown, the youth’s shining blue eyes and dimples give a jolly, friendly air to his cold demeanor.
The Nameless One lowers his gaze slightly, peering up past his fair eyebrows. “Having conquered this land’s evils, I soon depart Chult in search of greater challenges,” he grunts forcefully.
His brow relaxes slightly as he watches Thordrin cap the flask and wipe his mouth dry. A long growl emanates from beneath the torso of The Nameless One’s gray robes. “Do you have…“ he begins in a meek voice.
He turns proudly to the side, juts his chin slightly upwards, and stares off into the distance. After clearing his throat he begins in a much lower voice, “Perhaps you can aid The Nameless One in his mighty quest by means of a humble meal?”
The halfling glances quickly around before turning his face up towards the dwarf, his blue eyes saucer-wide with pleading desperation. “I, uh, I lost my coin purse in the jungle,” he whispers.
ooc: whereabout in the city does this scene take place?
Herman is a curious human, tall and strongly built, with brown hair and dark eyes. He is well kept and doesn't have bad manners, even if anyone can tell there is something rude or brute in him, in his attitude and in his gestures, let alone his pike and his general military stature.
ooc: assuming, since they are sit together, Herman and Brit already know each other...
Herman is sitting at the table, laughing at the several odd stories Brit is telling, when the waitress arrives,
at first he looks at her, mostly scanning her from the bottom to the top and laying his gaze on her face for some seconds, then he turns to the beers, he takes one of them, waving at the soldier who offered them.
Then, before drinking even a sip, he turns to Brit:
"Well, I guess this won't come for free, they guy must want something, sure as hell....let's find out, shall we?"
Brit is anything but bored. Having just got off the boat he's rife with excitement. A new place, new faces and new tales to be written. Nothing could possibly be less invigorating for a Bard of Brit's caliber. Of course, the first place Brit made for upon arriving was one of the local taverns, no better place to gather information and rub elbows then a den of drunken reprobates, save perhaps a ballroom packed with nobility, but Brit was more than happy to work up to that.
As he saunters into the tavern, he picks out an empty seat next to a random human, Herman, and sits down without so much as a word, only a grin and a wiggle of his eyebrows. Brit takes out his Lute and begins absentmindedly strumming notes, listening close over the din of tavern life for anything out of tune.
When Sh’varra approaches, he pauses only briefly to admire her form and her face. As she places the drinks on the table, Brit smirks and swings one leg over the other, leaning back in his seat as he starts playing more in earnest.
“Fraid I must decline the gift of free ale,” Brit says, ignoring Herman as he gets up. “I don’t accept gifts from strangers for one, and I also prefer to play in a new venue uninebriated.”
Grimfang, after weeks of travel by boat to find his way to Port Nyanzaru and immerse himself in the Chultan expedition that lay in wait for all adventurers, found himself in a foreign land whose mysteries had all been lain to bear. The Death Curse which had made Grimfang's heart dance excitedly since he had first learned of it, now only contorted his face in a grimace. Chult had been saved and the land explored; no wonder yet remained for Grimfang here. This revelation came swiftly to Grimfang, as the first tavern visited roared in laughter at the wayward warrior's tardiness.
Unamused to find himself the punchline of a joke, Grimfang made his way to the local pit fights - "The Pile". NOW: The half-orc stands higher than many of the passersby with his height but not excessively so, and his muscular physique is put on display as it bulges beneath his chain mail. His halberd, clutched in his firm grasp, is utilized not unlike a wizard's quarterstaff as he makes his way through the throng before him. Despite his disappointment with Chult's dangers having been conquered, he manages to crack his first grin since arriving. He cannot help but bask in the cacophony surrounding him - the distant sounds of the fight currently unfolding, the thunderous exclamations of the crowd, the concert of conversations being held between all entering and leaving the venue.
"Now where is the damnable register for this place?" Grimfang bemuses. Grimfang steels himself for the task-at-hand, oblivious to the plethora of touches grazing his body as the horde of all coming and going shuffle around him. His resolve is set definitively toward acquiring a place among the bouts to obtain coin and an opportunity for sport. He scans the crowd in hopes of finding his quarry - the registrar.
