Towering above what seems to be a final copse of trees and brush you see The Tower you have been tasked with entering. From this distance it is hard to take it's full measure but it appears to be four sided, remarkably thin but breathtakingly tall. The tallest structure any of you have seen, by far. What response the sight of it instills in you is for you alone to know but as you look about at the others who have reached this point you see a determined resolve to go forth and test themselves against it.
"A small rest then, yeah?" Someone asks. They are one of the lone adventurers determined to try The Tower despite not being chosen in the lottery. Their fair and young and perpetually smiling in response to some witticism that apparently only they have heard. They are kind of annoying. Still, it appears that it will be but a short push through the trees before the final hundred feet or so to The Tower and you all know that once you are that close it'll be a bit of a sprint to see who can enter first so a rest first is the general consensus. Time to make your final preparations...
---
Much earlier...
The Tower has appeared and you have been chosen to as part of your kingdom's delegation to go to the festival. Each kingdom is free to to choose who to send and why to send them as they see fit. Tradition holds that it is an honor to be sent but it has been known for someone to be included just to get them out of the way for a week or two...
Preparations are quick and frantic, everyone wants to enjoy the festival for as long as they can and so are eager to get there. There is no greater party on Vaire than The Tower festival. Each kingdom sends food and entertainment and the best of all it can offer in an attempt to outdo and show up the other kingdoms. While tradition and custom forbid hostilities or even animosity during the festival, friendly rivalries of all kinds exist and are on display. Within a day or so each caravan leaves packed to the hilt and full of excitement.
The festival goes on and on as far as the eye can see. There are tents and banners of all colors and styles. The air is filled with the sound of lively music, the clanging of swords, and the murmur of excited voices. The aroma of roasting meat and spiced ale wafts through the air, making ones mouth water with anticipation for all the kingdoms send their most delicious fare. Jugglers, acrobats, and jesters roam the crowds, performing daring feats and entertaining the masses. Groups of minstrels play lively tunes on the lutes, harps and instruments unknown while people dance and twirl to the rhythm. A knight in full armor rides through the sprawling jovility leading a procession of noble ladies and gentlemen on horseback, all decked out in their finest clothes and jewelry. There is jousting and arm wrestling, archery competitions and pie eating contests. All pleasures and distractions are available during the festival. You are free to indulge as you saw fit from the time your delegation arrived until the lottery was held...
---
The Lottery...
The lottery drawing takes place at the center of the town square, where a large wooden barrel has been set up on a raised platform. The barrel is filled with small slips of parchment, one for each person at the festival for all, save the children, must be entered. The crowd of eager spectators presses close to the platform, craning their necks for a better view. A group of the High King's guard, dressed in their finest, stand beside the barrel, discouraging shenanigans and ready to oversee the drawing.
At noon the High King’s Maestro raises his arms for silence and a hush fell over the crowd.The only noise to be heard is the light breeze, some soft birdsong and the uneasy shuffling of feet from those amongst the crowd.The Maestro makes a show of rolling up their sleeves and showing his empty hands to all. Then without announcement or proclamation, for all know why they are assembled, he reaches into the barrel in which all the names were held and draws out a slip of paper.In a voice that rang out louder and clearer than any voice had a right to The Maestro calls out the name.
There is cheering, gasping, cries of joy and of disappointment.The loudest cheers come from those around the person whose name has been called as they cheer and congratulate and encourage and, perhaps, even razz the lottery winner.This goes on until a few moments later The Maestro once again raises their hands up high and a hush fell over all.
Again and again and again names are pulled from the wooden barrel and then called out by The Maestro until twelves names in all are called, each cheered and celebrated and set upon a path to The Tower.
Your name is one of the twelve...Congratulations.
As the lottery drawing comes to an end, the winners are left to ponder the great challenge that lies ahead. The air is charged with excitement and anticipation, and the people of the festival look forward to seeing how their champions will fare in the coming days and just how it will change their lives...
---
Yesterday, the day before The Tower.
You each had one last night and day to enjoy the festival, this evening you dine with the High King and a small, intimate grouping of guests. Of course small is relative and no celebratory feast the High King holds is ever really such. The hall is filled with the sound of music and laughter, and the air is thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. The walls are adorned with rich tapestriesfrom each of the kingdoms and gleaming suits of armor of varied styles and makes. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow over everything.
As lottery winners you are led past a long table at the front center of the hall, here the High King sits on a raised throne and dines with his court retinue besides him. Zab Vaire, the High King, greets you each with a warm genuine smile, congratulatory words and well wishes for your upcoming trial. It is a brief introduction, not an audience. You are quickly, politely ushered on to your table down on the floor with the other lottery winners. The other guests, including knights, nobles, mystics and merchants, are seated at tables around the room, all eager to celebrate your selection.
The feast begins, with a lavish spread of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and all manner of sweet and savory dishes. The wine flows freely, and the musicians play lively tunes on their instruments, filling the hall with a festive air. The king rises to his feet, his goblet raised high, and proposes a toast to the lottery winners. He praises your bravery and skill, and tells you that you have been chosen for a great task, one that will test their mettle and bring honor to their names. There is much applause and huzzahs for one does not simply not applaude the High King...
“Before The Tower appeared we were a barbarous, brutal people." Zeb Vaire, the High King, continues. "Human, Halfling, Elf, Orc, it mattered little, we all fought and bled for little other than the right to wake up the next day and do it all again.The path of this island was one of mayhem and death.I believe to this day that if The Tower had not come and change this island’s destiny that we would have wiped one another out and there would be none left but the imps and the wretches of the deep forests and the other nameless monstrosities and dangers that lurk where we do not look.”
“When my companions and I entered The Tower roughly one hundred and fifty years ago we did not seek to change the land, we sought only shelter.A night’s reprieve from the dangers that we had lived with all our lives.We found that and so much more...”The High King pauses here and the crowd is breathless with anticipation that he will reveal what he never has - that this time Zeb Vaire will talk about what happened in The Tower.
“Emerging, we did our part to tame and civilize these lands,” Zen Vaire continues over the muffled sighs of disappointment from the crowd.“We of course still fought and bled but it was now with a purpose and a destiny.We fought back the darkness, we united the people and we united the kingdoms...”He was High King after all, people had to give this a standing ovation.
“Tomorrow our lucky twelve enter the tower and carry on what has become tradition.Who knows what they may find inside?Who knows what they may do when they exit?But what we do know is they carry with them the support and hopes of all of our people...” At this the crowd start applauding.Politely more than raucously for they know there is more to come.
“Good luck tomorrow, my friends,” The High King says raising his goblet once more and facing the table of lottery winners.The applause grows louder.
“Tomorrow you enter The Tower and set yourself again it’s challenges.My thoughts and hopes shall be with you!”The applause is a lot louder than the words and the sentiments probably deserve but one gives the High King a standing ovation even if they said nothing of substance or revealed any real information. The High King departs during the applause and leaves his charges to continue the feast and celebration.
As the night wears on, the celebration grows even more joyous. The guests dance and sing, and the lords and ladies of the delegations mingle with the crowd offering words of encouragement and praise and all eat and drink to their fullest content. Finally, as the hour grows late, the feast comes to a close. Tomorrow you enter The Tower...
---
Yesterday's Tomorrow. AKA Today. Tower Day.
Once you awoke you had all the assistance you needed to prepare for the day. Breakfast was brought to you, there was people there to assist in your donning your armor or other acroutements as needed and then to guide you to the staging ground. Here you were joined by the other lottery winners - The five others of your group and the six in the other. There was also thirty or so brave souls determined to try The Tower of their own accord. You all were put at the start of a path and told it would be about a dozen miles to The Tower. With final wishes of goodwill and success you are trumpeted off and cheered by all those who had not celebrated too much the night before.
The journey should take about half a day, you are instructed to stay on the path and stay together. At least until you arrive at the tower and are ready to enter... Each hour of travel finds some of the lone entrants opting out of continuing. Anxiety or fear get some but it is also quite evident than some never had any intention of actually going through with it. You cannot help but wonder how many stories you heard of people who entered are actually true and how many come from the likes of these who made the show of it but never followed through.
But eventually... Finally... The Tower is in sight. ((And we are back at where we started this post...))
---
---
First, for all, some flashbacks...
Introduce us to your character, how/why they were chosen for the delegation, what they did/ how they enjoyed at the festival up til the lottery. As much or as little sharing as is appropriate for your character and story.
Tell us about the lottery. Were you thrilled by your selection or apprehensive? Did you have others from your kingdom who encouraged and helped you prepare or were you left to your own devices? ((Order of selection was: Seawater - 1st, Raevyn - 2nd, Jaylen - 6th, Nefire - 7th, Dabbert - 11th, Kruamar - last.))
Describe your character (if you haven't already) at the feast with the High King. You are seated with the others of your party so feel free to interact and RP with one another as this is likely your first meetings.
Feel free to share your final thoughts or anything else I haven't specified...
Once the intros and RP and such are done and you all see ready to actually begin the adventure part then I will moves you from the last rest and to the actual entering portion...
"I uh...I don't know." Dabbert said as he stepped through the front gates of Vaire City as he and Ecks returned for some much needed R&R. "I'm not sure the Captain would appreciate it very much if he sends us back for a short visit and then we wind up off on some other detail..."
"It's not a detail." His enormous friend Ecks said in his deep voice. "Besides, what's he going to do? Write a nasty letter to the King? I doubt that, Dab. Calm down."
Dabbert couldn't argue with that as they walked down the street, watching the performers, listening to the music, their stomachs grumbling and wanting in on some of the exquisite smells that were floating about. He caught himself on the verge of drooling as they passed a booth where a cook was slow roasting a whole sheep and carving parts off for patrons.
"Besides, you see this crowd?" Ecks waved around with one hand, pointing out the see of sentient beings around them as they walked down the street. "You think we're lucky enough to wind up on the list? It's just for fun. Don't worry about it."
"I uh...I'm not worried." Dabbert said, his brows scrunching up. "I just don't want to go back on my word. We have a duty."
"We do. We also have to live a little."
There were two things Dabbert hadn't wanted to do when the drinking contest started.
The first was lose.
The second was vomit.
