”Ladies and gentlemen, please, take your seats, the play is about to begin.” The incessant chatter of the crowd echoes from the main auditorium into the recesses behind the stage. The player’s parlor is dimly lit, with flickering candlelight and torches casting dramatic shadows on the stone walls. The bard enters, drawing the curtain back and prowling into the space. His shadow looms against the crimson red curtain, like some silent, sinister observer. He is a gristled, harried man, draped in a black robe meant to obscure his costume. A black eye patch covers his left eye--the result of a pesh-den ruckus, or a mere prop?
His revealed eye falls upon you as he approaches, languishing into the last remaining chair. “Ah, the life of the playhouse. Tending to the stilted demands of the masses--their petulant and capricious moods ever changing. ‘Give us a love story,’ they cry. ‘No, no! Enough of that. Let's have something heroic, or vengeful! And give it a bit of teeth this time, eh?’” He sighs heavily. “And so it goes, day in and day out, we petty players, singing our songs, rhyming our rhymes, and acting out this facade we call drama.”
He leans forward, his weathered face now a mask of reprehension. ”But it is a farce!” he hisses, “All of it. An absurd parody--mere affectation of true tragedy, despair… Love.” He spits the word. ”Our audience sees in our performance that which they wish to feel for themselves, but despair in the notion that they are incapable of feeling. For the world has sucked them dry. It is a merciless place, you know, treacherous. And each of them--” he points toward the audience, obscured by the weighty curtain ”--stands alone up on a high wire, as the rest of the world watches, waiting for them to fall. And to make matters worse, they pit themselves against each other in desperate attempts at power and control. One wrong step, and all would be lost. So jaded are they by the awful realities of their existence that they have become numb--barren shells adopting human guise, donning smiles and laughter, but all the while resigned to the notion that they cannot feel.”
He sits back in his seat, sighing wearily. “And so they turn to us, here in our modest theater. To remember again what it means to be good. Or wicked. And as we take the stage in our costumes and our finery, do we not see them as well? Their hopeful faces upturned expectantly, only their eyes betraying the lifeless desperation that lurks below the surface, the need to feel something.” His eyes drift, lost in thought. ”Do they not perform for us?”
He glances up as a stagehand enters from the rear, silently motioning that the performance is due to start. ”Ah, but yes, it is time to begin!” he says, rising to his feet. He bows, then jumps upright, flourishing his hands in dramatic presentation.
“The stage is set. A hush falls upon the crowd as the already meager light fades and the crimson curtain rises, revealing the decadent but aged bastion of Korvosa, ‘Jewel of Varisia.’ Steeped in its traditions, stifled by its degradation, and choking on its own excess, the city wallows in exploitation and social stratification. Cast into the midst of such decadence and dark dealings, you, onlyyou can hope to save the city from its own… sinful tendencies. Will you prevail as the shining heroes of this tale? Will the audience grow to love and to adore you?”
“Or, will you fall, as the fickle crowd gleefully jeers for your defeat, mere players on a stage?”
Korvosa, the Jewel of Varisia, has long sparkled on the nation’s southern shore. Established 300 years ago by Cheliax at the height of that empire’s expansion, the city of Korvosa now commands its own destiny. A line of Korvosan kings and queens emerged to rule the city, establishing an infamous seat of power—the Crimson Throne.
Rulers have sat upon the Crimson Throne for more than a century, and the city has flourished. Yet the monarchy always seems on the brink of disaster. The Crimson Throne is not a prize to be won—it is a curse. No monarch of Korvosa has died of old age, and none have produced an heir while ruling. Even though King Eodred Arabasti II controls Korvosa more fully than any previous monarch, many secretly count the days until their latest king falls to what they call the Curse of the Crimson Throne.
Though those well-to-do may mark Korvosa as being prosperous, as being well on its way to reclaiming its glory it once enjoyed in years past (before war robbed some of its glimmer), the downtrodden have quite the different opinion. Though the King has often spearheaded public works projects, those less fortunate (when in a foul mood) refer to him as the “Stirge King” - someone who takes more than he gives. Like his mother before him, King Eodred II enjoys spending the city’s wealth, but he tends to use its treasury to fund his personal decadent lifestyle rather than build anything lasting. Overall, though, his reception is generally positive - especially the farther away it gets from tax collecting season.
Today, King Eodred is feared by all the right people. His ability to navigate the rocks and shoals of Chelish diplomacy earned the city favorable trade agreements with the Old Empire, but rumors persisted of the king’s womanizing habits and his spendthrift ways. Despite his fondness for a soft touch, he has to date produced no heir to the throne, the latest in a line of rulers affected by the Curse of the Crimson Throne.
Whispers of Eodred’s taste for scandalously young companionship have dogged the king throughout his rule. He surrounded himself with girls and women, never expressing a desire to marry. Despite frequent trysts within his sizeable harem, he never fathered a child. Rumor has it that as he grew old, he became suddenly desperate for an heir and visited his beauties with ever greater frequency. Still, his harem bore him no heir. When he finally wed, it was no surprise that his bride was barely a third of his age. The young and beautiful Ileosa Arvanxi arrived from Cheliax in a whirlwind of activity, was involved in a mere three months of courtship, and wed the King at the tender age of 17.
In the four years since wedding the King, Queen Ileosa Arabasti has grown quite the reputation as a vain, petty thing that holds much of Korvosa in contempt, having been heard to call the city a “colonial backwater”. As the two of them have produced no children, should the king die, Ileosa gains the throne. Most nobles of the city were initially scandalized at the placement of a trophy wife at the foot of a throne that cannot be held, but with the King’s more-than-capable Seneschal, Neolandus Kalepopolis, looking after the Crown’s interest, most of the hubbub has died down in the upper echelon of the city. No one else seems to be appeased, though. The queen has made no friends among the nobles and elites of Korvosa, and some of the city’s most respected institutions (such as the Sable Company and the Acadamae) pay her only minimal respect.
Most problems having to do with Royalty are often out-of-sight, out-of-mind. But no one has that luxury now, for King Eodred has fallen deathly ill, and no cleric seems to be able to cure what ails him. He has spent the last several weeks in seclusion in Castle Korvosa. During this time, the queen has become more of a ruler in the public eye. Despite the efforts of castle staff, rumors of the king’s ill health have spread. Each day, the city holds its collective breath - as though everyone can sense that their fate hangs in the balance of one man’s life.
Curse of the Crimson Throne . . Act I: Edge of Anarchy . . . . Scene I: Haunted Fortunes
Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th’ untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.
Korvosa 12 Pharast, 4708 AR Old Korvosa Dusk
Refurnished with gaudy gold-colored paint and massive glass “gems,” a former temple of Aroden has found a new life as the home of a perverse and detestable theater of all things foul, gore-slicked, and unnaturally pornographic - Exemplary Execrables. Numerous acts rotate through the theater, with any particular performer putting on a show four or five nights a week. The theater’s acts include gore-filled plays with faux tortures, false murders, fake rapes, and other fabrications meant to horrify and sicken the audience. By far the most popular act, though, is the so-called “death play,” in which a masked performer gruesomely “murders” a volunteer from the audience for all the rest to enjoy.
Some may wonder how many of the acts use stage effects and chicanery and how many might actually perform what they purport to only represent.