OOC: WRITING IN ORDER TO SUBSCRIBE, READING AS SOON AS I CAN
I wouldn't even worry about this. I appreciate the concern, though once everything gets rolling, the every player gets one turn at the Table kind of manners falls by the wayside. It's just how it goes. :D
Omaha takes a seat, Poppy. "Oddity? Hardly. More like Chultan or not. Natives have a hurry up and go nowhere aura about them," he says. He shifts in his seat and turns his back to the crowd. "Heading home? Now that the Curse is lifted?"
"Suit yourself, traveler," Sh’varra says. She comes off indifferent to you, Brit. Only because the tavern is full today. The din is one of jubilation. The Death Curse has lifted. "Anyone is free to play as long as you can carry a—"
A man too tall to be human moves with a lumbering gate through the crowd. He's a giant. His chest is bare, tattooed with lightning bolts. A large blue "T" is painted on his face. Axes dangle from every available belt hook. "Come, bard. Play us a song. We've defeated Death. Let's bow to Life."
The stage is open, if you'd like.
Sh’varra inclines her head, crossing her arms, as if to say, well, put your coin where your talent is. The stage is lit by dim orange orbs of light arranged in a half-moon shape, a few feet above the stage, itself four feet from the tavern hall floor.
"The Nameless One, are ye, lad. Hardly a single thing about ye says nameless, with all those hickory sticks and personal details you've taken a likin' to. Be as it may, I'm not one to be judgin' and gossipin' the likes and dislikes o' others. There's a story, lad, to each and every one of those things ye cling to. I, too, have me own stories. Perhaps, we could share a few over," he says giving you a quick one over with friendly concern. Hunger is no price to pay for throwing the front door open out to adventure. "I have a few coins I could spare. Come, lad, let us eat." He leans in to say, "Personally, me stomach grumbles far too often after I eat a meal. I'm like a red dragon ready to belch from both ends!"
OOC I figured you were somewhere in the Market Ward.
"Personally, me stomach grumbles far too often after I eat a meal. I'm like a red dragon ready to belch from both ends!” finishes Thordrin.
The Nameless One’s cheeks scrunch slightly, and his lips tighten into a nearly imperceptible line. A slight snort sneaks out of his nose as he chokes back a laugh.
Taking a deep breath, he forces his expression back to its stoic, blank state. He replies, in hollow baritone, "Let us eat together then, Thordrin the generous. Know that your good turn won't go unheeded. The Order teaches that generosity is, uh…”
The halfling pauses, looks down at his feet, then scratches the back of his head. When he continues he looks up at the dwarf with authority, his voice moving along with deliberate cadence:
“Generosity, when woven into the Great Tapestry, strengthens the fabric of the universe. When one day your own shuttle runs empty, a stranger will find he has extra yarn to spare, and so will weave a row for you. Thus good begets good, and the souls of all Faerûn become inextricably meshed.”
A look of satisfaction washes over The Nameless One’s round face, and he turns towards the alley, crouching to his pack.
“Oh, and, uh…” he adds, “Thank you.”
The Nameless One carefully slides the folded parchment into a pack pocket, then fastens the leather cord. With a grunt of considerable effort he hoists the frame onto his back and loops his shoulders through the straps.
They set off through the Market Ward, Thordrin leading the way by only a step; the two are nearly walking side-by-side. The faint slap-slap-slap of the halfling’s tight-fitting, sole-less leather slippers fill the emptiness between the heavy clump-clump of the dwarf’s boots.
"These aren't just sticks, by the way!” exclaims The Nameless One with surprising and uncharacteristic exuberance. “It’s my San Jie Gun, a deadly martial weapon known to the monks of Turmish. Only great masters of the Circle Eye are allowed to take them outside the temple. This San Jie Gun bears the emblem of my sacred order, as well as the personal mark of my…of myself.”
He glances up at the dwarf, sidelong. ”Where are we going to eat?” His forced scowl and frown are all but vanished.
“Place yer bets,” a bald halfling sporting a thick, coarse handlebar mustache laughs as he scrambles up a knotted rope in the center of the gambling ring. The ring itself is 4 feet in diameter, a stone slab, smoothed to an even finish, encircled by a robust crowd today.
Halfway up the rope, the halfling barks out, “Ante starts at one silver. House Rules.”
Beyond the ring, some twenty yards away, patrons are placing bets on this week’s dinosaur races. Favored to win, Mountain Thunder. Favored to be a close second, Adventure Thyme. Favored to lose, Luxury Belt. The elderly ankylosaurus loves children, and is in no earthly hurry to get to the finish line. He much prefers the games children play with him.