He did both, though he got his list backwards. After the sixteenth (or maybe seventeenth, or maybe twentieth, or who the hell knows) drink, his stomach had revolted and he had vomited with explosive force, splattering it across the table, all over the half-Orc across from him, producing enough spew that it was dripping off the sides of the table and running down the half-Orc's front. This, of course, had not only caused him to be disqualified, but made the little fat Halfling named...named...hell what was his name?...that was sitting at the far end of the table win by default with his twenty one drinks. After all, it was hard for the half-Orc or Dabbert either one to win, with the latter having been disqualified by puking and the former being disqualified for the brawl that had broken out when he'd flipped the table and assaulted a member of the Vaire City Infantry. The Dwarf next to Dabbert had got involved because he was a racist half-Orc hating *******, an official had slipped in puke as he tried to break up the melee and almost died when he hit his head on the way down...it was a whole ordeal.
He hadn't stopped drinking just because the contest was over. Ecks had been off somewhere making sure their names were in for the drawing while Dabbert continued to party. He learned another valuable lesson that night; saying 'I'm home from that damnable war in the God Anvil Mountains' would get you so many free drinks. So many, in fact, that he was blackout drunk in no time.
Ecks had later tried to explain to him their night. How they'd fled the town guards twice. How he'd flirted with some girl (and then her husband) and nearly caused a repeat of the Vaire City Ale Guzzler's Trial brawl. Sometime after that they'd discovered he had a wonderful singing voice as he joined some band of bards on stage at a tavern called the Green Dragon, and at some point had set his own pants on fire before holding up a random reveler and stealing his pants.
He was still drunk the next morning when they'd woken up, so of course hair-of-the-dog was in order to combat the impending hangover, though all that did was prompt them to continue to drink for the rest of the day.
In the annals of Vaire City's history, specifically in the part that talks about the winners of the various lotteries, there is only one winner who is known for vomiting. It was the esteemed soldier Dabbert Hahft, who had promptly sprayed the ground and passed out upon hearing his name...
He would wonder for the rest of his life if the meal with King Vaire was as awkward for anyone else as it was for him. There he was, a sandy-browned haired fellow with the first signs of premature gray, tall, somewhat handsome, his dark clothes and armor all stained from his upchuck during the winning announcement, clearly adorned for war and smelling like he had been in the field...because he had been. He'd stayed quiet, hiding his penchant for stumbling starts to conversations and the hangover that was currently threatening to tear the top of his head off and play frisbee with his brain.
He'd survived the meal, and then made the trek to the Tower...a trek that he would remember for the rest of his life because of the intense, unimaginable amounts of misery he was in, not to mention the fact he'd thought everything smelled like ale. His pale, sunken eyes glanced around from time to time, though usually he tried to keep them shielded with a raised forearm...
Vice-Magistrate Jacoby Highfarrow sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I've told you twice now. You're being deliberately obtuse."
"Are not. Yer not making a lick of sense."
Arms crossed, the young bureaucrat makes a final attempt. "The magistrate intends to include you with the delegation. He... has found himself reason to believe your peculiar behavior and abilities, and their manifestation in a tower festival season, is a sign. So along with the warriors, the heroes, the honored sons and daughters of Weoter... the Magistrate has asked that we send you along as well." He sighs again. "Just in case."
"Just in case o' what?"
"In case the Goddess washed you back up on our shores for a reason. In case it wasn't just random good fortune or an idle miracle. In case she really does have something in store for you." He shrugs. "I doubt it very much, and I fear you're far more likely to embarrass and discredit our good land... but he will not listen to my counsel." He gestures, not for the first time, toward a neatly folded pile of clothes. "We'll have a bath drawn up so you can wash the rum out of your beard. The delegation leaves at dawn."
(Muttering) "Your goddess had nothing to do with it, boy."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothin'. I was just asking you to explain this to me one more time."
Syl drifts through the festival days and nights much as he has every night for the past few months. Find a tavern. Load up. Once the spirit and body are good and numb, pick a fight. Get up and repeat.
It isn't always easy. The people here are so... exuberant. Joyful, even. The music here was fast and lyrical; the taverns filled with dancers and merrymakers. Why, one night he couldn't find a soul willing to fight him. In desperation, he'd walked right up to a barbarian and delivered a right cross. The lout had just laughed, cleared a seat on the bench, and sat him down to drink with him and his friends. Even his proselytizing and doomsaying wasn't always enough to drive the smiling faces away.
On the third night, he had the wild idea to just try and enjoy himself. He tried strange foods and listened to the songs of the elves, trying to guess as what their lyrical speech meant. When an arm-wrestling competition was called, he sat back and watched, laughing and hollering with the other spectators instead of tearing off his shirt and jumping to the front of the line. He let a group of halfling try to teach him to dance, but the gods alone know how they move those little feet so fast. It was... different. It reminded him of his youth in a way. When hard work could be tempered with carefree play. It was good.
That night he dreamt of pipers piping in the deep. After that, it was back to black-outs and brawling.
Was he surprised by the lottery? No, not really. Syl walks a road sloping downhill toward an awful destiny he cannot see but which he can feel. The Tower must be a place of horrors, he thinks, that it should call my name first of all.
He does make note of the mouth-agape Vice-Magistrate and the whispers shared amongst the delegation's leaders. It looks like a few bets are collected upon.
Damn. Should have seen that coming and got in on that action.
"Wrap me up in me oil-skin and jumper No more on the docks I’ll be seen Just tell me old shipmates, I’m taking a trip mates And I’ll see you some day in Fiddler’s Green
When you get on those docks and the long trip is through Ther’s pubs and ther’s clubs and ther’s lassies there too When the girls are all pretty and the beer it is free And ther’s bottles of rum growing from every tree..."*
Deep in his cups and in a seemingly mellow mood, Sylrieth Banks, called Seawater by some, spends much of the feast tapping a beat on the tabletop and singing old sea songs to himself. He is in some stage of middle to late middle age, betrayed by his thin, wispy grey hair. Both the top and the beard are tied up in braids tonight for the celebration with the High King (any who may have encountered him earlier in the festival would have seen him with his hair loose and dirty). Despite his age he looks firm, his arms wiry but strong, with a tattoo of the moon on his left and wright wrists. His skin is weather-beaten and leathery from a lifetime outdoors and his nose looks to have been broken and set half a hundred times - and from the look of the fresh bruise on the right side of his face, he might have a fractured orbital bone right now.
[He's in a mood to make semi-coherent chit chat with any other feast guests.]
[*Copied from an old sea shanty... no author found.]
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PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM -(Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown *Red Dead Annihilation: ToA *Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
Jaylan wasn't comfortable. One could think that in the middle of such festival and merry mood, a young, attractive man, with his tan skin due to his procedence from one of the southern kingdoms, mixed with sharp and elegant features, the pointy ears that one can sparcely see among his long dark hair talked about some elven heritage, would be having a good time, visiting as many taverns and tents as he could, drinking, dancing and singing. But not Jaylan. He was hesitant to come to the Tower Festival, but the wealthy marchant that had hired him as part of his guards headed, obviosuly, to the most important event in the whole island. There was one reason why Jaylan wasn't comfortable. He knew that representatives of his mother kingdom would also attend. And he doesn't want them to find, even see him.
But after two days into the festival he was starting to think that he was, probably, overreacting and letting his own fears took the best of him. There was so many people that, as long as he avoided the banners of Persah, his kingdom, he would be fine. There was no chance that any bounty hunter from there would run into him by chance. He allowed himself to be optimistic. Until the lottery.
How in the name of all the heavens and the hells was his name on that barrel? He, for sure hasn't put it inside it. He learned later that it was his employer, that put the names of all his employeers inside, trying to get access to the nobles and even the High King to make deals and offer her services to them. She thought that as her employer she could accompany them to the festivities and take advantage of the renown inmediatly gained by those selected. She was right. She was delighted that Jaylan were selected and of course started to yell and point at him. Jaylan was not as happy and the sombre glance of some of the Persah delegation and whisperes between them as he was literraly pushed forward didn't make him happier.
At least, as long as he was one of the elected and in the presence of the guards of the High King they cannot reach or touch him. As the other names were picked and the crowd cheered them up he realised that his only chance now were to play along and try to lose his pursuers once he entered the Tower.
Krumar found himself traveling with a mercenary band after his last stay in Wintershire, and Elven Kingdom with Halfling influences found in the north. Some say it was a Halfling kingdom ages ago, but that knowledge has been lost to history. Krumar arrived to Vaire with the Mercenary Band, the Battle Brothers, and quickly settled in playing music for them and anyone else who came to see the big orc strumming a lute and playing a flute. Krumar was enjoying himself and making some coin in the process. He had no intention in joining the lottery. He knew all of the mercenaries who he traveled with would, but he didn't expect his name to be entered, after all he wasn't a fighter, he kept telling himself.
The day of the lottery, Krumar was playing music for the festivities enjoying himself and providing entertainment, but of course would stop when it was time to draw a name. Name after name was selected and to the dismay of all the mercenaries, none of them were chosen. Finally it was time for the last name to be drawn.....Krumar banged on his drums a bit, a drumroll if you will, in anticipation of the name. The name was pulled and he like everyone else stopped to listen....A hush falls over the crowd to hear the last name pulled.....Krumar's
Nefire was a young one of her kingdom. She had heard stories of the Tower, but honestly she wasn't sure if she believed the stories. She knew how folks liked to tell tales, especially her folks.
She loved her kingdom dearly, she worked hard every day, mainly training with the rest of her group - her fellow warriors were like sisters to her. As the call for delegations to represent the halfling kingdom came down, she joined several of her sister warriors happily. The idea of the Tower excited her as well as the tales of the festival, and she couldn't wait to get moving.
At the festival, the amount of activities, people, men, drink.. was all a bit much. The thrill in the air set her skin on edge and she loved that. She watched from the sidelines for several days, enjoying the atmosphere but not really getting into anything as it was all so new, so indulgent. Seeing another man get incredibly sick, throwing up all over, well everything made up her mind to not partake in any drink. Some of her fellow warriors and she did dance to some tunes towards the end of the festival, slowly letting their hair down in anticipation of the Tower.
When her name was drawn, she leapt into the air, fist raised and shouted a warrior cry. She landed solidly on her feet with her greataxe in hand, twirling a few times for good measure. She didn't notice the reactions of the other delegations as she was too focused before her name was called and too thrilled about the chance she was now given for anyone called afterwards. Though she did notice a couple names afterwards.. seeing the human that was utterly sick during the festival, get sick again when his name was called.. hard to miss that.