Tonight’s offering, however, is a tragedy, a tale of royal splendor and inevitable demise. The work is uncharacteristically elevated compared to the usual performances, but the subject matter is perhaps the boldest yet, given the whispers surging through the city’s veins. The Scarlet Requiem of Queen Isolde is a dark and tragic tale set in a mythical kingdom where the fate of a queen turns upon an ancient prophecy. The play opens with a grand celebration in the royal palace, as Queen Isolde, adored by her people, prepares to mark the anniversary of her reign. Unbeknownst to her, the royal court is steeped in secrets, and shadows loom over her every step. The first act opens in a grand hall, bathed in red light. The queen’s court is alive with festivity, yet tension ripples beneath the surface. The chorus sings a jubilant anthem, their voices rich and resplendent. However, an old soothsayer appears at the periphery, clutching a blood-red scarf and warning the queen of a terrible fate. The soothsayer reveals that a curse has been placed upon the royal bloodline, foretelling the queen's death by the hands of one she trusts most. The queen dismisses the warning, confident in her power and the love of her people.
But her relationships become more strained, particularly with her trusted advisor, Lord Kaplin, who is increasingly consumed by jealousy and ambition. Their dialogue is laced with tension. The set reflects their growing turmoil, with red velvet curtains hemming them ever closer. The chorus, now divided, sings of power, betrayal, and bloodlust, echoing the looming prophecy.
A pivotal moment occurs when the queen, in a moment of clarity, confronts the soothsayer and demands the truth. The soothsayer reveals that a crimson dagger, forged in blood, will end her reign. The dagger is believed to be in the hands of someone in her court, but its owner remains unknown. The queen begins to unravel, suspecting those closest to her. The final act is one of inevitable tragedy. The kingdom is in chaos, as the once-thriving land is cloaked in red. In the play’s most dramatic sequence, the queen faces Lord Kaplin, who reveals his treacherous plot. He brandishes a crimson-hilted dagger, which he plunges into the heart of the queen, sealing her fate.
She sings a final aria. It is a mournful, ethereal piece, full of regret, realization, and acceptance of her death. The music swells, strings and brass growing in intensity as the queen’s life slips away. In her final moment, a crimson light bathes the stage. The curtain falls as her blood stains the ground, merging with the red that had foreshadowed her demise.
The audience pours forth from the theater onto St. Alika Street, whispering in dismay and delight. “Blimey! They went an’ done it, even wiv the seneschal gone?” “That’s a right turn-up for the books, innit?” "A right touch! As if the Queen’s anythin’ but a right ol' pain in the arse!"
Then they scatter, like so many cockroaches fleeing into the darkening of the city’s alleys and crevices.
Elsewhere...
You sit bolt upright, realizing that it’s much too late. Why, you hadn’t even meant to fall asleep. Yet here it is, past sunset. Deep shadows creep across the room. You rub your eyes as the days’ events come back to you. Perhaps you spent it deep in study, or rapt in pious contemplation. But at some point, as you reached for your favorite ale, or your favored weapon, there, in your hand… a note. No, not a note. A card.
It’s hard to remember what happened after finding it, but that card suddenly seems very urgent to you now. You pat your clothes, trying to remember what you did with it. Ah yes, there, in your pocket. Retrieving it, you recognize it to be a Harrow card, one used by those Moth fortune-tellers. Do you believe in such things, anyway? Tag?
Turning the card over, you see that there is a note scribbled on the back.
The Note:
I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.
History DC 10:
You know that 3 Lancet Street is the home and fortune-telling “shop” of a Varisian woman named Zellara.
In this first post, please set the scene for yourself, describing what you’ve done today. Then, transition into the current scene, finding the card, reacting to it, and describing your actions.
I awoke, my mind still addled as my consciousness, fogged by the haze between dream and reality, attempted to come to terms with my surroundings. I opened my eyes fully and took in the dismal and dreary vista as my eyes began to focus. The room that had been my home for the last trio of nights was squalid at best, the cool breeze of the night air that brushed my skin had no need for an open window, the shoddy maintenance on the building's roof and exterior provided ample points of entry. Unfortunately that same breeze brought the fragrant reek of the Old Docks with it, delivering a pugnent scent of less-than-fresh fish directly to my nostrils. Though, what could I expect from Old Korvosa? On the plus side the owner had asked for no deposit and the rent per night was a pittance, though upon reflection I was probably still paying double what the accommodation was worth.
I ran my hand through my hair, sweeping my wiry, blonde, straw-like locks out of my face before I shook my head to further awaken my senses. This had the unwanted side effect of returning my mess of hair to it's former position. I sighed, and was about to get up when I realised I was clutching something in my other hand. The card... It had appeared my pocket earlier that day, probably some dancer had found themselves so disappointed with the contents that they had slipped the card in there as a joke instead. Some Moth nonsense, another way to separate the desperate from the few pinch that they have, giving them a false hope in return. I thought I'd tossed it away... Looking down at the car in my hand now though I couldn't have.
The bed creaked ominously as I swung my legs off the side and flipped the card over, the depiction of an elderly barkeep now replaced by a faded pattern with some scrawl on it. Re-reading the words, I cursed myself for falling asleep, sundown was past and I was more than a short jaunt from the address the note referred to. I grabbed my pack, something about tonight felt off and I decided it was better to take my things with me than leave them stowed under the broken floorboards, as I had each day so far. The more belongings that you carried with you, the more options the thieves had when eying what to take from you... and this city had taken enough from me.
During the day, with the sun high, Old Korvosa was teaming with people, so many crowding the thin throughfares seemed woefully inadequate, especially compared to the latter additions to the city, the wide streets of Midland letting carts pass easily as they came and went, ferrying good to warehouses, shopfronts or to Gold Market. I'd spent my day much the same as the last, and again before that; sat on street corners watching the comings and goings down back alleys. Watching the street urchins as they came and went, only moving when an ungrateful shopkeeper would shoo me away for discouraging custom, or an angry housewife would call me out for loitering near her doorstep. My vigil was far from perfect, but it was the best I could manage, and every so often a particularly magnanimous passer-by even tossed a pinch my way.
I had found out before that coins so freely given needed to be hidden with haste, beggars were as liable to taxation as any merchant, except the people that came to inspect your business were considerably more 'heavy-handed' in their approach to collection. Still, I wasn't going to turn down a coin or two. That had been all I had to show for three days here, my hope had been dwindling at yet another false lead, another false hope. I'd fallen foul of prolonging my visit here before, and tonight was to be my last. Tomorrow I'd up sticks and head out of this city of nightmares...
That was when I'd discovered the card, earlier this afternoon whilst spending my ill-earned pinch on watered down swill that passed as ale. The card held no interest to me, but the note on the back... Had someone seen me watching? Did they know what I was doing here? Was this a trap? I'd fallen asleep musing over what to do, but now my good sense be damned, I needed to take any chance however slim.
So I found myself back on the street, out in the seediest part of the old docks, alone as I entered alleyways. Now though the sun was not high and the streets were lit by the barest smattering of lamps, and as much as my senses cried out for better judgement, I hastened my way through the shadowy recesses of Old Korvosa, onward to Lancet Street and whoever was hopefully still awaiting me there.
Julia's eye open suddenly. The scent of old blood and acrid perfume clings to her skin like an unwelcome caress. She sits upright on the edge of her bed, the taste of cheap wine and clove-smoke thick at the back of her throat. Her dream had been different. It wasn’t the usual grotesque writhing of hysterical bodies. No, this had been tragedy—elevated, dressed in poetry and prophecy. But the undercurrent was the same.
Julia lets the last images of the web of boddies settle into her bones as she moves through the house, her heels clicking against the wooden floor boards. She pulls her shawl closer, the weight of the day pressing into her ribs like a too-tight corset.