The Golden Almiraj, so named for the unicorn-rabbit pyrite-plated statue dominating the dining hall, the establishment offers patrons a variety of refreshments, delicacies, entertainment, and distractions, chiefly, the obstacle course. Few have completed the Almiraj Run unscathed. Even fewer can boast having crossed the finish line at all! Shuttered during the Death Curse, no word on when The Run will reopen.
Scented hookah hangs on the still air. Every so often, and for no particular reason, an air genasi dabbles her fingers, dismissing the smoke with a gust of windfrom her tufted lounge chair. She looks up long enough to send it away through the basement windows, up and out onto the streets of Port Nyanzaru, then returns to her conversation with an impossibly muscular dwarf in a fur-lined loincloth. He dotes on her endlessly.
It figures, Jack Weizenhal, you stumble into this gambling hall after spending all of your coin to get to Chult. Your story isn’t anything unique. Nearly every adventurer with an eye on Chult laments the same siren. The lure of adventure is what brought you to this nearly forgotten city of Faerûn, and now you’re stuck.
Secrets. Shadows. Tales of high adventure; it was a sales pitch, and every sellsword sucker took the bait—you included. Beshaba, the goddess of misfortune, must be rolling on the floor laughing out loud, somewhere.
The halfling quickly scales the rest of the rope, and swings his short legs over and onto a padded pillow, above the gambling ring. He’s taking the high-eye, keeping both of his on those below for this game of Odds and Evens.
The Chultan next to you grins. “When Mirkantl has the high-eye, always bet on odds.” He rubs his nose between two fingers, Luck’s tell, around these parts.
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Somewhere, a wrinkled hand dips a Pegasus-feathered quill into a small glass vial.
Quickly and without pause, the old one begins to pen the details of the day. He writes with brevity. He laughs occasionally. He furrows his brow when fate has interceded and played her hand. He knows he should not express his own concerns, impose his own will upon the events that will soon transpire and light up the world known as Faerûn. But he cannot suppress the desire. He is as old as time itself, and yet, for some unspecified whim, he has taken an avid interest into the peninsula of Chult, where something developed a use for magic the gods did not intend. Nevertheless, the volumes of books stacked around him represent the multitude of adventurers who flocked to the jungles of that old and ancient world so few had ever seen.
Gold ink races across the pages of the book now beneath his nose. He knows he must hurry. He knows he cannot see the far future, only the imminent glimmer, as the future comes sharply into focus, and molds quickly into the present. The old one must know.
He can still send aid, if only he knew… the destiny of the Death Knight.
Surrounded
It never ceases to amaze you, Madalyn Oana Maddison, how children’s laughter can right a topsy-turvy day. Squeals of delight from a dozen children—all of whom you either know by name, face, or that little green dragonborn who can never seem to keep his finger out of his nostril—spill onto the grassy hill, cheerfully surrounding you, shouting, “O-Nana! O-Nana! We miss you! We have been waiting for you all morning. Please read to us! Please, oh, please!”
They swarm you, hoping to find comfortable spots right at your feet.
Daumu (duh-OOH-moo) as is usual will be last to arrive. The young firbolg is hard pressed to keep up with his light-footed friends. Thirty feet away, he’s at the bottom of the hill, catching his breath. He carries a shaped wooden club strapped to his back. He’s told you its name. Splatterbranch. He waves to you.
Polenth (PO-lent-uh), you know, the oldest and bravest and loudest of the bunch, commands her motley crew of orphans with a fiery spirit, red hair and freckles to match. “Take your places, everyone. Be nice about it. No shoving—” the ten-year-old half-elf starts.
But the shoving is already underway.
It’s a contest as to who among the Filthy Dozen can snatch the prized grass-floor throne, closest to you, front and center, for when the story begins.
You bring these bright eyes more than friendship, you know. You lift them up, up and away into a world of fantasy and magic, far from this savage, unpredictable world they have come to know; here, outside the western city wall, beyond the Merchant’s Ward, on a stretch of grass inches from the bay, where no one ever pays them any mind—except for the undead. Zombies and skeletons sometimes crawl out of the jungle looking for prey, which is why perhaps you have decided to stick around.