At the King's celebration, Nefire finds a spot to herself.. this kind of situation completely foreign to her and not knowing how to act takes her totally out of her comfort zone and she is painfully aware of it. The three foot tall halfling had long brown hair with several small braids framing her face to keep the hair out of her way. She wore scale mail, but with how she moved it seemed a bit uncomfortable to her. Covered with a couple of furs draped over her shoulders, she adjusts them a bit as she sits down. Her face has fresh paint markings on it, with a focus around her eyes. If anyone sits near her, she'll smile, hoping they start up conversation but her tongue is completely tied and all her thoughts are wanting to get moving towards the Tower.
Peace. War. Life. Death. Love. Hate. Joy. Sadness. Dawn. Dusk. Day. Night. Natural cycles as old as time itself.
Tanglewood. Witherwood. Elven kingdoms that mirrored each other. One blossoms and blooms as the other’s ‘doom and gloom’. Though one cannot survive and thrive without the other. A symbiotic balance. As is custom, each city sends a representative for the delegation in their respective fields of expertise.
A lithe little blonde bobs and bounces along, vibrant as light itself. She steps with purpose, practically radiating pure warmth like sunshine. A virtuous knight of the light, chosen to represent Tanglewood.
Then there was Witherwood’s chosen. A plague doctor. They who endlessly chase the plagues in efforts to exterminate sickness and heal the infected, and not without experimentation for the sake of medicine. The dark robbed figure wears a real raven-like mask adorned with red glass eyes, its perfectly preserved beak filled with fragrant herbs and oils. The doctor’s mask is said to protect themselves from the sickly and those who have gone insane from disease. Underneath their elaborate hooded robe, they wear worn, yet quality leathers with various reinforcements, belts and pouches.They also carry an arsenal of tools for amputation, cyst popping, and healing tucked within their robe.
Together the pair travel. Together they arrive at the festival. However from there, their paths begin to diverge.
During the festival, the doctor could be spotted amongst the most obscure shops, food stalls and events. They hovered, studying various items, objects and delicacies while their lively counterpart bounced about indulging in an absorbent amount of gluttony and entitling themselves to as much attention as they could possibly gain. Habitually, the doctor was mindful of the spread of disease amongst such commingled crowds. They’d passively observe those who’d over consume, overstimulate, and overstay their welcomes. Besides a bit revolting, there was nothing to be concerned about as it could all be cured with proper hydration, nutrition and/or sleep.
Then it was time.
Together they stood. Together they listened. However from the second name, their paths veer further.
Raevyn Shadowfeather.
When called, the blonde would gasp, turn red in anger and without waiting for the rest of the names, stomp away, refusing to acknowledge that this fate wasn’t meant for them.
With heads already turned, facing their way, the doctor felt eyes on them. For the first time since entering the city, they reach up, palm the face of their mask, and pull it free. Beneath the beaked mask and shadowed hood is a pale skinned woman adorned with various markings. She has red irises and long raven black hair adorned with beads. “Death will eventually get its due.”
(Raevyn’s likeness. Artwork not mine. Credit to original artist)
Silent as a statue for the rest of the names, Raevyn makes note of the one before, and all those that come after. Taking out a journal, she makes notes for herself, which are accompanied by the habits, characteristics, and rough conclusions of each individual. Should she only have a couple drunks and/or gluttons on her hands, that would be easily manageable considering. Sloppy perhaps, but manageable. They all appeared to be in good physical conditions (one was spunky even) without any pre existing ailments. That was satisfactory.
Come the King’s celebration, Raevyn finds herself arriving at the table fashionably late. In her full garments, she almost seems like she’s floating as she glides along to take her seat next to the spunky halfling from the draw. Once seated, the doctor removes her elaborate mask and places it neatly upon her lap. After some long awkward silence at the table she clears her throat. “Hello.” Eyes glance around. Then after further silence, as if natural, she opens her notebook up onto the table and casually asks in a business tone to get the conversation started, and to gauge reactions, “What are your blood types? And do you have any preferences for how your remains are handled, should you perish within? Next of kin?”
After the High King spoke things began to calm down and find a level din of commotion and excitement in the hall.There was still shouts and peels of laughter, calls for more mead or food or eye-pleasing servers, but they became the exception rather than the rule.It is about this time that you look about your table and see the others who have been put into your group.As a whole you are a bit of a motley group.Seated with you are:
An older human, the scent of the sea seemingly lingers wherever he goes. He seems mostly harmless enough but there’s also something not quite right about this one.This is further confirmed when they start talking.Greying beard and hair, thin of frame and hair, he carries about him a sense of the deep unfathomable unknown...
A younger human, she too carried a sense of unknown horrors about her but she carries it with much more style, grace and charm.Robes or scale male, plague mask or body art, dark and menacing seems to be the style for this healer and ender of pain.
A half-Elf with a breastplate and a fanciful sword also sits amongst you.Old enough to know better, still young enough to not care, was this one perhaps hunter... and prey?His eyes dart around the crowd in search of something and of you all he appears the one most likely to decide he would rather be anywhere else.
The Halfling is in the chair made just for their kind, though irked about it.Female, of course, for all know there are no male halflings, she has a fierce and wild look... And a similar great-axe.She looked perhaps the most purely excited to be here and to be chosen, a childlike glee to her.It’s probably wise not to use that expression to her directly though.
There is also a chain mailed human who smells too much of last night’s excesses.Some attempt was made to clean up for the High King’s Feast but you wish it was a more common practice for him.Does his stained and soiled wardrobe reveal who he is or hide something much more worthwhile?Time may tell...
The Half-Orc seems more happy than hostile, more outfitted to entertain than to eviscerate. Of course those from The Duldreg aren’t nearly as fierce and rabid as reputation and campfire tale says, but this one is singlehandedly ruining a good stereotype!
Amidst the clinking of glasses and the hearty laughter of guests, the air at the feast is thick with the whispers of gossip and intrigue.
In one corner of the room, a group of noble ladies are huddled together, their heads bent low as they share scandalous tidbits about their peers. They whisper about a rumored affair between the lord of the manor and his chambermaid, and speculate about the true parentage of a young nobleman's son.
At another table, a trio of merchants are deep in conversation, discussing the latest trade routes and the prices of goods in the various kingdoms of Vaire. They swap stories of their travels and debate the merits of various investment opportunities, their eyes glinting with greed and excitement.
Across from you, however, sits the other six lottery winners... They cut a striking image, their varied appearances and rugged demeanors setting them apart from all the other guests besides yourselves.
Among them are two dwarves, presumably of Baringreag, their broad shoulders and bushy beards marking them of the mountains. One wears chainmail armor and carries a battle-axe at his side, his sharp eyes scanning the room for potential threats.The other has a heavy tome chained to his wrist and an odd featherless bird perhaps, perched upon his shoulder.An elf sits beside them, slender and graceful, her pointed ears twitching as she takes in the sounds of the feast. She wears a leather tunic and carries a longbow, an empty quiver strapped to her back.
On the other side of that table sit two humans, one tall and lean with a shrewd glint in his eye, the other short and muscular, his shaved head gleaming in the candlelight. Both carry swords at their hips and wear sturdy boots and armor.Despite the random lottery this pair seem familiar with one another, strangers rarely hold hands at meals.Finally, a towering Goliath barely fits at the table, his massive frame towering over the others. He wears a bearskin cloak and carries a huge maul at his side, his dark eyes surveying the room with a mix of curiosity and caution.
Despite their rough exteriors, the other six lottery winners are clearly enjoying the feast, their laughter and banter filling the air. They toast each other with tankards of ale, sharing tales of their past exploits and boasting of the challenges they seem sure they will conquer in the future.
“Would you be having a friendly wager?” The elf calls over to your table, her sing-song voice somehow cutting through the din of the room despite not being raised at all.“A year and a day’s luck to the most successful of our two teams, deducted from the other?”
---
The Tower, Today. Now...
Across a sparsely wooded field there appears to be a lingering fog that surrounds the small base of The Tower. It is so thick, that one cannot see through it from any sort of distance, making the bottom portion of the tower obscured from onlookers.You pause and take a breath.There are less now than even at the last rest just an hour or so ago.There is you and your group, the other lottery group of six, of course, and just a scant three random Tower Tries, for lack of a better term.
Are you nervous?Excited?Apprehensive?Hopeful?Perhaps someone should say a few words to...
Seemingly without word or cue the other party of lottery winners takes off at a dash towards The Tower.“Hey!” Shouts out one of the Tower Tries, the annoying one.Before you even know it the other party is swallowed by the fog, gone from sight.
“Yeah, ummm... No thanks,” says another of the Triers and hoofs it full speed back the way you came.The third Trier says nothing but merely starts whistling and walking at a leisurely pace towards the fog and The Tower.
---
RP?
Any and/or all of you may partake of RP in flashback to the time of the feast, or any other time.You don’t need to (and are always welcome to) I’m just noting it as I’m probably done back in that period unless someone wants to do something...
Actions?
I’m assuming you are heading to The Tower of this could be a very short campaign.But how are you heading there?Cutting loose and doing double dash to try to catch up to and try to beat the others?A more leisurely pace?A cautious pace?
Anything Else?
Do not let my questions limit you...And as always, if you just need a quick OOC answer try DM or Discord.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
The King speaks, and Dabbert's head pounds with every word, as though a Quickling is in his head hammering a set of wardrums. His eyes, bloodshot and dry as a desert day, shift around, looking at the rest of the lottery winners as they settle in. Then he realizes it's not the King's words at all...its that bastard who's singing a little shanty and drumming on the table.
"Please." Dabbert pleads with him, whispering just barely loud enough to be heard. "Please, for the love of the holy Tetrea, a little mercy."
His eyes continue to shift about, crawling across the fur-covered Halfling next to him, then to the girl that looked like she had crawled right out of one of those weird share-staring mummers venues as she asks about everyone's blood type.
"Blood....type..." He says, genuinely confused. "Uh...guess mine's red. That seems pretty normal, right? My uh...remains...? I uh...guess...pin my metals upon my chest? Box me up and ship me home. Tell my mother I did my best."
Krumar looks at the young lady curiously. What an odd way to start a conversation Krumar thinks to himself "Uh well my blood is orc colored which is typically darker than other species. Hm as far my remains....Uh" Krumar takes out his Lute and begins to strum and sing "Well now if I die young bury me in satin! Y'all lay me down on a bed of roses. Sink me in a river to the sounds of a adventurous song" Krumar stops playing "it's a work in progress....you know for funerals and such."