She had spent the afternoon where she always did—skirting the edges of indulgence and necessity. A visit to a merchant for some new silks, a half-truth whispered into the ear of an unsuspecting fool, a debt collected with a painted smile. Julia thrived in the in-between, where desire and danger danced. But there had been something else today, something she couldn't quite place.
Then, a sudden jolt of memory—
Her hand dips into her pocket.
She retrieves the card, its edges slightly frayed, as if touched by too many hands before hers. A Harrow card of the Courtesan. The Moth readers, with their silk scarves and knowing glances, used them to weave fortunes from fate’s tangled web. Julia had never placed much stock in such things. After all, fate had never been kind to her. But this card…
She turns it over.
The inked words catch the dim glow of a burning candle. “I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.”
A slow, deliberate inhale.
Gaedren.
The name slithers through her mind like a rusted blade dragged against silk. She presses her lips together, her nails digging into the card’s surface. Of course she knows Zellara. The woman peddles fortunes the way others peddle vices—deliberately, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Julia had dismissed her before, but now? Now, she isn't so sure.
The weight of the card shifts in her fingers. It feels heavier than it should. A trick of the mind, surely, but still…
Justice, she murmers aloud and suprises herself by the act.
Such a delicate word for something so drenched in blood.
Julia tucks the card back into her pocket and steps into the night, the decision already made.
The overcrowded bedroom boils from the roaring heat thanks to a blazing fire within the hearth. The shabby apartment to which the rooms belongs once served as a place of respite for a handful of Shoanti families choosing to set down roots in Korvosa. Now, it functioned more as a halfway house than as a homestead. Drowning out the noise of the cracking embers was the near constant drone of rattling from shaking bedframes. Each cot was filled at least one, and sometimes two, quivering puddle of flesh and bones, ranging in age from elder to mere adolescent. As if guided by some unseen conductor, the involuntary shuddering within their berthing gave way to a dissonant harmony of clacks, squeaks, and moans.
From his chair in the corner, Speaks for Many kept watch over those afflicted by shiver. Some were riding through the effects of a recent hit, with their muscles spasms being much more pronounced than those currently going through withdrawals of the substance. Though Speaks for Many had only recently come to Korvosa on basis of rumors he heard from the nearby tribesmen in the Skaldwood, he quickly learned to recognize the signs regarding the levels of shiver abuse in its victims. His features were steeped in sympathy and silent rage as he looked upon those who turned to the drug as a means of escape from trying to eke out a living amid a population who wanted no more than to see you disappear.
These feelings of prejudice were seldom subtle as Speaks for Many was also able to quickly discover during his first few weeks within Korvosa's limits. He was fortunate enough to have found this refuge in his search for the source of shiver within the city. Though the residents hailed from several of the Shoanti quahs, their communal bonds and shared goals of finding a means to coexist overcame any of their traditional preconceptions between the clans. They took him in without any expectation of repayment, and that only served to embolden Speaks for Many on his path to uncover the drug's origin. From what he could piece together from the others within the apartment, the ability to obtain the substance was far too simple and seemingly most available in poorer communities within Korvosa. The Shoanti of the city, having a precarious foothold to begin with, were an opportune and natural prey.
No matter who he spoke with, a single name seemed to always appear connected to the plights shared amongst the residents: Gaedren Lamm.
He adds another log to the fire, knowing the physical warmth is merely placebo to the trauma of those currently in the grasp of the shiver. Nevertheless, he proceeds then to readjust and apply blankets atop those who had violently shook them off in their fits of shaking. He pauses only once at the bed of a mother, her somewhat frequent shivers having lulled the child next to her to sleep. Clutched within her hand was a simple card, seemingly out of place given the circumstances of the bedroom. As he bent over for a closer look, he could feel a slight breeze pass over his head, as if whispering in recognition of some sort of omen or sign.
He bends over and gently removes the card, replacing it with a warm woolen blanket over the still shuddering mother and sleeping child.
Some time later, as the midnight hour looms, the door of the apartment swings open. Striding out from the opening comes a hooded figure. He takes out a card from his robe and examines it whilst keeping an outstretched arm, to which a hawk swoops down and perches upon. Speaking in soft tones to the bird, he then lets it loose into the Korvosan skies as he begins to make his way out into the dimly lit streets, his path now clear.
The reek of dead fish, rancid meat, and worse assaults your nose as you venture down the filthy cobblestones. West Dock contains few residences, though it does house an extensive number of warehouses, fish processing facilities, and a meatpacking industry. The prevailing winds usually push the meaty stink of the ward southeast, providing Citadel Volshyenek and much of High Bridge with unending waves of unpleasantness. But tonight, the brine air of the Jeggare River is most definitely not behaving in your better interest.
Avoiding the ubiquitous herd of unwelcome druids proselytizing the evils of civilization and the impoverished draggle desperate to leech from it--”Alms for ‘da poor, sir? My baby girl, she’s sick, Miss!”--you keep your head low and your feet moving. You pass the weathered walls of Bailer’s Retreat, the rough tavern frequently serving recently-released prisoners of Citadel Volshyenek’s jails, along with the bleary-eyed Korvosa guardsmen pursuing their love-hate relationship with its acrid coffee. As usual, vulgar shouts and jeers escape its depths, though any fisticuffs have not, as of yet, escaped into the street.
The “home” located at 3 Lancet is barely deserving of the term, a derelict hovel crammed defiantly among the district’s typical industrial facilities. A flat tin roof adorns a rotten wooden frame, while a single, closed door offers the only portal providing ingress or egress to the pitiful dwelling.
Arandel is the first to arrive. From here, you arrive in the order you post.
A soft light glows beneath the door. It is unlocked. The cozy chamber within this small home is filled with a fragrant haze of flowers and strong spice. The haze comes from several sticks of incense smoldering in wall-mounted burners that look like butterfly-winged elves. The smoke itself seems to soften edges and gives the room a dream-like feel.
And this is just as well, for the walls are draped with the stuff of nightmares--thick brocaded tapestries, one showing a black-skulled beast juggling men’s hearts, another showing a pair of angels doing battle atop a snow-blasted mountain. A third tapestry on the far wall depicts a tall hooded figure shrouded in mist, a flaming sword held in a skeletal hand. Several brightly-colored rugs cover the floor, but the room’s only furnishings are a wooden table covered by a bright red throwcloth and six elegant high-backed chairs.
A single note sits on the table, weighed down with a stone, while a basket covered by a blue cloth sits under the table.
The Note:
Thank you for coming. I had to step out for a bit, but shall return shortly. Please, have a seat while you wait. The basket under the table contains bread and drink for you.
The Basket:
A loaf of bread and a flagon of wine. The bread is a little stale but is filling, and the wine, while not fine, tastes good enough.
"Wakey wakey," came the call as a clanging sack, presumably filled with loot of some sort, clattered to the floor near the head of the mat. Neria did her best to blink away the sleep and clear her eyes and mind. She hadn't heard them come in, but that's to be expected in an apartment filled with thieves and burglars.
Sitting up on her makeshift bed, the halfling ran a hand over her face and absently coiffed her hair to mitigate the unavoidable flat part that comes on the tail of every sleep.
"What the hell, Ellu?" Neria demanded as she noticed the lantern light coming in through the window from the street below, giving way to the secondary realization that the sun had already set. "I thought you were going to wake me before dark," she called as she jumped to her feet, steadied herself, and reached for her shoes.
"I'm not your mother," came the response from the privy.
"The job had some minor complications that carried us through unexpected parts of the city before we could head back safely," Brekath interjected before frustrations could mount yet again. "Nothing serious."
Neria had been crashing with some of the girls since the incident and, while she was still welcome (as Brekath frequently reminded her), it was quickly becoming apparent that she needed to figure out her next moves sooner rather than later.