There’s more to life than undead, though, if these children are to become who they were meant to be. Maybe still, you have other far more noble, perhaps less complicated, reasons as to why you keep a close watch over them. Those reasons, if any, you have yet to voice. No matter. Laughter is one of the greatest sources of magic. It requires no material component, no incantation or gesture to bring the spell’s effect into being. And when cast, can prop even the darkest heart right up and over the clouds.
Baaba (BAH-boo), it seems, has decided that in order for him to secure the grassy throne, the six-year-old Chultan must resort to violence. He most of all needs the most redirection. He is much too angry for one so small.
He pulls his arm back, readying a punch for Zaduni (zuh-DO-knee). The precious little halfling has slipped around everyone. So agile and small is she. She’s preparing to take the grassy throne, blissfully unaware of the four knuckles racing toward the right side of her face.
** Correction. The phrase outside the eastern city wall should have read "outside the western city wall". I fixed it. ;) **
Group Effort
The Sixth day of Marpenoth in Port Nyanzaru is like any another day in Port Nyanzaru. You could blink twice, Poppy, and nothing would change. Why anyone would spend their last coin to board passage on a ship to cross the sea for a chance at fame and glory is beyond you. And yet, here you are, immersed in one of your favorite titles, passing the time, waiting for something to change. Chult, you have discovered, is slow to change. Slower than even the drow at deciding whether or not they should abandon the Underdark for something a little less repetitive. Much like the Emerald Springs, the tavern you are visiting today in the Red Bazaar. You see the same people, and hear the same mindless chatter. It’s the same—always, and forever, the same.
A twist of salty sea air spins through the street and around the front door, stirring everything in its path. Nyanzaru is anything but dull, you know, as a parade of dinosaurs led by a handler passes by. You’ve seen Sshavan Gluh around town before. He hires little children to run errands for him. He can be cruel, especially to the fingerlings, young thieves that dangle wires over passersby, and the urchins. Nyanzaru’s forgotten.
Yes, even here, far from the Sword Coast, there isn’t that much luck to go around. It’s strained between the Death Curse and those family members who have put the fate of their love ones in the hands of any healer whose god might still answer a call for divine magic.
Beside you, a shadow stretches out on the floor. It’s attached to a pair of well-worn military boots.
“What are you reading,” a voice asks, six feet above them.
The words belong to a human male in a tabard. The garment is embroidered with a fist wreathed in flame, the symbol centered over his chest. His black hair is slicked back flat with paste, pulled into a tail just above the shoulder line. He is otherwise clean-shaven, and wears no jewelry, not even a plain silver band.
He dips his head in greeting. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Omaha. I’m a lieutenant with the Flaming Fist.” He extends a hand in greeting.
Him, though, you have never seen. He has an aura of intrigue about him. He’s entirely too comfortable this far from Baldur’s Gate. You’re familiar with the expeditionary forces of the Flaming Fist. A number of them are stationed at Fort Beluarian, about a hard day’s ride northeast of the city. It’s a reputable outpost. The soldiers there keep the undead from spilling into the city, or into the bay.
You have heard disconcerting news, though, about companies of Fist soldiers stomping through the jungle, hacking down branches, clearing out trees, delving ruins. You’ve heard of Fort Vengeance. You’ve seen soldiers return from there, afflicted with a mysterious malady. The healing tents in the city are filled with them.
Omaha smiles. He leans to one side, intending to catch a glimpse of the title of the book you are reading. “Last time I saw someone reading a book, he decided he’d better raise his holy symbol to turn a herd of zombies. The elf survived, I might add. He smartly holstered his long sword, and walked right out of the jungle, all smug and no smile,” he adds with a light bit of humor. “Elves. They just don’t know how to have fun.”
Not too far from you, Poppy, over your left shoulder, a group of adventurers you have never met, but whose futures will soon become intertwined with yours sit around a wooden table, wondering why they even bothered to visit Chult.
Boredom has united Herman and Brit Hahnu’heim (there might be others, but it’s likely they’re gathered around another table) in the Emerald Springs tavern (or haven’t arrived yet).
A cocoa-skinned human female, her hair gathered into a maxuacti—a waterfall bun festooned with small hermit crab shells—slides a serving tray across your table. The tray is topped with ales across the amber hue.
Yes, she is beautiful, stunning. And yes, you easily surmise from her toned, athletic frame, that no man could easily win her affections. Sh’varra is no prize to be won. She must be fought for, consistently, without fault.