At the offer of wager from the elf across the table, Syl, sits up straight and slams his hand down hard upon the table rattling the plates and goblets. [Sorry Dabbert] Pointing at the elf, "Done!" he shouts. Then he grins to himself. Have fun with my luck, foolish lady, heh heh.
He leans back in his seat then, with the practiced imbalance of one so often inebriated his body has adapted to keep from constantly falling over. He looks with a raised eyebrow at the curious woman asking about blood type. Before he can craft a crass response, she asks about his mortal remains. A burial at sea had always been the way, going back generations. There were cemeteries in the village, to be sure, but that was for farmers and bankers and those who didn't know the songs and the pull of the sea. Now, though... he shuddered at the thought of his body, sinking back down into those far fathoms of darkness.
"... Just leave me out for the birds," Syl tells her, then returns to his goblet of rum, sullenly.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM -(Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown *Red Dead Annihilation: ToA *Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
Nefire smiles warmly to the dark cloaked woman as she sits next to her. She isn't sure how to conduct herself amongst all these folks, never being truly away from Whitebridge before. She hungrily enjoys the food in front of her, eyeing everyone around her as she does.
When the wager is presented and the old sea dog at the table answers, she looks at him questioningly, "How does one wager luck? And if one loses, how is it given to the winner?"
She stares at the mask laying in the woman's lap next to her, debating on whether to ask her about it or not, when the beautiful human asks some peculiar questions, "Blood has a type? Like bad blood and good blood? If that's the case, I'm sure mines good. Did you want to see it?" She places her forearm on the table, palm side up and picks up a knife from the table. She looks at her questioningly to see if that is what she is looking for or not.
"As for my remains? Burn me of course. Nice big pyre, but I'm hoping it can be done back home." She starts the sentence with a fire in her voice, but as she mentions home, it drops off dramatically and sounds a bit wistful.
Once by one as each spoke up to provide their thoughts and answers, Raevyn would record them accordingly within her her journal. There’d be no real change in her expression while each individual shares to indicate judgement. If anything, it’d be the opposite. Simple, professional and respectful, the doctor records their wishes in as much detail as they provide. However, when miss Nefire would so casually offer a sample of her blood, there’d finally be a crack in Rae’s expression. The corner of her lip turns into a small warm smile, sinking a hint of a single dimple into her cheek. Reaching out, the doctor places a gentle hand upon her exposed flesh. “That won’t be necessary today.” She was charmed by the wilder woman and her willingness to allow Raevyn to investigate her biology further and dips her head in appreciation. “Thank you, Miss Nefire was it?” After a pause, she adds. “I too wonder how one would wager luck.” It was a good question, and Raevyn was curious of the answer too.
Satisfied with her current entries, the doctor would close her book and tuck it away in its designated place. “Unless any of you would like a full physical before we begin, with that business complete, assuming we all have consumed our share of our meal, and if there’s no other business you’d like to address,” Raevyn looks to the others and should there be no additions to their dying wishes, she’d then stand from her seat, wait a moment and offer her hand for anyone else to join her on the walk to the tower. “Shall we?”
”Appears to be a foggy one today.” Raevyn breaks some silence as they approach, pointing out the obvious as one of the Triers reject it, and turn the other way. She glances over her shoulder to them briefly before looking back ahead. Cool as a cucumber, she asks, “Any one else with any reservations, or strategies, before we dive in?”
"Words have power," the old seafarer says softly into his cups. "Some wagers are settled in coin and enforced by fists and cudgels. Others... you agree to the terms and then the greater powers do the enforcing." Up to now, he hadn't clearly been answering the halfling or doctors questions, but now he looked up at both of them. Raising a mug and pointing a calloused finger at Nefire, he asks, "Ever wonder how when someone says 'at least things can't get any worse,' things always get worse, and right quick?"
"Words have power. The elf wishes to wager luck, and I've accepted. However the bet plays out, rest assured we will be held to our wager."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM -(Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown *Red Dead Annihilation: ToA *Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
"Today." Dabbert says as the strange woman places her hand on the Halfling's arm. "That uh...indicates it may be necessary later."
He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes and massages, trying to force himself to some balance between suffering and normalcy while he listens to the King's yammering and the chitter-chatter of the other guests.
"Ah uh...full physical?" Dabbert says. "Is that the one where you uh...have to cough? I think I'll pass for now. Never could understand what that proved anyway."
He grows silent as the seadog has his say. He starts to add some quip to the dialogue...then decides to shut up and nurse his aching everything.
Krumar puts his lute away as his new companions were seemingly unimpressed by his song. He scowls a bit writing in his book that the song is a bust or maybe just needs a little fine tuning. He sits quietly listening to the others chit chat and make wagers. He hears, whose name he thinks is Syl, speak about the importance words which excites him and takes back out his lute "Maybe you will enjoy this song instead!" Hs stops and realizes that it's more of a love song...."Maybe another time, I guess it is time to head to the tower then....I uhhh can play a song for our walk"
Nefire stares at the old man as he points his finger at her. She isn't sure how to take his words or his directness, but decides to just let it go and takes another swig of ale.
As Raevyn holds out her hand to get up, Nefire gratefully takes it, "Yes, this is going to be fun!" She looks at the others at her table, unsure why the rest aren't as excited as she is. She shrugs and figures everyone handles their excitement in their own way. Then she slightly narrows her eyes... as long as they can all fight. She turns towards Krumar, unsure how to size him up, "A song for our walk? Um, sure, kind of like a battle march?"
As the approach the tower, she scoffs at the ones that are trickling away, turning tail. "Reservations? Hell no. Strategies? Um, that's a no as well." She stays with the group even though she is aching to go faster, even race the other group.
Once Sylrieth calls out “Done!” the elf at the table across from you smiles with glee and claps her hands three time quickly, in joy?
“They do indeed!” The elf agrees a little later as she hears Syl state that words have power and the pair of dwarves with her chuckle heartily and drink their cups dry.
The feast continues on mostly without uproar or drama and your group finds their thrill and enjoyment of the event waning.Perhaps it is the rich and elite who dominate the event are themselves just a bit above bored since such fanciful events are their common fare.Perhaps it is that you know that you have no idea what tomorrow and The Tower will bring.Whatever it is, you have met and at least superficially gotten to know the others in your group.You could pick them out of a line up and possibly recall their names anyway.With that done, with your bellies filled, and with the knowledge that you’ll gain no more knowledge tonight, you all begin to leave.
You get what rest you can and makes your final preparations.You are summoned at dawn and everyone is gathered and organized.Words are spoken, wellness is wished, a trio of conflicting clergy do their devotions in the ways they believe appropriate. Mostly you are impatient...But eventually you are set on the road to The Tower and for a handful of more hours at least have walking to do.And now, the fog... And through that is indeed The Tower.
The other lottery winners bolted as a team, delving headfirst and quickly into the swirling fog with nary a fare the well.They are of the opinion this is a contest of some kind...The last lone undrawn Tower Trier looks at them, looks at your group, shrugs and then just wanders into the fog with only a glance back.
Nefire, the halfling, seems to have energy to burn and is eager to follow as well.She pauses though and sees the more relaxed attitude of the rest of the group so restrains herself.Raevyn, the human young woman or dark fashion choices and macabre interests, asks you all to wait just a moment or two, dons her Plague Doctor mask of black feathers and beak, then begins digging though her gear.Over the next ten minute or so she lights a couple of candles, burns some incense, strategically places a couple odd but obviously sacred totems in specific places before her, constantly referring to a dark tome so as to be precise.She begins a low chant in a language that is more whistles and chirps than anything else and passes a dark feather over the candles and through the incense smoke with a very precise movements. Depending on how interesting you find it all this is over in but moments or... it... takes... for... ever...!
When the ritual is complete Raevyn Shadowfeather stands and looks about her.To the others it appears as if her eyes have a bit of a glassy sheen, to her it is as if the world does.And amongst that sheen she can see the aura of magic wherever it dwells about her for about thirty feet or so...There is definitely something magical about that fog.Magic from the School of Conjuration, if your deductions are correct.You suspect it is connected to the way The Tower appears approximately every dozen years or so... And then disappears when it has been entered and exited?Perhaps you will learn more about that part of the cycle...Your best guess is that the fog isn’t inherently harmful.And there is no way to The Tower but through it
There is magic, Raevyn confirms, but she doesn’t believe it is harmful.And with that the group begins to wander into the fog.The world quickly turns into shades of grey and sounds become muffled.Not five feet in and already you are having trouble seeing the person to your left or right.It is a soupy mist that tickles your skin and makes your clothing cling in a rather annoying way.You close ranks.You walk two by two, three deep, those behind with a hand stretched out to hold the person in front’s shoulder.
As you walk, the ground beneath your feet becomes slippery and treacherous. Every step feels uncertain. Syl is sure he can smell the sea upon this mist, Jaylan constantly feels someone is creeping up behind him.Dabbert is thankful that the sounds of the world are muffled and not pounding in his head, at least until Kruamar starts singing about The Foggy Dew.Nefire is silently glad she is leading the march with Raevyn so that she didn’t have to grab the belt of the person in front of her instead of their shoulder...Raevyn starts to see things in the fog.Small glowing motes in the swirl of the already glowing magic mist.The mist is Conjuration but these motes...School of Necromancy? she wonders and wants to consult her book but the fog wouldn’t allow for her to read even if...Oh crap.
“This could be dangerous...” She says quietly as the implications down on her.Then she is a bit louder about her concern.There aren’t a lot of motes in the fog but they’re moving and swirling and the only person amongst you who can see them are Raevyn.She has perhaps five? minutes remaining with which she can continue to Detect Magic.You better run!
Everyone- Dexterity Save!
You have advantage if you stay with and listen to Raevyn’s directions, at least so long as her Detect Magic persists...
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
This morning, Syl has found himself wondering more about the drawing than about the adventure. It still doesn't make sense to him why he would be chosen for such a thing... unless there is some dark and sinister purpose behind it.
With that in mind, he proceeds casually into the fog alongside his not-so randomly selected companions. He looks like a porter, with two backpacks and another sack tossed over his shoulders. The crossbow he was gifted by the Magistrate's men clunk uncomfortably along behind him. He is still not used to carrying such a thing, but nevertheless he appreciates the thought of being able to put a steel bolt through someone giving him the business at 20 yards.
When the warning goes out to run, he nods, knowingly.
Yep. Here we go.
DEX: 17
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM -(Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown *Red Dead Annihilation: ToA *Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Dabbert walks alongside his newfound party with his halberd drawn and to bare, ready for anything that could come out of the fog toward them. His footsteps are light and careful as he traverses the slippery, and he does what he can to keep himself from falling.