"Fine, fine," Neria attempted to wave off her frustration as she shouldered her pack and checked the pockets of her cloak.
It was still there. That damned harrow card. They'd made her feel all sorts of ways in the past, but always left her feeling hopeful and inspired, thanks to Zellara's charismatic guidance through those soothsaying sessions. This time, however, the thing was downright off-putting. Not noticing someone slipping things into one's pocket was dangerous in her chosen line of work. How had it gotten there? The Varisian sage had clearly arranged for its placement, but Neria hadn't seen her in quite some time. Why her? Why now? Why the theatrics? And why the Cricket card? How did she know her parents' nickname for her?? That was the most frightening part... Neria had always held Zellara in the highest regard as something of a spiritual guide in this time of reinventing herself, but this seemed to cross a line she wasn't sure she was comfortable with.
Heaving a sigh, she called to the others, "Okay, I'm off. Hoping to have things resolved before long and be back out of your hair."
"Sounds good, honey! We'll have dinner on the table and the children bathed and put to bed when you return from the fields," came the reply from the other room, dripping with sarcasm and thinly-veiled distain.
Neria rolled her eyes. She'd never had a reason to think any of the girls actually disliked her, but two weeks was a long stay for something they perceived as a minor inconvenience like having your home burgled. But they didn't know the full story. COULDN'T know the full story.
They knew she refused the latest of Gaedren's jobs when she discovered it involved murder. They'd warned her about him from the beginning, but she wouldn't listen. Work had been sparse for her and, always the overachiever, she jumped at what seemed to be a perfect opportunity for recurring patronage. But it seemed Mr. Lamm saw her as an employee, owing him some sort of twisted fealty or something, rather than as a contracted agent who came and went as she pleased. After the refusal, some of his goons ransacked her apartment while she was out one night and stole not only her money and trophies, but managed to find one of the last vestiges of her past life she couldn't bring herself to part with: a signet ring bearing her family's crest.
She couldn't bear the thought of scum like Gaedren wreaking untold havoc in her family's name and business from the shadows of Korvosa. But, more importantly, she could NOT allow him to connect her to them and jeopardize her hard-won freedom and the life she'd fought to build and maintain every day. Her family can handle their business and things would eventually right themselves, but she can't go back. WON'T go back. She has to get this sorted before she'll feel safe in her own home again.
Heaving a sigh, she rushes out into the cool night air and weaves her way through the city streets, hooded cloak pulled tight around her form to keep at bay both curious eyes and the chill of the seemingly ever-present night fog that permeates West Dock.
Arriving at Zellara's shack on Lancet, she finds the door ajar and slips in silently only to find a handful of unfamiliar faces pointedly studying anything in the room they can without meeting eyes. Awkward.
"You saps must've gotten roped into whatever she's got going on, too, huh?" she asks no one in particular, breaking the strained silence.
Grabbing a loaf and goblet, Neria takes a bite as her stomach rumbles audibly in the quiet room, and washes it down quickly with a grimace. A fortuneteller's hospitality was never to be spurned but this one's always left her wistfully missing the refreshments at her parents' home.
"You look scary. That could be helpful. So what's your deal?" she blurts out, a fleck of red-stained bread leaving her mouth as she sees it, grins, and shrugs sheepishly at Julia.
The Korvosa Market was already teeming with folks, Quite the usual for half past Ten. Not my ideal way to spend the morning, but coin wasn't going to just find itself to me without the work.
The Work. It was always something quick and easy to dodge in and out of. Tidying up at the Inn after a long night; Unloading the latest shipment of wares brought in from out of town; Even cleaning the occasional Stable - Whatever paid the best that day, and I could get in and get out the least noticed.
Today's Work brought me back to the Market, but this time helping bring in the fresh produce off the carts and setting them up in crates to be sold off for that nights supper. For being half Ten, The sun was already started to blaze - Thank goodness I only had a few more crates to go…
"Fourteen.. Fifteen.." I counted aloud as I checked for the last bin of Onions but falling short. Could've sworn I brought the last one over? I scanned the already stationed crates and small tables - There! At the edge of the tent, the last crate knocked over, The onions spilling onto the ground.. Great.
I shuffled over and knelt down to the dirt and started picking up the onions and putting them into the now right-sided crate. I reached up and wiped my brow, My hand coming away clammy. Was it really this hot this early already? I tossed one of the onions in, but it didn't settle against the rest. I reached down to pick it back up and see the reason it hadn't settled was because it wasn't laying against other onions, But a Card.
I replace the onion in the bin and pull the card out, A Harrow Card - Did someone drop this when they knocked this over? People need to watch where they're going..
At first glance, The card shown just a picture of a Bear wearing a party hat riding a unicycle. I always thought these cards were silly, Their meanings given to them by those who already had the answer they were searching for in their heads - But this was just ridiculous. I went to throw the card back on the ground, but as I did my fingers traced over markings on the other side. I caught the card mid-toss and flipped it over, curious to what the loon scribbled.
A message - Hastily written as if done while the person was walking. I scanned the words and my stomach instantly turning. "I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at Sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done".
I scan the words three times over, Not fully believing the words that were written. Why was I finding this and who dropped it? Surely this couldn’t have been a coincidence. I suddenly grew very aware of everyone walking past me, trudging tent to tent. Eyes darting quicker than I could focus on. The air growing sweltering and a drop of sweat running from my nose landing in the middle of the card. The card. I looked back down and reread Gaedren - Memories flooded back at lightning speed.. And so was my breakfast. I scrambled out of the tent, maybe about 15 feet from the cart I was unloading and the next thing I saw was the remnants of this morning spilling to the dirt.
I catch my breath enough to look up and notice a small crowd backing away from me as turning up their noses.. Rightfully so. "Mate, What's wrong with you?! You can't be near the goods like that - Get out of here!" yelled the Stand Owner. Usually I would've pulled myself together and fought to stay and get the few coin I was promised for my work, But I couldn't think of anything else other than running home.
-
The stars overhead were blaring, Having voices of their own screeching down at me. The growing flock of look-seers growing around me mumbling under their breaths - At me? Their whispers deafening. I've been here before, Night after night - Pushing through the same solid bodies but not able to see their blurred faces. Just as my arm pushes past another into a small clearing, I jolt upright - The feeling similar to the feeling of falling out of a dream.
I look around.. No Crowd.. No more falling.. Home. Trying to pull myself back to a stable rhythm, I glance around the small room and shift to the edge of my bed. The remnants of a fire in the hearth crackling just enough to let me know it was still alive somehow - Had I lit that? And when?
All too fast, memory of earlier fought back to the front of my mind and my stomach rumbled. I reached down into my pocket and felt the edges of the cards from the Onion Bin. My eyes racing to the open window above my bed - Oh no. The sky already a crisp burgundy as the sun slid below the shoreline. Lancet Street.. Sunset, that was happening as I just stood in my room.
Before I could give my stomach time to react to the impulse reaction, I grabbed my pack off the floor and dove out of the eerily quiet home.
-
The little sunlight that was running from the shore, now dim and the clouds hung low in the dark sky. Just up ahead, a Small hand painted "3" above the door leaking light and warmth. The last 10 paces a blur but felt way too direct at the same time. I took in one last long breath, Readying myself for whatever lie on the other side of the door - Preparing for the worst, What if this was another set-up?
Confusingly surprised to find the card may not have lied after all. I wasn't met with immediate chaos, But a handful of faces who looked at me just as confusingly surprised as well.