Her every move is captured by every hungry male within the vicinity.
“Drinks,” Sh’varra says. Her voice is strong, her poise confident. The Chultan waitress looks around your table, addressing you without a single word, and then says, “Drinks are on the house, travelers. Courtesy of that gentleman there.” She points to a Flaming Fist soldier. He’s talking to a woman with a book in her hand.
Not having had a decent conversation in days, Poppy can't help but smile at the man as she grasps his hand to return his greeting.
" Am I that much of an oddity?," Poppy asks with a laugh inclining her head toward the book in her hand.
She motions for the man to take a seat if he wishes as she raises her free hand to request drinks.
Good Company
The dwarf has been standing there on the street for the better part of a minute before he smiles, and says, “Hello, wee lad. I beggin’ the pardon. I be hopin’ you don’t mind me sayin’ that ye have a look about ye. A look I’ve been havin’ meself the passed few months here on Chult. I want to go home.”
He opens his backpack and pulls out a waterskin adorned with native runes painted in bright colors. They glisten in the sunlight
“Thirsty?” he asks, offering you, Ferriman, refreshment.
“The water is clean, lad. Mountain’s honor,” he says, rapping a closed fist over the chain-mail shirt he’s wearing. “This here waterskin was a gift from a shaman, lizardfolk. Nice fellow. Damn shame he was swallowed up by that kamadan. A big cat with snakes growin’ out of its shoulders.” He shivers. “Nasty creature. Not unlike a displacer beast, just the jungle variety.” He lowers his head in shame as if revisiting a painful memory. “He trusted me to keep an eye out for him. I did me best. We were separated. I stood me ground. He was torn apart before I could surround him with sanctuary.”
The dwarf clears his throat. He shakes his head. The terrible moment passes. He returns to the present and smiles warmly once more. “Me name’s Thordrin, lad. Thordrin Rockseeker.”
I fudged up >.< This is what I get for never familiarizing myself with play by post games ^^;
"Baaba!" Madalyn shouts to get his attention, showing furious red eyes thanks to the thaumaturgy cantrip. "If you injure anyone, then I'll have to have you go home. You don't want that, do you?" Madalyn says in a slowly more soothing tone, her eyes slowly going back to their usual grey coloring. "Although that does remind me, I've been meaning to talk to the guards about assessing your strengths. After all, your anger reminds me of my father back home who would often go into huge fits of rage, but only if someone hurt me physically or emotionally. Other than that, they were very kind and gentle. I feel like if you can find something or someone to protect, then you'll turn out to be a fine man like him one day. Who knows, maybe a general in the military?" Madalyn says while appearing to think to herself for a second, placing her hand on her chin, tail swinging back and forth. "How about we head to the guards after storytime today? It'd be a real shame if we let your strength go to waste just because you keep getting told off for it. In the mean time, you are to come here and sit at my feet so that I can keep an eye on you." Madalyn then, after Baaba sits at her feet, tells a story about a valiant knight slaying a dragon and saving a princess. A little cliché, but it's enough to keep the children happy. As she tells the story, she keeps an eye out for anyone coming up the hill.
The Pile
The Grand Coliseum erupts with applause as the announcer calls out, “Welcome, welcome, all. Today, in Port Nyanzaru, it is my undying pleasure,” he cackles madly, “to present to you, the Pile.”
Hundreds of people cheer. A raucous roar builds into a crescendo. “The Pile,” the people stomp. “The Pile.”
It seems that every living soul has poured into the arena today. Where they all came from is anyone’s guess. The city is small, compact, even by Phandalin’s standards.
The air is choked with the bouquet of body odor secreted by the many races crammed inside the domed building. It’s hard to move around, Grimfang. It’s even harder to keep track of who is moving in and around your space.
Make a Perception roll, please, as hands brush your shoulders, arms, and torso.
OOC: WRITING IN ORDER TO SUBSCRIBE, READING AS SOON AS I CAN
,
The small figure, covered in a drab, hooded gray robe, is sitting on a pack just inside the opening of a narrow alley, his back to a grimy wall. Hunched over, with elbows balanced on knees, the creature’s sagging posture seems to be on the verge of collapse over a piece of parchment resting lightly upon two outstretched tan hands. A tuft of flaxen hair dangles down from beneath the top of the hood.