He listens carefully to what the strange doctor, Raevyn he thinks, says as she performs her ritual. As he begins to notice the motes, he nods.
"Everyone uh...just stay close and take a deep breath." He says. "Remember, if we have to fight, fight as a team."
He reaches out with his halberd, displaying the full ten feet of its reach while he beings to slowly glide forward with deliberate steps. He doesn't take the lead. Instead, he tries to maintain a position where he can assist anyone around him quickly...
Finally, The Tower is in sight.
Towering above what seems to be a final copse of trees and brush you see The Tower you have been tasked with entering. From this distance it is hard to take it's full measure but it appears to be four sided, remarkably thin but breathtakingly tall. The tallest structure any of you have seen, by far. What response the sight of it instills in you is for you alone to know but as you look about at the others who have reached this point you see a determined resolve to go forth and test themselves against it.
"A small rest then, yeah?" Someone asks. They are one of the lone adventurers determined to try The Tower despite not being chosen in the lottery. Their fair and young and perpetually smiling in response to some witticism that apparently only they have heard. They are kind of annoying. Still, it appears that it will be but a short push through the trees before the final hundred feet or so to The Tower and you all know that once you are that close it'll be a bit of a sprint to see who can enter first so a rest first is the general consensus. Time to make your final preparations...
---
Much earlier...
The Tower has appeared and you have been chosen to as part of your kingdom's delegation to go to the festival. Each kingdom is free to to choose who to send and why to send them as they see fit. Tradition holds that it is an honor to be sent but it has been known for someone to be included just to get them out of the way for a week or two...
Preparations are quick and frantic, everyone wants to enjoy the festival for as long as they can and so are eager to get there. There is no greater party on Vaire than The Tower festival. Each kingdom sends food and entertainment and the best of all it can offer in an attempt to outdo and show up the other kingdoms. While tradition and custom forbid hostilities or even animosity during the festival, friendly rivalries of all kinds exist and are on display. Within a day or so each caravan leaves packed to the hilt and full of excitement.
The festival goes on and on as far as the eye can see. There are tents and banners of all colors and styles. The air is filled with the sound of lively music, the clanging of swords, and the murmur of excited voices. The aroma of roasting meat and spiced ale wafts through the air, making ones mouth water with anticipation for all the kingdoms send their most delicious fare. Jugglers, acrobats, and jesters roam the crowds, performing daring feats and entertaining the masses. Groups of minstrels play lively tunes on the lutes, harps and instruments unknown while people dance and twirl to the rhythm. A knight in full armor rides through the sprawling jovility leading a procession of noble ladies and gentlemen on horseback, all decked out in their finest clothes and jewelry. There is jousting and arm wrestling, archery competitions and pie eating contests. All pleasures and distractions are available during the festival. You are free to indulge as you saw fit from the time your delegation arrived until the lottery was held...
---
The Lottery...
The lottery drawing takes place at the center of the town square, where a large wooden barrel has been set up on a raised platform. The barrel is filled with small slips of parchment, one for each person at the festival for all, save the children, must be entered. The crowd of eager spectators presses close to the platform, craning their necks for a better view. A group of the High King's guard, dressed in their finest, stand beside the barrel, discouraging shenanigans and ready to oversee the drawing.
At noon the High King’s Maestro raises his arms for silence and a hush fell over the crowd. The only noise to be heard is the light breeze, some soft birdsong and the uneasy shuffling of feet from those amongst the crowd. The Maestro makes a show of rolling up their sleeves and showing his empty hands to all. Then without announcement or proclamation, for all know why they are assembled, he reaches into the barrel in which all the names were held and draws out a slip of paper. In a voice that rang out louder and clearer than any voice had a right to The Maestro calls out the name.
There is cheering, gasping, cries of joy and of disappointment. The loudest cheers come from those around the person whose name has been called as they cheer and congratulate and encourage and, perhaps, even razz the lottery winner. This goes on until a few moments later The Maestro once again raises their hands up high and a hush fell over all.
Again and again and again names are pulled from the wooden barrel and then called out by The Maestro until twelves names in all are called, each cheered and celebrated and set upon a path to The Tower.
Your name is one of the twelve... Congratulations.
As the lottery drawing comes to an end, the winners are left to ponder the great challenge that lies ahead. The air is charged with excitement and anticipation, and the people of the festival look forward to seeing how their champions will fare in the coming days and just how it will change their lives...
---
Yesterday, the day before The Tower.
You each had one last night and day to enjoy the festival, this evening you dine with the High King and a small, intimate grouping of guests. Of course small is relative and no celebratory feast the High King holds is ever really such. The hall is filled with the sound of music and laughter, and the air is thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. The walls are adorned with rich tapestriesfrom each of the kingdoms and gleaming suits of armor of varied styles and makes. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow over everything.
As lottery winners you are led past a long table at the front center of the hall, here the High King sits on a raised throne and dines with his court retinue besides him. Zab Vaire, the High King, greets you each with a warm genuine smile, congratulatory words and well wishes for your upcoming trial. It is a brief introduction, not an audience. You are quickly, politely ushered on to your table down on the floor with the other lottery winners. The other guests, including knights, nobles, mystics and merchants, are seated at tables around the room, all eager to celebrate your selection.
The feast begins, with a lavish spread of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and all manner of sweet and savory dishes. The wine flows freely, and the musicians play lively tunes on their instruments, filling the hall with a festive air. The king rises to his feet, his goblet raised high, and proposes a toast to the lottery winners. He praises your bravery and skill, and tells you that you have been chosen for a great task, one that will test their mettle and bring honor to their names. There is much applause and huzzahs for one does not simply not applaude the High King...
“Before The Tower appeared we were a barbarous, brutal people." Zeb Vaire, the High King, continues. "Human, Halfling, Elf, Orc, it mattered little, we all fought and bled for little other than the right to wake up the next day and do it all again. The path of this island was one of mayhem and death. I believe to this day that if The Tower had not come and change this island’s destiny that we would have wiped one another out and there would be none left but the imps and the wretches of the deep forests and the other nameless monstrosities and dangers that lurk where we do not look.”
“When my companions and I entered The Tower roughly one hundred and fifty years ago we did not seek to change the land, we sought only shelter. A night’s reprieve from the dangers that we had lived with all our lives. We found that and so much more...” The High King pauses here and the crowd is breathless with anticipation that he will reveal what he never has - that this time Zeb Vaire will talk about what happened in The Tower.
“Emerging, we did our part to tame and civilize these lands,” Zen Vaire continues over the muffled sighs of disappointment from the crowd. “We of course still fought and bled but it was now with a purpose and a destiny. We fought back the darkness, we united the people and we united the kingdoms...” He was High King after all, people had to give this a standing ovation.
“Tomorrow our lucky twelve enter the tower and carry on what has become tradition. Who knows what they may find inside? Who knows what they may do when they exit? But what we do know is they carry with them the support and hopes of all of our people...” At this the crowd start applauding. Politely more than raucously for they know there is more to come.
“Good luck tomorrow, my friends,” The High King says raising his goblet once more and facing the table of lottery winners. The applause grows louder.
“Tomorrow you enter The Tower and set yourself again it’s challenges. My thoughts and hopes shall be with you!” The applause is a lot louder than the words and the sentiments probably deserve but one gives the High King a standing ovation even if they said nothing of substance or revealed any real information. The High King departs during the applause and leaves his charges to continue the feast and celebration.
As the night wears on, the celebration grows even more joyous. The guests dance and sing, and the lords and ladies of the delegations mingle with the crowd offering words of encouragement and praise and all eat and drink to their fullest content. Finally, as the hour grows late, the feast comes to a close. Tomorrow you enter The Tower...
---
Yesterday's Tomorrow. AKA Today. Tower Day.
Once you awoke you had all the assistance you needed to prepare for the day. Breakfast was brought to you, there was people there to assist in your donning your armor or other acroutements as needed and then to guide you to the staging ground. Here you were joined by the other lottery winners - The five others of your group and the six in the other. There was also thirty or so brave souls determined to try The Tower of their own accord. You all were put at the start of a path and told it would be about a dozen miles to The Tower. With final wishes of goodwill and success you are trumpeted off and cheered by all those who had not celebrated too much the night before.
The journey should take about half a day, you are instructed to stay on the path and stay together. At least until you arrive at the tower and are ready to enter... Each hour of travel finds some of the lone entrants opting out of continuing. Anxiety or fear get some but it is also quite evident than some never had any intention of actually going through with it. You cannot help but wonder how many stories you heard of people who entered are actually true and how many come from the likes of these who made the show of it but never followed through.
But eventually... Finally... The Tower is in sight. ((And we are back at where we started this post...))
---
---
First, for all, some flashbacks...
Once the intros and RP and such are done and you all see ready to actually begin the adventure part then I will moves you from the last rest and to the actual entering portion...
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
"I uh...I don't know." Dabbert said as he stepped through the front gates of Vaire City as he and Ecks returned for some much needed R&R. "I'm not sure the Captain would appreciate it very much if he sends us back for a short visit and then we wind up off on some other detail..."
"It's not a detail." His enormous friend Ecks said in his deep voice. "Besides, what's he going to do? Write a nasty letter to the King? I doubt that, Dab. Calm down."
Dabbert couldn't argue with that as they walked down the street, watching the performers, listening to the music, their stomachs grumbling and wanting in on some of the exquisite smells that were floating about. He caught himself on the verge of drooling as they passed a booth where a cook was slow roasting a whole sheep and carving parts off for patrons.
"Besides, you see this crowd?" Ecks waved around with one hand, pointing out the see of sentient beings around them as they walked down the street. "You think we're lucky enough to wind up on the list? It's just for fun. Don't worry about it."
"I uh...I'm not worried." Dabbert said, his brows scrunching up. "I just don't want to go back on my word. We have a duty."
"We do. We also have to live a little."
There were two things Dabbert hadn't wanted to do when the drinking contest started.
The first was lose.
The second was vomit.