Speaks for Many made haste through the dank streets and alleyways towards 3 Lancet Street, deftly maneuvering around the poorly maintained cobblestones and curbs of the slums. Like a sentry in the sky, his hawk encircled his route, silently scouting the unseen path by which he went. He would pause only for a moment now and then at various intersections and gaze up to his avian companion before proceeding onward down another twisting road. By luck or intention, Speaks for Many seemed to avoid all of the guard patrols along the way to his destination.
After a while, he arrives at the mysterious residence listed on the card now in his possession. He gives a quick hand gesture towards his hawk, who in turn soars high above the house before doubling back and landing atop an outcropping from the roof. Speaks for Many then removes the hood from his sleeveless robe and calmly enters.
Entering the parlor, the other two individuals see a well-built, bald man stride in with tranquil confidence. His well-toned features were highlighted prominently in the light from within, as is the various tattoos running alongside his arms. Only one tattoo marked his face, a single black dot beneath his right eye. His flowing, sleeveless robe carries a modest assortment of flowing, intricate patterns, and he had little else among him aside from a staff and satchel. One thing could be made out for certain despite the dim ambiance of the room, his complexion betrayed him as one who was obviously not native to Korvosa.
Within the abode, Speaks for Many gazed upon the two others who were already within the parlor. He made not a smile nor grimace at their presence as he noted them silently. Calmly, he reaches into his pocket and produces the Harrow card, flashing it briefly on both sides to the individuals. He watches their expressions in reaction to seeing the card, seeming satisfied at the recognition of its importance, then proceeds to take a seat at the table. He positions himself equal distance from the others and gazes up at the various tapestries dotted about. Despite ignoring introductions, his expression and demeanor do not show any signs of arrogance or hostility. Instead, it would appear that he is instead deep in contemplative thought and hesitant to break the peaceful stillness of the room.
Conversation stalls, each participant sizing up the next, and all of you musing as to the meaning of your cards and the motives of the one who beckoned you here. Outside, the wind picks up. It whistles through the holes in the walls, carrying the stink of the Jeggare through the room. The candles flicker and the light pales, but does not expire.
In the darkness outside, measured footsteps drag closer, each one heavier than the last. They halt, dead still, at the threshold. Then, with an agonizing groan, the door begins to yawn open.
Standing in the doorway is an attractive, middle-aged Varisian woman with long, dark hair hastily tied under a handkerchief. She enters the home with a smile. ”Greetings,” she says in a thick Varisian accent. She glances at Julia and Neria. Her expression falters ever so, almost saddened, but she recovers quickly. ”Some of you I know. For the others, I am Zellara.”
Without another word, she takes a seat at the table and withdraws a Harrow deck from a pocket. She begins idly shuffling the cards. Her skill with the deck is apparent by the way the cards seem to float and dance over her hands and the table. As you reach for your own Harrow card, you find that you are unable to locate it. Wherever did it go?
With a nod of her head she indicates that you should all sit. Conveniently, five empty chairs are positioned around the modest table.
Once everyone has claimed a seat, she speaks in a soft but clear voice. ”Thank you for coming, my friends, and for putting up with my, ah, unconventional method of contacting you. I have reason to remain hidden, you see--a terrible man would see great harm done to me if he knew I were reaching out for help. This is a man you know, for he has done something terrible to each of you as well. I speak, of course, of Gaedren Lamm, a man whose cruelty and capacity to destroy the lives of those he touches are matched only by his gift for avoiding reprisal. You see, a year ago, his thieves stole this, my Harrow deck, from me. It is important to me, an heirloom passed down through a dozen generations, and also my sole means of support. When Lamm’s pickpockets stole it, my son, Eran, tracked them down. While he was able to return it to me, Gaedren had him followed. Soon after Eran left my home, they tracked him down and, in reward, Gaedren’s thugs murdered my son.”
Tears form in Zellara’s eyes. A single teardrop flows down her cheek, reflecting in the soft candlelight. She wipes it away, embarrased. ”I sought help from the Guard, but they turned me away. And so I asked around. I paid bribes, such as I could afford. I consulted my Harrow for advice. And recently, I was...rewarded. I found out where Gaedren dwells. He can be found in an old fishery not far from here, just north, at Westpier 17, where he trains his abducted children to be pickpockets and counts his stolen treasures.”
“But now, I need your help. I cannot hope to face this man on my own, and the Guard moves so slowly that if I were to go to them, Gaedren would certainly know of their coming well in advance. Even if they did arrest him--what guarantee would I have he would be punished? This criminal has evaded the law for decades." Her expression is sly. "But you know of these frustrations as well, for word on the street has it that Gaedren has wronged each of you, too.”
Her eyes pass to each person sitting around her table. ”So there we are. It is time for him to pay.” She wipes her nose on her worn sleeve and returns to shuffling her cards, adding, ”By way of reward I fear I haven’t much to offer. What little coin I had was spent in locating Lamm. But, I can offer you the wisdom of the Harrow, free of charge, to guide you on your way. What do you say?”
Neria's heart jumps into her throat as adrenaline courses through her body at Zellara's words. She hops up into a chair to hear the whole tale and proposal.
"I'm not entirely sure what I can do to help," she begins, chewing on her lower lip contemplatively. "While I'm also after revenge... Protection... Closure... I don't honestly know yet what I'll do once I catch up to the geezer. I desperately need to find a workable solution to my problem, but -- and please correct me if I'm wrong -- it sounds like we're talking about murder here! By the look of you, I'm sure some of you have long-festering injuries perpetrated by him," she continues while looking to each person gathered around the table. "I'm resolved to figure something out to protect myself and my interests, but I don't know if I could go that far with it." Her brow furrows and lips pucker in a lopsided grimace.
Her eyes settle back on the Varisian.
"But I think we're skipping over an important bit," she says with a cocked eyebrow. "I need to know the significance of this card you sent me before I commit to anything or leave this place."
She holds up the card, which looks huge in her tiny hand. "Why this one?" Neria's gaze doesn't falter as she waits for an answer.
Making my way over the bridges into North Point, the streets open up into more accommodating passageways, and after a few turns I join up with the main thoroughfare past City Hall. The lights surrounding it feel as though they count many as the entire of Old Dock, built with a sense of permanence to it. Lit up as a beacon in the otherwise dim evening, the building certainly captures the gaze of any onlooker, more eye-catching and grandiose than any of the nearby structures. Tonight though it is a fleeting glance in my periphery as I hasten past, following the main route south to Midland, the chill breeze from the Jeggare giving my goosebumps for the second time in my trip as I approach West Dock, and amidst the warehouses and storehouses, Lancet street.
Despite arriving late, there doesn't seem to be much noise coming from inside the building as I step cautiously closer. The soft glow that pierces the gaps in and around the door are the only indications of inhabitancy. A gentle rapping on the wooden door causes a slow creak from the tired hinges as the door starts to swing open... Leaving a door unlocked, even on an unappealing a hovel as this, seems like folly to me. Though at home he doors would rarely get locked, here it seemed to be inviting any dancer or beggar, thug or basher to just stroll in and take whatever they saw fit. I step inside and the interior décor sways my first thought, as the fear-inspiring and horrific trappings seem more than enough to ward off the uninvited.
"Hello" I call out, softly, almost afraid that someone will answer... Only silence greets me.
I see the note, then the bread and wine. Unknowing how many might turn up I tear a small chunk and pour just enough to wet my mouth as I settle in to wait in these unsettling surroundings.