At the sound of the dwarf’s voice the figure flinches. The hands hastily but gingerly fold the paper neatly down the middle—there was already a single prim crease—and tuck it under the right arm, opposite the dwarf, out of sight.
Thordrin easily recognized the document from afar: a standard License of Exploration issued by the Flaming Fist. By his estimation it was purchased a mere five minutes ago. If the bureaucratic blocks of texts weren’t enough to help identify it, the brazen wax seal at the top of the page, bearing the crest of the mercenary company, was a dead giveaway. Thordrin knew well, from experience, that after a few weeks in the humidity the seal melts and flakes away, leaving only a perfectly round, red stain in its place.
The cloaked figure turned ever-so-slightly away from the dwarf’s waterskin, responding to the offer with a stoic grunt of rejection. A deep but strangely hollow voice croaked out, “My home is where the winds take me. And besides, true wisdom lies in…” the voice cracked and faltered, “um, in nourishment of, uh, not-the-body-but-the-mind.”
After the dwarf shares his tragic story the small figure stands, a lean two-foot-ten, and turns away to face the alley. “The commie-dawn is a fierce creature of this land,” he says, again in the raspy, deep voice. “Only the mightiest of warriors, with calm hearts and still minds, can defeat it. You passed your test. The shaman, I’m afraid, did not.”
The figure’s hooded head turns quickly to the left, towards, but not facing, the dwarf. “I’ve bested a commie-dawn,” he says, with an edge of slight sass.
Then the head lowers. A thoughtful sniff punctuates a moment’s silence. “Sorry about your friend,” the voice offers gently.
After the dwarf introduces himself the short figure snaps around to face Thordrin completely. “I am The Nameless One, wandering halfling Master of the Circle Eye Order of Monks.” The halfling bows deeply and slowly at the waist. From his left hip hangs an odd assembly of three polished hickory sticks and gleaming steel chains. The ends of two sticks bear a simple carving resembling a perfectly round eye with three lashes on top.
When The Nameless One straightens his posture, sunlight spills slightly under the hood, dimly revealing a young — startlingly young — halfling face. This fellow can’t be any older than nineteen. Despite his scowling brow and affected frown, the youth’s shining blue eyes and dimples give a jolly, friendly air to his cold demeanor.
The Nameless One lowers his gaze slightly, peering up past his fair eyebrows. “Having conquered this land’s evils, I soon depart Chult in search of greater challenges,” he grunts forcefully.
His brow relaxes slightly as he watches Thordrin cap the flask and wipe his mouth dry. A long growl emanates from beneath the torso of The Nameless One’s gray robes. “Do you have…“ he begins in a meek voice.
He turns proudly to the side, juts his chin slightly upwards, and stares off into the distance. After clearing his throat he begins in a much lower voice, “Perhaps you can aid The Nameless One in his mighty quest by means of a humble meal?”
The halfling glances quickly around before turning his face up towards the dwarf, his blue eyes saucer-wide with pleading desperation. “I, uh, I lost my coin purse in the jungle,” he whispers.
ooc: whereabout in the city does this scene take place?
Current Roles:
GM - Fata Morgana: The Ghosts of Saltmarsh
in EMERALD SPRINGS
Herman is a curious human, tall and strongly built, with brown hair and dark eyes. He is well kept and doesn't have bad manners, even if anyone can tell there is something rude or brute in him, in his attitude and in his gestures, let alone his pike and his general military stature.
ooc: assuming, since they are sit together, Herman and Brit already know each other...
Herman is sitting at the table, laughing at the several odd stories Brit is telling, when the waitress arrives,
at first he looks at her, mostly scanning her from the bottom to the top and laying his gaze on her face for some seconds, then he turns to the beers, he takes one of them, waving at the soldier who offered them.
Then, before drinking even a sip, he turns to Brit:
"Well, I guess this won't come for free, they guy must want something, sure as hell....let's find out, shall we?"
Thus he stands up and walks towards the soldier
"Greetings, how shall we thank for this ale?"
,
Brit is anything but bored. Having just got off the boat he's rife with excitement. A new place, new faces and new tales to be written. Nothing could possibly be less invigorating for a Bard of Brit's caliber. Of course, the first place Brit made for upon arriving was one of the local taverns, no better place to gather information and rub elbows then a den of drunken reprobates, save perhaps a ballroom packed with nobility, but Brit was more than happy to work up to that.