He did both, though he got his list backwards. After the sixteenth (or maybe seventeenth, or maybe twentieth, or who the hell knows) drink, his stomach had revolted and he had vomited with explosive force, splattering it across the table, all over the half-Orc across from him, producing enough spew that it was dripping off the sides of the table and running down the half-Orc's front. This, of course, had not only caused him to be disqualified, but made the little fat Halfling named...named...hell what was his name?...that was sitting at the far end of the table win by default with his twenty one drinks. After all, it was hard for the half-Orc or Dabbert either one to win, with the latter having been disqualified by puking and the former being disqualified for the brawl that had broken out when he'd flipped the table and assaulted a member of the Vaire City Infantry. The Dwarf next to Dabbert had got involved because he was a racist half-Orc hating *******, an official had slipped in puke as he tried to break up the melee and almost died when he hit his head on the way down...it was a whole ordeal.
He hadn't stopped drinking just because the contest was over. Ecks had been off somewhere making sure their names were in for the drawing while Dabbert continued to party. He learned another valuable lesson that night; saying 'I'm home from that damnable war in the God Anvil Mountains' would get you so many free drinks. So many, in fact, that he was blackout drunk in no time.
Ecks had later tried to explain to him their night. How they'd fled the town guards twice. How he'd flirted with some girl (and then her husband) and nearly caused a repeat of the Vaire City Ale Guzzler's Trial brawl. Sometime after that they'd discovered he had a wonderful singing voice as he joined some band of bards on stage at a tavern called the Green Dragon, and at some point had set his own pants on fire before holding up a random reveler and stealing his pants.
He was still drunk the next morning when they'd woken up, so of course hair-of-the-dog was in order to combat the impending hangover, though all that did was prompt them to continue to drink for the rest of the day.
In the annals of Vaire City's history, specifically in the part that talks about the winners of the various lotteries, there is only one winner who is known for vomiting. It was the esteemed soldier Dabbert Hahft, who had promptly sprayed the ground and passed out upon hearing his name...
He would wonder for the rest of his life if the meal with King Vaire was as awkward for anyone else as it was for him. There he was, a sandy-browned haired fellow with the first signs of premature gray, tall, somewhat handsome, his dark clothes and armor all stained from his upchuck during the winning announcement, clearly adorned for war and smelling like he had been in the field...because he had been. He'd stayed quiet, hiding his penchant for stumbling starts to conversations and the hangover that was currently threatening to tear the top of his head off and play frisbee with his brain.
He'd survived the meal, and then made the trek to the Tower...a trek that he would remember for the rest of his life because of the intense, unimaginable amounts of misery he was in, not to mention the fact he'd thought everything smelled like ale. His pale, sunken eyes glanced around from time to time, though usually he tried to keep them shielded with a raised forearm...
DM of AURYN: The Measure of Devotion - Escape from New York
DM of Legacy of NIMH
"Say that again?"
Vice-Magistrate Jacoby Highfarrow sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I've told you twice now. You're being deliberately obtuse."
"Are not. Yer not making a lick of sense."
Arms crossed, the young bureaucrat makes a final attempt. "The magistrate intends to include you with the delegation. He... has found himself reason to believe your peculiar behavior and abilities, and their manifestation in a tower festival season, is a sign. So along with the warriors, the heroes, the honored sons and daughters of Weoter... the Magistrate has asked that we send you along as well." He sighs again. "Just in case."
"Just in case o' what?"
"In case the Goddess washed you back up on our shores for a reason. In case it wasn't just random good fortune or an idle miracle. In case she really does have something in store for you." He shrugs. "I doubt it very much, and I fear you're far more likely to embarrass and discredit our good land... but he will not listen to my counsel." He gestures, not for the first time, toward a neatly folded pile of clothes. "We'll have a bath drawn up so you can wash the rum out of your beard. The delegation leaves at dawn."
(Muttering) "Your goddess had nothing to do with it, boy."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothin'. I was just asking you to explain this to me one more time."
Syl drifts through the festival days and nights much as he has every night for the past few months. Find a tavern. Load up. Once the spirit and body are good and numb, pick a fight. Get up and repeat.
It isn't always easy. The people here are so... exuberant. Joyful, even. The music here was fast and lyrical; the taverns filled with dancers and merrymakers. Why, one night he couldn't find a soul willing to fight him. In desperation, he'd walked right up to a barbarian and delivered a right cross. The lout had just laughed, cleared a seat on the bench, and sat him down to drink with him and his friends. Even his proselytizing and doomsaying wasn't always enough to drive the smiling faces away.
On the third night, he had the wild idea to just try and enjoy himself. He tried strange foods and listened to the songs of the elves, trying to guess as what their lyrical speech meant. When an arm-wrestling competition was called, he sat back and watched, laughing and hollering with the other spectators instead of tearing off his shirt and jumping to the front of the line. He let a group of halfling try to teach him to dance, but the gods alone know how they move those little feet so fast. It was... different. It reminded him of his youth in a way. When hard work could be tempered with carefree play. It was good.
That night he dreamt of pipers piping in the deep. After that, it was back to black-outs and brawling.
Was he surprised by the lottery? No, not really. Syl walks a road sloping downhill toward an awful destiny he cannot see but which he can feel. The Tower must be a place of horrors, he thinks, that it should call my name first of all.
He does make note of the mouth-agape Vice-Magistrate and the whispers shared amongst the delegation's leaders. It looks like a few bets are collected upon.
Damn. Should have seen that coming and got in on that action.
"Wrap me up in me oil-skin and jumper
No more on the docks I’ll be seen
Just tell me old shipmates, I’m taking a trip mates
And I’ll see you some day in Fiddler’s Green
When you get on those docks and the long trip is through
Ther’s pubs and ther’s clubs and ther’s lassies there too
When the girls are all pretty and the beer it is free
And ther’s bottles of rum growing from every tree..."*
Deep in his cups and in a seemingly mellow mood, Sylrieth Banks, called Seawater by some, spends much of the feast tapping a beat on the tabletop and singing old sea songs to himself. He is in some stage of middle to late middle age, betrayed by his thin, wispy grey hair. Both the top and the beard are tied up in braids tonight for the celebration with the High King (any who may have encountered him earlier in the festival would have seen him with his hair loose and dirty). Despite his age he looks firm, his arms wiry but strong, with a tattoo of the moon on his left and wright wrists. His skin is weather-beaten and leathery from a lifetime outdoors and his nose looks to have been broken and set half a hundred times - and from the look of the fresh bruise on the right side of his face, he might have a fractured orbital bone right now.
[He's in a mood to make semi-coherent chit chat with any other feast guests.]
[*Copied from an old sea shanty... no author found.]
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM - (Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown * Red Dead Annihilation: ToA * Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
Jaylan wasn't comfortable. One could think that in the middle of such festival and merry mood, a young, attractive man, with his tan skin due to his procedence from one of the southern kingdoms, mixed with sharp and elegant features, the pointy ears that one can sparcely see among his long dark hair talked about some elven heritage, would be having a good time, visiting as many taverns and tents as he could, drinking, dancing and singing. But not Jaylan. He was hesitant to come to the Tower Festival, but the wealthy marchant that had hired him as part of his guards headed, obviosuly, to the most important event in the whole island. There was one reason why Jaylan wasn't comfortable. He knew that representatives of his mother kingdom would also attend. And he doesn't want them to find, even see him.
But after two days into the festival he was starting to think that he was, probably, overreacting and letting his own fears took the best of him. There was so many people that, as long as he avoided the banners of Persah, his kingdom, he would be fine. There was no chance that any bounty hunter from there would run into him by chance. He allowed himself to be optimistic. Until the lottery.
How in the name of all the heavens and the hells was his name on that barrel? He, for sure hasn't put it inside it. He learned later that it was his employer, that put the names of all his employeers inside, trying to get access to the nobles and even the High King to make deals and offer her services to them. She thought that as her employer she could accompany them to the festivities and take advantage of the renown inmediatly gained by those selected. She was right. She was delighted that Jaylan were selected and of course started to yell and point at him. Jaylan was not as happy and the sombre glance of some of the Persah delegation and whisperes between them as he was literraly pushed forward didn't make him happier.
At least, as long as he was one of the elected and in the presence of the guards of the High King they cannot reach or touch him. As the other names were picked and the crowd cheered them up he realised that his only chance now were to play along and try to lose his pursuers once he entered the Tower.
PbP Character: A few ;)
Krumar found himself traveling with a mercenary band after his last stay in Wintershire, and Elven Kingdom with Halfling influences found in the north. Some say it was a Halfling kingdom ages ago, but that knowledge has been lost to history. Krumar arrived to Vaire with the Mercenary Band, the Battle Brothers, and quickly settled in playing music for them and anyone else who came to see the big orc strumming a lute and playing a flute. Krumar was enjoying himself and making some coin in the process. He had no intention in joining the lottery. He knew all of the mercenaries who he traveled with would, but he didn't expect his name to be entered, after all he wasn't a fighter, he kept telling himself.
The day of the lottery, Krumar was playing music for the festivities enjoying himself and providing entertainment, but of course would stop when it was time to draw a name. Name after name was selected and to the dismay of all the mercenaries, none of them were chosen. Finally it was time for the last name to be drawn.....Krumar banged on his drums a bit, a drumroll if you will, in anticipation of the name. The name was pulled and he like everyone else stopped to listen....A hush falls over the crowd to hear the last name pulled.....Krumar's
Nefire was a young one of her kingdom. She had heard stories of the Tower, but honestly she wasn't sure if she believed the stories. She knew how folks liked to tell tales, especially her folks.
She loved her kingdom dearly, she worked hard every day, mainly training with the rest of her group - her fellow warriors were like sisters to her. As the call for delegations to represent the halfling kingdom came down, she joined several of her sister warriors happily. The idea of the Tower excited her as well as the tales of the festival, and she couldn't wait to get moving.
At the festival, the amount of activities, people, men, drink.. was all a bit much. The thrill in the air set her skin on edge and she loved that. She watched from the sidelines for several days, enjoying the atmosphere but not really getting into anything as it was all so new, so indulgent. Seeing another man get incredibly sick, throwing up all over, well everything made up her mind to not partake in any drink. Some of her fellow warriors and she did dance to some tunes towards the end of the festival, slowly letting their hair down in anticipation of the Tower.
When her name was drawn, she leapt into the air, fist raised and shouted a warrior cry. She landed solidly on her feet with her greataxe in hand, twirling a few times for good measure. She didn't notice the reactions of the other delegations as she was too focused before her name was called and too thrilled about the chance she was now given for anyone called afterwards. Though she did notice a couple names afterwards.. seeing the human that was utterly sick during the festival, get sick again when his name was called.. hard to miss that.