I stay silent as others arrive, everyone appears to be a little on edge as they arrive, no-one offers their own name or asks anothers as we all await 'something'. The halfling attempts to alleviate the oppressive silence, but it isn't until the woman arrives and introduces herself as Zellara, the instigator of tonight's little gathering, that faces seem to lower their suspicions and trepidation about what is going on. I sit down as invited, along with the others before Zellara manages some sleight of hand to reclaim my card... She definitely hadn't gotten close enough to swipe it, but I've seen magic before, and as deft as it may have been, in and of itself, it didn't concern me.
I listen to Zellara's tale, and though I try to remain passive, too many of her words echo my own sentiments and experiences - time timing, the theft, the guards; my heart nearly leaps out of my chest at her mention of abducted children, and I fidget uncomfortably in my seat to try and cover my reaction. The halfling again is the first to voice her mind - something I get the impression is not an uncommon situation. Her reticence helps re-enforce my better senses, reminding me that confidence shamsters use these very ploys to lull you in, to earn your trust with only words. My first thought is that this Zellara would so freely risk the loss of cards she values as mere invites, but then I remember how easily she recovered them and maybe there wasn't as much risk to it as I first thought.
The halfling asks her question, and despite having my own, I was brought up right and pause for Zellara to address one question at a time, before I ask my own...
"Respectfully, I'm not one for your readings, all superstition and trickery if you ask me. I'm not ashamed to admit I have beef with Gaedren, but I'm a plain man, so tell me what sort of help you are after?"
"You look scary. That could be helpful. So what’s your deal?"
Julia's gaze flicks over the rogue—taking in the daggers, the stance, the restless energy of someone who’s always looking for the next move. A a slow smile curves Julia's lips, tilting her head just slightly as she appraises the halfling in return. Her voice is smooth, laced with amusement but not without a sharp edge.
"Scary? Darling, that’s such an ugly word. Let’s say… commanding."
She takes a measured step forward, not enough to threaten, but enough to let her presence settle. The air between them carries the faintest trace of perfume, undercut by something metallic—like old coins or dried blood.
"As for my deal—let’s just say I have a talent for knowing what people want… and what they fear," she says with a slight wink. "Call me Julia."
With that, she turns her attention back to the conversation at hand.
Julia watches Zellara closely as she speaks, her expression unreadable. The woman’s words are carefully chosen, steeped in sorrow and resolve, but Julia has spent too much time among the cunning (and a little among the desperate) to take things at face value. The air in the room is thick—grief, old wood, and the ever-present stench of the Jeggare clinging to everything. She hates this city. She loves this city.
Julia leans back in her chair, one long, elegant finger tracing absent patterns on the table’s surface. The candlelight catches the sharp angles of her face, casting shadows that shift like restless specters. Her smile is slow, deliberate—velvet over steel.
“Gaedren Lamm,” she repeats, as if savoring the shape of his name on her tongue. “Oh, I know him well.”
She taps her nail against the wood, the rhythmic tick, tick, tick filling the silence between words.
“A man like that leaves a trail of ruin in his wake, doesn’t he? Ruined lives, shattered dreams, discarded playthings.” Her eyes darken. “He takes what he wants, then moves on without a second thought. Without consequence.”
Her fingers curl, nails biting into her palm.
“But you’re right about one thing, Zellara.”Julia tilts her head, her voice dipping into something rich, something honeyed. “It is time for him to pay.”
She exhales slowly, smoothing an imagined wrinkle from her dress.
“I don’t put much stock in fate. But justice? Revenge?” A wry smile. “That, I can believe in.”
She leans forward, voice dropping just slightly.
"But tell me, Zellara—how did you come by our names? Our histories? Did your cards tell you? Or have you been watching, just like Gaedren watches through his street urchins?"
There is no accusation in her tone, only curiosity, razor-sharp and glinting in the candlelight.
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”Ladies and gentlemen, please, take your seats, the play is about to begin.” The incessant chatter of the crowd echoes from the main auditorium into the recesses behind the stage. The player’s parlor is dimly lit, with flickering candlelight and torches casting dramatic shadows on the stone walls. The bard enters, drawing the curtain back and prowling into the space. His shadow looms against the crimson red curtain, like some silent, sinister observer. He is a gristled, harried man, draped in a black robe meant to obscure his costume. A black eye patch covers his left eye--the result of a pesh-den ruckus, or a mere prop?
His revealed eye falls upon you as he approaches, languishing into the last remaining chair. “Ah, the life of the playhouse. Tending to the stilted demands of the masses--their petulant and capricious moods ever changing. ‘Give us a love story,’ they cry. ‘No, no! Enough of that. Let's have something heroic, or vengeful! And give it a bit of teeth this time, eh?’” He sighs heavily. “And so it goes, day in and day out, we petty players, singing our songs, rhyming our rhymes, and acting out this facade we call drama.”
He leans forward, his weathered face now a mask of reprehension. ”But it is a farce!” he hisses, “All of it. An absurd parody--mere affectation of true tragedy, despair… Love.” He spits the word. ”Our audience sees in our performance that which they wish to feel for themselves, but despair in the notion that they are incapable of feeling. For the world has sucked them dry. It is a merciless place, you know, treacherous. And each of them--” he points toward the audience, obscured by the weighty curtain ”--stands alone up on a high wire, as the rest of the world watches, waiting for them to fall. And to make matters worse, they pit themselves against each other in desperate attempts at power and control. One wrong step, and all would be lost. So jaded are they by the awful realities of their existence that they have become numb--barren shells adopting human guise, donning smiles and laughter, but all the while resigned to the notion that they cannot feel.”
He sits back in his seat, sighing wearily. “And so they turn to us, here in our modest theater. To remember again what it means to be good. Or wicked. And as we take the stage in our costumes and our finery, do we not see them as well? Their hopeful faces upturned expectantly, only their eyes betraying the lifeless desperation that lurks below the surface, the need to feel something.” His eyes drift, lost in thought. ”Do they not perform for us?”
He glances up as a stagehand enters from the rear, silently motioning that the performance is due to start. ”Ah, but yes, it is time to begin!” he says, rising to his feet. He bows, then jumps upright, flourishing his hands in dramatic presentation.
“The stage is set. A hush falls upon the crowd as the already meager light fades and the crimson curtain rises, revealing the decadent but aged bastion of Korvosa, ‘Jewel of Varisia.’ Steeped in its traditions, stifled by its degradation, and choking on its own excess, the city wallows in exploitation and social stratification. Cast into the midst of such decadence and dark dealings, you, only you can hope to save the city from its own… sinful tendencies. Will you prevail as the shining heroes of this tale? Will the audience grow to love and to adore you?”
“Or, will you fall, as the fickle crowd gleefully jeers for your defeat, mere players on a stage?”
Korvosa, the Jewel of Varisia, has long sparkled on the nation’s southern shore. Established 300 years ago by Cheliax at the height of that empire’s expansion, the city of Korvosa now commands its own destiny. A line of Korvosan kings and queens emerged to rule the city, establishing an infamous seat of power—the Crimson Throne.
Rulers have sat upon the Crimson Throne for more than a century, and the city has flourished. Yet the monarchy always seems on the brink of disaster. The Crimson Throne is not a prize to be won—it is a curse. No monarch of Korvosa has died of old age, and none have produced an heir while ruling. Even though King Eodred Arabasti II controls Korvosa more fully than any previous monarch, many secretly count the days until their latest king falls to what they call the Curse of the Crimson Throne.
Though those well-to-do may mark Korvosa as being prosperous, as being well on its way to reclaiming its glory it once enjoyed in years past (before war robbed some of its glimmer), the downtrodden have quite the different opinion. Though the King has often spearheaded public works projects, those less fortunate (when in a foul mood) refer to him as the “Stirge King” - someone who takes more than he gives. Like his mother before him, King Eodred II enjoys spending the city’s wealth, but he tends to use its treasury to fund his personal decadent lifestyle rather than build anything lasting. Overall, though, his reception is generally positive - especially the farther away it gets from tax collecting season.