As he saunters into the tavern, he picks out an empty seat next to a random human, Herman, and sits down without so much as a word, only a grin and a wiggle of his eyebrows. Brit takes out his Lute and begins absentmindedly strumming notes, listening close over the din of tavern life for anything out of tune.
When Sh’varra approaches, he pauses only briefly to admire her form and her face. As she places the drinks on the table, Brit smirks and swings one leg over the other, leaning back in his seat as he starts playing more in earnest.
“Fraid I must decline the gift of free ale,” Brit says, ignoring Herman as he gets up. “I don’t accept gifts from strangers for one, and I also prefer to play in a new venue uninebriated.”
"You may have heard of one like me..."
I'm an artist. You can find my work, and my sporadic warbling, here on my tumblr.
Perception roll: 3
Grimfang, after weeks of travel by boat to find his way to Port Nyanzaru and immerse himself in the Chultan expedition that lay in wait for all adventurers, found himself in a foreign land whose mysteries had all been lain to bear. The Death Curse which had made Grimfang's heart dance excitedly since he had first learned of it, now only contorted his face in a grimace. Chult had been saved and the land explored; no wonder yet remained for Grimfang here. This revelation came swiftly to Grimfang, as the first tavern visited roared in laughter at the wayward warrior's tardiness.
Unamused to find himself the punchline of a joke, Grimfang made his way to the local pit fights - "The Pile". NOW: The half-orc stands higher than many of the passersby with his height but not excessively so, and his muscular physique is put on display as it bulges beneath his chain mail. His halberd, clutched in his firm grasp, is utilized not unlike a wizard's quarterstaff as he makes his way through the throng before him. Despite his disappointment with Chult's dangers having been conquered, he manages to crack his first grin since arriving. He cannot help but bask in the cacophony surrounding him - the distant sounds of the fight currently unfolding, the thunderous exclamations of the crowd, the concert of conversations being held between all entering and leaving the venue.
"Now where is the damnable register for this place?" Grimfang bemuses. Grimfang steels himself for the task-at-hand, oblivious to the plethora of touches grazing his body as the horde of all coming and going shuffle around him. His resolve is set definitively toward acquiring a place among the bouts to obtain coin and an opportunity for sport. He scans the crowd in hopes of finding his quarry - the registrar.
I wouldn't even worry about this. I appreciate the concern, though once everything gets rolling, the every player gets one turn at the Table kind of manners falls by the wayside. It's just how it goes. :D
Omaha takes a seat, Poppy. "Oddity? Hardly. More like Chultan or not. Natives have a hurry up and go nowhere aura about them," he says. He shifts in his seat and turns his back to the crowd. "Heading home? Now that the Curse is lifted?"
"Suit yourself, traveler," Sh’varra says. She comes off indifferent to you, Brit. Only because the tavern is full today. The din is one of jubilation. The Death Curse has lifted. "Anyone is free to play as long as you can carry a—"
A man too tall to be human moves with a lumbering gate through the crowd. He's a giant. His chest is bare, tattooed with lightning bolts. A large blue "T" is painted on his face. Axes dangle from every available belt hook. "Come, bard. Play us a song. We've defeated Death. Let's bow to Life."
The stage is open, if you'd like.
Sh’varra inclines her head, crossing her arms, as if to say, well, put your coin where your talent is. The stage is lit by dim orange orbs of light arranged in a half-moon shape, a few feet above the stage, itself four feet from the tavern hall floor.
Omaha tips his head to you, Herman, before turning his back to the crowd.
He wasn't expecting you to appear on his side.
OOC Which side are your on? His right, or the left side, where Poppy is seated?
"The Nameless One, are ye, lad. Hardly a single thing about ye says nameless, with all those hickory sticks and personal details you've taken a likin' to. Be as it may, I'm not one to be judgin' and gossipin' the likes and dislikes o' others. There's a story, lad, to each and every one of those things ye cling to. I, too, have me own stories. Perhaps, we could share a few over," he says giving you a quick one over with friendly concern. Hunger is no price to pay for throwing the front door open out to adventure. "I have a few coins I could spare. Come, lad, let us eat." He leans in to say, "Personally, me stomach grumbles far too often after I eat a meal. I'm like a red dragon ready to belch from both ends!"
OOC I figured you were somewhere in the Market Ward.