At the King's celebration, Nefire finds a spot to herself.. this kind of situation completely foreign to her and not knowing how to act takes her totally out of her comfort zone and she is painfully aware of it. The three foot tall halfling had long brown hair with several small braids framing her face to keep the hair out of her way. She wore scale mail, but with how she moved it seemed a bit uncomfortable to her. Covered with a couple of furs draped over her shoulders, she adjusts them a bit as she sits down. Her face has fresh paint markings on it, with a focus around her eyes. If anyone sits near her, she'll smile, hoping they start up conversation but her tongue is completely tied and all her thoughts are wanting to get moving towards the Tower.
Peace. War. Life. Death.
Love. Hate. Joy. Sadness.
Dawn. Dusk. Day. Night.
Natural cycles as old as time itself.
Tanglewood. Witherwood. Elven kingdoms that mirrored each other. One blossoms and blooms as the other’s ‘doom and gloom’. Though one cannot survive and thrive without the other. A symbiotic balance. As is custom, each city sends a representative for the delegation in their respective fields of expertise.
A lithe little blonde bobs and bounces along, vibrant as light itself. She steps with purpose, practically radiating pure warmth like sunshine. A virtuous knight of the light, chosen to represent Tanglewood.
Then there was Witherwood’s chosen. A plague doctor. They who endlessly chase the plagues in efforts to exterminate sickness and heal the infected, and not without experimentation for the sake of medicine. The dark robbed figure wears a real raven-like mask adorned with red glass eyes, its perfectly preserved beak filled with fragrant herbs and oils. The doctor’s mask is said to protect themselves from the sickly and those who have gone insane from disease. Underneath their elaborate hooded robe, they wear worn, yet quality leathers with various reinforcements, belts and pouches.They also carry an arsenal of tools for amputation, cyst popping, and healing tucked within their robe.
Together the pair travel. Together they arrive at the festival. However from there, their paths begin to diverge.
During the festival, the doctor could be spotted amongst the most obscure shops, food stalls and events. They hovered, studying various items, objects and delicacies while their lively counterpart bounced about indulging in an absorbent amount of gluttony and entitling themselves to as much attention as they could possibly gain. Habitually, the doctor was mindful of the spread of disease amongst such commingled crowds. They’d passively observe those who’d over consume, overstimulate, and overstay their welcomes. Besides a bit revolting, there was nothing to be concerned about as it could all be cured with proper hydration, nutrition and/or sleep.
Then it was time.
Together they stood. Together they listened. However from the second name, their paths veer further.
Raevyn Shadowfeather.
When called, the blonde would gasp, turn red in anger and without waiting for the rest of the names, stomp away, refusing to acknowledge that this fate wasn’t meant for them.
With heads already turned, facing their way, the doctor felt eyes on them. For the first time since entering the city, they reach up, palm the face of their mask, and pull it free. Beneath the beaked mask and shadowed hood is a pale skinned woman adorned with various markings. She has red irises and long raven black hair adorned with beads. “Death will eventually get its due.”
(Raevyn’s likeness. Artwork not mine. Credit to original artist)
Silent as a statue for the rest of the names, Raevyn makes note of the one before, and all those that come after. Taking out a journal, she makes notes for herself, which are accompanied by the habits, characteristics, and rough conclusions of each individual. Should she only have a couple drunks and/or gluttons on her hands, that would be easily manageable considering. Sloppy perhaps, but manageable. They all appeared to be in good physical conditions (one was spunky even) without any pre existing ailments. That was satisfactory.
Come the King’s celebration, Raevyn finds herself arriving at the table fashionably late. In her full garments, she almost seems like she’s floating as she glides along to take her seat next to the spunky halfling from the draw. Once seated, the doctor removes her elaborate mask and places it neatly upon her lap. After some long awkward silence at the table she clears her throat. “Hello.” Eyes glance around. Then after further silence, as if natural, she opens her notebook up onto the table and casually asks in a business tone to get the conversation started, and to gauge reactions, “What are your blood types? And do you have any preferences for how your remains are handled, should you perish within? Next of kin?”
just an unstable unicorn.
Yesterday, the day before The Tower.
After the High King spoke things began to calm down and find a level din of commotion and excitement in the hall. There was still shouts and peels of laughter, calls for more mead or food or eye-pleasing servers, but they became the exception rather than the rule. It is about this time that you look about your table and see the others who have been put into your group. As a whole you are a bit of a motley group. Seated with you are:
Amidst the clinking of glasses and the hearty laughter of guests, the air at the feast is thick with the whispers of gossip and intrigue.
In one corner of the room, a group of noble ladies are huddled together, their heads bent low as they share scandalous tidbits about their peers. They whisper about a rumored affair between the lord of the manor and his chambermaid, and speculate about the true parentage of a young nobleman's son.
At another table, a trio of merchants are deep in conversation, discussing the latest trade routes and the prices of goods in the various kingdoms of Vaire. They swap stories of their travels and debate the merits of various investment opportunities, their eyes glinting with greed and excitement.
Across from you, however, sits the other six lottery winners... They cut a striking image, their varied appearances and rugged demeanors setting them apart from all the other guests besides yourselves.
Among them are two dwarves, presumably of Baringreag, their broad shoulders and bushy beards marking them of the mountains. One wears chainmail armor and carries a battle-axe at his side, his sharp eyes scanning the room for potential threats. The other has a heavy tome chained to his wrist and an odd featherless bird perhaps, perched upon his shoulder. An elf sits beside them, slender and graceful, her pointed ears twitching as she takes in the sounds of the feast. She wears a leather tunic and carries a longbow, an empty quiver strapped to her back.
On the other side of that table sit two humans, one tall and lean with a shrewd glint in his eye, the other short and muscular, his shaved head gleaming in the candlelight. Both carry swords at their hips and wear sturdy boots and armor. Despite the random lottery this pair seem familiar with one another, strangers rarely hold hands at meals. Finally, a towering Goliath barely fits at the table, his massive frame towering over the others. He wears a bearskin cloak and carries a huge maul at his side, his dark eyes surveying the room with a mix of curiosity and caution.
Despite their rough exteriors, the other six lottery winners are clearly enjoying the feast, their laughter and banter filling the air. They toast each other with tankards of ale, sharing tales of their past exploits and boasting of the challenges they seem sure they will conquer in the future.
“Would you be having a friendly wager?” The elf calls over to your table, her sing-song voice somehow cutting through the din of the room despite not being raised at all. “A year and a day’s luck to the most successful of our two teams, deducted from the other?”
---
The Tower, Today. Now...
Across a sparsely wooded field there appears to be a lingering fog that surrounds the small base of The Tower. It is so thick, that one cannot see through it from any sort of distance, making the bottom portion of the tower obscured from onlookers. You pause and take a breath. There are less now than even at the last rest just an hour or so ago. There is you and your group, the other lottery group of six, of course, and just a scant three random Tower Tries, for lack of a better term.
Are you nervous? Excited? Apprehensive? Hopeful? Perhaps someone should say a few words to...
Seemingly without word or cue the other party of lottery winners takes off at a dash towards The Tower. “Hey!” Shouts out one of the Tower Tries, the annoying one. Before you even know it the other party is swallowed by the fog, gone from sight.
“Yeah, ummm... No thanks,” says another of the Triers and hoofs it full speed back the way you came. The third Trier says nothing but merely starts whistling and walking at a leisurely pace towards the fog and The Tower.
---
RP?
Any and/or all of you may partake of RP in flashback to the time of the feast, or any other time. You don’t need to (and are always welcome to) I’m just noting it as I’m probably done back in that period unless someone wants to do something...
Actions?
I’m assuming you are heading to The Tower of this could be a very short campaign. But how are you heading there? Cutting loose and doing double dash to try to catch up to and try to beat the others? A more leisurely pace? A cautious pace?
Anything Else?
Do not let my questions limit you... And as always, if you just need a quick OOC answer try DM or Discord.
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
The King speaks, and Dabbert's head pounds with every word, as though a Quickling is in his head hammering a set of wardrums. His eyes, bloodshot and dry as a desert day, shift around, looking at the rest of the lottery winners as they settle in. Then he realizes it's not the King's words at all...its that bastard who's singing a little shanty and drumming on the table.
"Please." Dabbert pleads with him, whispering just barely loud enough to be heard. "Please, for the love of the holy Tetrea, a little mercy."
His eyes continue to shift about, crawling across the fur-covered Halfling next to him, then to the girl that looked like she had crawled right out of one of those weird share-staring mummers venues as she asks about everyone's blood type.
"Blood....type..." He says, genuinely confused. "Uh...guess mine's red. That seems pretty normal, right? My uh...remains...? I uh...guess...pin my metals upon my chest? Box me up and ship me home. Tell my mother I did my best."
DM of AURYN: The Measure of Devotion - Escape from New York
DM of Legacy of NIMH
Krumar looks at the young lady curiously. What an odd way to start a conversation Krumar thinks to himself "Uh well my blood is orc colored which is typically darker than other species. Hm as far my remains....Uh" Krumar takes out his Lute and begins to strum and sing "Well now if I die young bury me in satin! Y'all lay me down on a bed of roses. Sink me in a river to the sounds of a adventurous song" Krumar stops playing "it's a work in progress....you know for funerals and such."
At the offer of wager from the elf across the table, Syl, sits up straight and slams his hand down hard upon the table rattling the plates and goblets. [Sorry Dabbert] Pointing at the elf, "Done!" he shouts. Then he grins to himself. Have fun with my luck, foolish lady, heh heh.
He leans back in his seat then, with the practiced imbalance of one so often inebriated his body has adapted to keep from constantly falling over. He looks with a raised eyebrow at the curious woman asking about blood type. Before he can craft a crass response, she asks about his mortal remains. A burial at sea had always been the way, going back generations. There were cemeteries in the village, to be sure, but that was for farmers and bankers and those who didn't know the songs and the pull of the sea. Now, though... he shuddered at the thought of his body, sinking back down into those far fathoms of darkness.
"... Just leave me out for the birds," Syl tells her, then returns to his goblet of rum, sullenly.
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM - (Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown * Red Dead Annihilation: ToA * Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
Nefire smiles warmly to the dark cloaked woman as she sits next to her. She isn't sure how to conduct herself amongst all these folks, never being truly away from Whitebridge before. She hungrily enjoys the food in front of her, eyeing everyone around her as she does.
When the wager is presented and the old sea dog at the table answers, she looks at him questioningly, "How does one wager luck? And if one loses, how is it given to the winner?"