Today, King Eodred is feared by all the right people. His ability to navigate the rocks and shoals of Chelish diplomacy earned the city favorable trade agreements with the Old Empire, but rumors persisted of the king’s womanizing habits and his spendthrift ways. Despite his fondness for a soft touch, he has to date produced no heir to the throne, the latest in a line of rulers affected by the Curse of the Crimson Throne.
Whispers of Eodred’s taste for scandalously young companionship have dogged the king throughout his rule. He surrounded himself with girls and women, never expressing a desire to marry. Despite frequent trysts within his sizeable harem, he never fathered a child. Rumor has it that as he grew old, he became suddenly desperate for an heir and visited his beauties with ever greater frequency. Still, his harem bore him no heir. When he finally wed, it was no surprise that his bride was barely a third of his age. The young and beautiful Ileosa Arvanxi arrived from Cheliax in a whirlwind of activity, was involved in a mere three months of courtship, and wed the King at the tender age of 17.
In the four years since wedding the King, Queen Ileosa Arabasti has grown quite the reputation as a vain, petty thing that holds much of Korvosa in contempt, having been heard to call the city a “colonial backwater”. As the two of them have produced no children, should the king die, Ileosa gains the throne. Most nobles of the city were initially scandalized at the placement of a trophy wife at the foot of a throne that cannot be held, but with the King’s more-than-capable Seneschal, Neolandus Kalepopolis, looking after the Crown’s interest, most of the hubbub has died down in the upper echelon of the city. No one else seems to be appeased, though. The queen has made no friends among the nobles and elites of Korvosa, and some of the city’s most respected institutions (such as the Sable Company and the Acadamae) pay her only minimal respect.
Most problems having to do with Royalty are often out-of-sight, out-of-mind. But no one has that luxury now, for King Eodred has fallen deathly ill, and no cleric seems to be able to cure what ails him. He has spent the last several weeks in seclusion in Castle Korvosa. During this time, the queen has become more of a ruler in the public eye. Despite the efforts of castle staff, rumors of the king’s ill health have spread. Each day, the city holds its collective breath - as though everyone can sense that their fate hangs in the balance of one man’s life.
Curse of the Crimson Throne
. . Act I: Edge of Anarchy
. . . . Scene I: Haunted Fortunes
Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny. It hath been
Th’ untimely emptying of the happy throne
And fall of many kings.
Korvosa
12 Pharast, 4708 AR
Old Korvosa
Dusk
Refurnished with gaudy gold-colored paint and massive glass “gems,” a former temple of Aroden has found a new life as the home of a perverse and detestable theater of all things foul, gore-slicked, and unnaturally pornographic - Exemplary Execrables. Numerous acts rotate through the theater, with any particular performer putting on a show four or five nights a week. The theater’s acts include gore-filled plays with faux tortures, false murders, fake rapes, and other fabrications meant to horrify and sicken the audience. By far the most popular act, though, is the so-called “death play,” in which a masked performer gruesomely “murders” a volunteer from the audience for all the rest to enjoy.
Some may wonder how many of the acts use stage effects and chicanery and how many might actually perform what they purport to only represent.
Tonight’s offering, however, is a tragedy, a tale of royal splendor and inevitable demise. The work is uncharacteristically elevated compared to the usual performances, but the subject matter is perhaps the boldest yet, given the whispers surging through the city’s veins. The Scarlet Requiem of Queen Isolde is a dark and tragic tale set in a mythical kingdom where the fate of a queen turns upon an ancient prophecy. The play opens with a grand celebration in the royal palace, as Queen Isolde, adored by her people, prepares to mark the anniversary of her reign. Unbeknownst to her, the royal court is steeped in secrets, and shadows loom over her every step. The first act opens in a grand hall, bathed in red light. The queen’s court is alive with festivity, yet tension ripples beneath the surface. The chorus sings a jubilant anthem, their voices rich and resplendent. However, an old soothsayer appears at the periphery, clutching a blood-red scarf and warning the queen of a terrible fate. The soothsayer reveals that a curse has been placed upon the royal bloodline, foretelling the queen's death by the hands of one she trusts most. The queen dismisses the warning, confident in her power and the love of her people.
But her relationships become more strained, particularly with her trusted advisor, Lord Kaplin, who is increasingly consumed by jealousy and ambition. Their dialogue is laced with tension. The set reflects their growing turmoil, with red velvet curtains hemming them ever closer. The chorus, now divided, sings of power, betrayal, and bloodlust, echoing the looming prophecy.
A pivotal moment occurs when the queen, in a moment of clarity, confronts the soothsayer and demands the truth. The soothsayer reveals that a crimson dagger, forged in blood, will end her reign. The dagger is believed to be in the hands of someone in her court, but its owner remains unknown. The queen begins to unravel, suspecting those closest to her. The final act is one of inevitable tragedy. The kingdom is in chaos, as the once-thriving land is cloaked in red. In the play’s most dramatic sequence, the queen faces Lord Kaplin, who reveals his treacherous plot. He brandishes a crimson-hilted dagger, which he plunges into the heart of the queen, sealing her fate.
She sings a final aria. It is a mournful, ethereal piece, full of regret, realization, and acceptance of her death. The music swells, strings and brass growing in intensity as the queen’s life slips away. In her final moment, a crimson light bathes the stage. The curtain falls as her blood stains the ground, merging with the red that had foreshadowed her demise.
The audience pours forth from the theater onto St. Alika Street, whispering in dismay and delight. “Blimey! They went an’ done it, even wiv the seneschal gone?” “That’s a right turn-up for the books, innit?” "A right touch! As if the Queen’s anythin’ but a right ol' pain in the arse!"
Then they scatter, like so many cockroaches fleeing into the darkening of the city’s alleys and crevices.
Elsewhere...
You sit bolt upright, realizing that it’s much too late. Why, you hadn’t even meant to fall asleep. Yet here it is, past sunset. Deep shadows creep across the room. You rub your eyes as the days’ events come back to you. Perhaps you spent it deep in study, or rapt in pious contemplation. But at some point, as you reached for your favorite ale, or your favored weapon, there, in your hand… a note. No, not a note. A card.
It’s hard to remember what happened after finding it, but that card suddenly seems very urgent to you now. You pat your clothes, trying to remember what you did with it. Ah yes, there, in your pocket. Retrieving it, you recognize it to be a Harrow card, one used by those Moth fortune-tellers. Do you believe in such things, anyway? Tag?
Arandel’s Card
Julia’s Card
Neria’s Card
Rook’s Card
Speaks for Many’s Card
Turning the card over, you see that there is a note scribbled on the back.
The Note:
I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.
History DC 10:
You know that 3 Lancet Street is the home and fortune-telling “shop” of a Varisian woman named Zellara.
In this first post, please set the scene for yourself, describing what you’ve done today. Then, transition into the current scene, finding the card, reacting to it, and describing your actions.
I awoke, my mind still addled as my consciousness, fogged by the haze between dream and reality, attempted to come to terms with my surroundings. I opened my eyes fully and took in the dismal and dreary vista as my eyes began to focus. The room that had been my home for the last trio of nights was squalid at best, the cool breeze of the night air that brushed my skin had no need for an open window, the shoddy maintenance on the building's roof and exterior provided ample points of entry. Unfortunately that same breeze brought the fragrant reek of the Old Docks with it, delivering a pugnent scent of less-than-fresh fish directly to my nostrils. Though, what could I expect from Old Korvosa? On the plus side the owner had asked for no deposit and the rent per night was a pittance, though upon reflection I was probably still paying double what the accommodation was worth.