@AdventureHalz
Herman goes in front of him to thank him
,
"Personally, me stomach grumbles far too often after I eat a meal. I'm like a red dragon ready to belch from both ends!” finishes Thordrin.
The Nameless One’s cheeks scrunch slightly, and his lips tighten into a nearly imperceptible line. A slight snort sneaks out of his nose as he chokes back a laugh.
Taking a deep breath, he forces his expression back to its stoic, blank state. He replies, in hollow baritone, "Let us eat together then, Thordrin the generous. Know that your good turn won't go unheeded. The Order teaches that generosity is, uh…”
The halfling pauses, looks down at his feet, then scratches the back of his head. When he continues he looks up at the dwarf with authority, his voice moving along with deliberate cadence:
“Generosity, when woven into the Great Tapestry, strengthens the fabric of the universe. When one day your own shuttle runs empty, a stranger will find he has extra yarn to spare, and so will weave a row for you. Thus good begets good, and the souls of all Faerûn become inextricably meshed.”
A look of satisfaction washes over The Nameless One’s round face, and he turns towards the alley, crouching to his pack.
“Oh, and, uh…” he adds, “Thank you.”
The Nameless One carefully slides the folded parchment into a pack pocket, then fastens the leather cord. With a grunt of considerable effort he hoists the frame onto his back and loops his shoulders through the straps.
They set off through the Market Ward, Thordrin leading the way by only a step; the two are nearly walking side-by-side. The faint slap-slap-slap of the halfling’s tight-fitting, sole-less leather slippers fill the emptiness between the heavy clump-clump of the dwarf’s boots.
"These aren't just sticks, by the way!” exclaims The Nameless One with surprising and uncharacteristic exuberance. “It’s my San Jie Gun, a deadly martial weapon known to the monks of Turmish. Only great masters of the Circle Eye are allowed to take them outside the temple. This San Jie Gun bears the emblem of my sacred order, as well as the personal mark of my…of myself.”
He glances up at the dwarf, sidelong. ”Where are we going to eat?” His forced scowl and frown are all but vanished.
Current Roles:
GM - Fata Morgana: The Ghosts of Saltmarsh
House Rules
“Place yer bets,” a bald halfling sporting a thick, coarse handlebar mustache laughs as he scrambles up a knotted rope in the center of the gambling ring. The ring itself is 4 feet in diameter, a stone slab, smoothed to an even finish, encircled by a robust crowd today.
Halfway up the rope, the halfling barks out, “Ante starts at one silver. House Rules.”
Beyond the ring, some twenty yards away, patrons are placing bets on this week’s dinosaur races. Favored to win, Mountain Thunder. Favored to be a close second, Adventure Thyme. Favored to lose, Luxury Belt. The elderly ankylosaurus loves children, and is in no earthly hurry to get to the finish line. He much prefers the games children play with him.
The Golden Almiraj, so named for the unicorn-rabbit pyrite-plated statue dominating the dining hall, the establishment offers patrons a variety of refreshments, delicacies, entertainment, and distractions, chiefly, the obstacle course. Few have completed the Almiraj Run unscathed. Even fewer can boast having crossed the finish line at all! Shuttered during the Death Curse, no word on when The Run will reopen.
Scented hookah hangs on the still air. Every so often, and for no particular reason, an air genasi dabbles her fingers, dismissing the smoke with a gust of windfrom her tufted lounge chair. She looks up long enough to send it away through the basement windows, up and out onto the streets of Port Nyanzaru, then returns to her conversation with an impossibly muscular dwarf in a fur-lined loincloth. He dotes on her endlessly.
It figures, Jack Weizenhal, you stumble into this gambling hall after spending all of your coin to get to Chult. Your story isn’t anything unique. Nearly every adventurer with an eye on Chult laments the same siren. The lure of adventure is what brought you to this nearly forgotten city of Faerûn, and now you’re stuck.
Secrets. Shadows. Tales of high adventure; it was a sales pitch, and every sellsword sucker took the bait—you included. Beshaba, the goddess of misfortune, must be rolling on the floor laughing out loud, somewhere.
The halfling quickly scales the rest of the rope, and swings his short legs over and onto a padded pillow, above the gambling ring. He’s taking the high-eye, keeping both of his on those below for this game of Odds and Evens.
The Chultan next to you grins. “When Mirkantl has the high-eye, always bet on odds.” He rubs his nose between two fingers, Luck’s tell, around these parts.