She stares at the mask laying in the woman's lap next to her, debating on whether to ask her about it or not, when the beautiful human asks some peculiar questions, "Blood has a type? Like bad blood and good blood? If that's the case, I'm sure mines good. Did you want to see it?" She places her forearm on the table, palm side up and picks up a knife from the table. She looks at her questioningly to see if that is what she is looking for or not.
"As for my remains? Burn me of course. Nice big pyre, but I'm hoping it can be done back home." She starts the sentence with a fire in her voice, but as she mentions home, it drops off dramatically and sounds a bit wistful.
Once by one as each spoke up to provide their thoughts and answers, Raevyn would record them accordingly within her her journal. There’d be no real change in her expression while each individual shares to indicate judgement. If anything, it’d be the opposite. Simple, professional and respectful, the doctor records their wishes in as much detail as they provide. However, when miss Nefire would so casually offer a sample of her blood, there’d finally be a crack in Rae’s expression. The corner of her lip turns into a small warm smile, sinking a hint of a single dimple into her cheek. Reaching out, the doctor places a gentle hand upon her exposed flesh. “That won’t be necessary today.” She was charmed by the wilder woman and her willingness to allow Raevyn to investigate her biology further and dips her head in appreciation. “Thank you, Miss Nefire was it?” After a pause, she adds. “I too wonder how one would wager luck.” It was a good question, and Raevyn was curious of the answer too.
Satisfied with her current entries, the doctor would close her book and tuck it away in its designated place. “Unless any of you would like a full physical before we begin, with that business complete, assuming we all have consumed our share of our meal, and if there’s no other business you’d like to address,” Raevyn looks to the others and should there be no additions to their dying wishes, she’d then stand from her seat, wait a moment and offer her hand for anyone else to join her on the walk to the tower. “Shall we?”
”Appears to be a foggy one today.” Raevyn breaks some silence as they approach, pointing out the obvious as one of the Triers reject it, and turn the other way. She glances over her shoulder to them briefly before looking back ahead. Cool as a cucumber, she asks, “Any one else with any reservations, or strategies, before we dive in?”
just an unstable unicorn.
"Words have power," the old seafarer says softly into his cups. "Some wagers are settled in coin and enforced by fists and cudgels. Others... you agree to the terms and then the greater powers do the enforcing." Up to now, he hadn't clearly been answering the halfling or doctors questions, but now he looked up at both of them. Raising a mug and pointing a calloused finger at Nefire, he asks, "Ever wonder how when someone says 'at least things can't get any worse,' things always get worse, and right quick?"
"Words have power. The elf wishes to wager luck, and I've accepted. However the bet plays out, rest assured we will be held to our wager."
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM - (Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown * Red Dead Annihilation: ToA * Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
"Today." Dabbert says as the strange woman places her hand on the Halfling's arm. "That uh...indicates it may be necessary later."
He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes and massages, trying to force himself to some balance between suffering and normalcy while he listens to the King's yammering and the chitter-chatter of the other guests.
"Ah uh...full physical?" Dabbert says. "Is that the one where you uh...have to cough? I think I'll pass for now. Never could understand what that proved anyway."
He grows silent as the seadog has his say. He starts to add some quip to the dialogue...then decides to shut up and nurse his aching everything.
DM of AURYN: The Measure of Devotion - Escape from New York
DM of Legacy of NIMH
Krumar puts his lute away as his new companions were seemingly unimpressed by his song. He scowls a bit writing in his book that the song is a bust or maybe just needs a little fine tuning. He sits quietly listening to the others chit chat and make wagers. He hears, whose name he thinks is Syl, speak about the importance words which excites him and takes back out his lute "Maybe you will enjoy this song instead!" Hs stops and realizes that it's more of a love song...."Maybe another time, I guess it is time to head to the tower then....I uhhh can play a song for our walk"
Nefire stares at the old man as he points his finger at her. She isn't sure how to take his words or his directness, but decides to just let it go and takes another swig of ale.
As Raevyn holds out her hand to get up, Nefire gratefully takes it, "Yes, this is going to be fun!" She looks at the others at her table, unsure why the rest aren't as excited as she is. She shrugs and figures everyone handles their excitement in their own way. Then she slightly narrows her eyes... as long as they can all fight. She turns towards Krumar, unsure how to size him up, "A song for our walk? Um, sure, kind of like a battle march?"
As the approach the tower, she scoffs at the ones that are trickling away, turning tail. "Reservations? Hell no. Strategies? Um, that's a no as well." She stays with the group even though she is aching to go faster, even race the other group.
Once Sylrieth calls out “Done!” the elf at the table across from you smiles with glee and claps her hands three time quickly, in joy?
“They do indeed!” The elf agrees a little later as she hears Syl state that words have power and the pair of dwarves with her chuckle heartily and drink their cups dry.
The feast continues on mostly without uproar or drama and your group finds their thrill and enjoyment of the event waning. Perhaps it is the rich and elite who dominate the event are themselves just a bit above bored since such fanciful events are their common fare. Perhaps it is that you know that you have no idea what tomorrow and The Tower will bring. Whatever it is, you have met and at least superficially gotten to know the others in your group. You could pick them out of a line up and possibly recall their names anyway. With that done, with your bellies filled, and with the knowledge that you’ll gain no more knowledge tonight, you all begin to leave.
You get what rest you can and makes your final preparations. You are summoned at dawn and everyone is gathered and organized. Words are spoken, wellness is wished, a trio of conflicting clergy do their devotions in the ways they believe appropriate. Mostly you are impatient... But eventually you are set on the road to The Tower and for a handful of more hours at least have walking to do. And now, the fog... And through that is indeed The Tower.
The other lottery winners bolted as a team, delving headfirst and quickly into the swirling fog with nary a fare the well. They are of the opinion this is a contest of some kind... The last lone undrawn Tower Trier looks at them, looks at your group, shrugs and then just wanders into the fog with only a glance back.
Nefire, the halfling, seems to have energy to burn and is eager to follow as well. She pauses though and sees the more relaxed attitude of the rest of the group so restrains herself. Raevyn, the human young woman or dark fashion choices and macabre interests, asks you all to wait just a moment or two, dons her Plague Doctor mask of black feathers and beak, then begins digging though her gear. Over the next ten minute or so she lights a couple of candles, burns some incense, strategically places a couple odd but obviously sacred totems in specific places before her, constantly referring to a dark tome so as to be precise. She begins a low chant in a language that is more whistles and chirps than anything else and passes a dark feather over the candles and through the incense smoke with a very precise movements. Depending on how interesting you find it all this is over in but moments or... it... takes... for... ever...!
When the ritual is complete Raevyn Shadowfeather stands and looks about her. To the others it appears as if her eyes have a bit of a glassy sheen, to her it is as if the world does. And amongst that sheen she can see the aura of magic wherever it dwells about her for about thirty feet or so... There is definitely something magical about that fog. Magic from the School of Conjuration, if your deductions are correct. You suspect it is connected to the way The Tower appears approximately every dozen years or so... And then disappears when it has been entered and exited? Perhaps you will learn more about that part of the cycle... Your best guess is that the fog isn’t inherently harmful. And there is no way to The Tower but through it
There is magic, Raevyn confirms, but she doesn’t believe it is harmful. And with that the group begins to wander into the fog. The world quickly turns into shades of grey and sounds become muffled. Not five feet in and already you are having trouble seeing the person to your left or right. It is a soupy mist that tickles your skin and makes your clothing cling in a rather annoying way. You close ranks. You walk two by two, three deep, those behind with a hand stretched out to hold the person in front’s shoulder.
As you walk, the ground beneath your feet becomes slippery and treacherous. Every step feels uncertain. Syl is sure he can smell the sea upon this mist, Jaylan constantly feels someone is creeping up behind him. Dabbert is thankful that the sounds of the world are muffled and not pounding in his head, at least until Kruamar starts singing about The Foggy Dew. Nefire is silently glad she is leading the march with Raevyn so that she didn’t have to grab the belt of the person in front of her instead of their shoulder... Raevyn starts to see things in the fog. Small glowing motes in the swirl of the already glowing magic mist. The mist is Conjuration but these motes... School of Necromancy? she wonders and wants to consult her book but the fog wouldn’t allow for her to read even if... Oh crap.
“This could be dangerous...” She says quietly as the implications down on her. Then she is a bit louder about her concern. There aren’t a lot of motes in the fog but they’re moving and swirling and the only person amongst you who can see them are Raevyn. She has perhaps five? minutes remaining with which she can continue to Detect Magic. You better run!
Everyone - Dexterity Save!
We're doing one small murder-y thing for a bigger, better reason. The ends justify the means.
-- Eleanor Shellstrop
This morning, Syl has found himself wondering more about the drawing than about the adventure. It still doesn't make sense to him why he would be chosen for such a thing... unless there is some dark and sinister purpose behind it.
With that in mind, he proceeds casually into the fog alongside his not-so randomly selected companions. He looks like a porter, with two backpacks and another sack tossed over his shoulders. The crossbow he was gifted by the Magistrate's men clunk uncomfortably along behind him. He is still not used to carrying such a thing, but nevertheless he appreciates the thought of being able to put a steel bolt through someone giving him the business at 20 yards.
When the warning goes out to run, he nods, knowingly.
Yep. Here we go.
DEX: 17
PC - Ethel - Human - Lvl 4 Necromancer - Undying Dragons * [Sound of Cork Popping] - Kenku - Lvl 3 Lore Bard - Everasil
DM - (Homebrew) Heroes of Bardstown * Red Dead Annihilation: ToA * Where the Cold Winds Blow : DoIP * Covetous, Dragonish Thoughts: HotDQ * Red Wine, Black Rose: CoS * Greyhawk: Tides of War
Dabbert walks alongside his newfound party with his halberd drawn and to bare, ready for anything that could come out of the fog toward them. His footsteps are light and careful as he traverses the slippery, and he does what he can to keep himself from falling.
He listens carefully to what the strange doctor, Raevyn he thinks, says as she performs her ritual. As he begins to notice the motes, he nods.
"Everyone uh...just stay close and take a deep breath." He says. "Remember, if we have to fight, fight as a team."
He reaches out with his halberd, displaying the full ten feet of its reach while he beings to slowly glide forward with deliberate steps. He doesn't take the lead. Instead, he tries to maintain a position where he can assist anyone around him quickly...
Dex Save w/ Advantage: 15
DM of AURYN: The Measure of Devotion - Escape from New York
DM of Legacy of NIMH