I ran my hand through my hair, sweeping my wiry, blonde, straw-like locks out of my face before I shook my head to further awaken my senses. This had the unwanted side effect of returning my mess of hair to it's former position. I sighed, and was about to get up when I realised I was clutching something in my other hand. The card... It had appeared my pocket earlier that day, probably some dancer had found themselves so disappointed with the contents that they had slipped the card in there as a joke instead. Some Moth nonsense, another way to separate the desperate from the few pinch that they have, giving them a false hope in return. I thought I'd tossed it away... Looking down at the car in my hand now though I couldn't have.
The bed creaked ominously as I swung my legs off the side and flipped the card over, the depiction of an elderly barkeep now replaced by a faded pattern with some scrawl on it. Re-reading the words, I cursed myself for falling asleep, sundown was past and I was more than a short jaunt from the address the note referred to. I grabbed my pack, something about tonight felt off and I decided it was better to take my things with me than leave them stowed under the broken floorboards, as I had each day so far. The more belongings that you carried with you, the more options the thieves had when eying what to take from you... and this city had taken enough from me.
During the day, with the sun high, Old Korvosa was teaming with people, so many crowding the thin throughfares seemed woefully inadequate, especially compared to the latter additions to the city, the wide streets of Midland letting carts pass easily as they came and went, ferrying good to warehouses, shopfronts or to Gold Market. I'd spent my day much the same as the last, and again before that; sat on street corners watching the comings and goings down back alleys. Watching the street urchins as they came and went, only moving when an ungrateful shopkeeper would shoo me away for discouraging custom, or an angry housewife would call me out for loitering near her doorstep. My vigil was far from perfect, but it was the best I could manage, and every so often a particularly magnanimous passer-by even tossed a pinch my way.
I had found out before that coins so freely given needed to be hidden with haste, beggars were as liable to taxation as any merchant, except the people that came to inspect your business were considerably more 'heavy-handed' in their approach to collection. Still, I wasn't going to turn down a coin or two. That had been all I had to show for three days here, my hope had been dwindling at yet another false lead, another false hope. I'd fallen foul of prolonging my visit here before, and tonight was to be my last. Tomorrow I'd up sticks and head out of this city of nightmares...
That was when I'd discovered the card, earlier this afternoon whilst spending my ill-earned pinch on watered down swill that passed as ale. The card held no interest to me, but the note on the back... Had someone seen me watching? Did they know what I was doing here? Was this a trap? I'd fallen asleep musing over what to do, but now my good sense be damned, I needed to take any chance however slim.
So I found myself back on the street, out in the seediest part of the old docks, alone as I entered alleyways. Now though the sun was not high and the streets were lit by the barest smattering of lamps, and as much as my senses cried out for better judgement, I hastened my way through the shadowy recesses of Old Korvosa, onward to Lancet Street and whoever was hopefully still awaiting me there.
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
Julia's eye open suddenly. The scent of old blood and acrid perfume clings to her skin like an unwelcome caress. She sits upright on the edge of her bed, the taste of cheap wine and clove-smoke thick at the back of her throat. Her dream had been different. It wasn’t the usual grotesque writhing of hysterical bodies. No, this had been tragedy—elevated, dressed in poetry and prophecy. But the undercurrent was the same.
Julia lets the last images of the web of boddies settle into her bones as she moves through the house, her heels clicking against the wooden floor boards. She pulls her shawl closer, the weight of the day pressing into her ribs like a too-tight corset.
She had spent the afternoon where she always did—skirting the edges of indulgence and necessity. A visit to a merchant for some new silks, a half-truth whispered into the ear of an unsuspecting fool, a debt collected with a painted smile. Julia thrived in the in-between, where desire and danger danced. But there had been something else today, something she couldn't quite place.
Then, a sudden jolt of memory—
Her hand dips into her pocket.
She retrieves the card, its edges slightly frayed, as if touched by too many hands before hers. A Harrow card of the Courtesan. The Moth readers, with their silk scarves and knowing glances, used them to weave fortunes from fate’s tangled web. Julia had never placed much stock in such things. After all, fate had never been kind to her. But this card…
She turns it over.
The inked words catch the dim glow of a burning candle. “I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.”
A slow, deliberate inhale.
Gaedren.
The name slithers through her mind like a rusted blade dragged against silk. She presses her lips together, her nails digging into the card’s surface. Of course she knows Zellara. The woman peddles fortunes the way others peddle vices—deliberately, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Julia had dismissed her before, but now? Now, she isn't so sure.
The weight of the card shifts in her fingers. It feels heavier than it should. A trick of the mind, surely, but still…
Justice, she murmers aloud and suprises herself by the act.
Such a delicate word for something so drenched in blood.
Julia tucks the card back into her pocket and steps into the night, the decision already made.
Rattle...
Rattle... Rattle Rattle...
... ... Rattle
The overcrowded bedroom boils from the roaring heat thanks to a blazing fire within the hearth. The shabby apartment to which the rooms belongs once served as a place of respite for a handful of Shoanti families choosing to set down roots in Korvosa. Now, it functioned more as a halfway house than as a homestead. Drowning out the noise of the cracking embers was the near constant drone of rattling from shaking bedframes. Each cot was filled at least one, and sometimes two, quivering puddle of flesh and bones, ranging in age from elder to mere adolescent. As if guided by some unseen conductor, the involuntary shuddering within their berthing gave way to a dissonant harmony of clacks, squeaks, and moans.
From his chair in the corner, Speaks for Many kept watch over those afflicted by shiver. Some were riding through the effects of a recent hit, with their muscles spasms being much more pronounced than those currently going through withdrawals of the substance. Though Speaks for Many had only recently come to Korvosa on basis of rumors he heard from the nearby tribesmen in the Skaldwood, he quickly learned to recognize the signs regarding the levels of shiver abuse in its victims. His features were steeped in sympathy and silent rage as he looked upon those who turned to the drug as a means of escape from trying to eke out a living amid a population who wanted no more than to see you disappear.
These feelings of prejudice were seldom subtle as Speaks for Many was also able to quickly discover during his first few weeks within Korvosa's limits. He was fortunate enough to have found this refuge in his search for the source of shiver within the city. Though the residents hailed from several of the Shoanti quahs, their communal bonds and shared goals of finding a means to coexist overcame any of their traditional preconceptions between the clans. They took him in without any expectation of repayment, and that only served to embolden Speaks for Many on his path to uncover the drug's origin. From what he could piece together from the others within the apartment, the ability to obtain the substance was far too simple and seemingly most available in poorer communities within Korvosa. The Shoanti of the city, having a precarious foothold to begin with, were an opportune and natural prey.
No matter who he spoke with, a single name seemed to always appear connected to the plights shared amongst the residents: Gaedren Lamm.
He adds another log to the fire, knowing the physical warmth is merely placebo to the trauma of those currently in the grasp of the shiver. Nevertheless, he proceeds then to readjust and apply blankets atop those who had violently shook them off in their fits of shaking. He pauses only once at the bed of a mother, her somewhat frequent shivers having lulled the child next to her to sleep. Clutched within her hand was a simple card, seemingly out of place given the circumstances of the bedroom. As he bent over for a closer look, he could feel a slight breeze pass over his head, as if whispering in recognition of some sort of omen or sign.
He bends over and gently removes the card, replacing it with a warm woolen blanket over the still shuddering mother and sleeping child.
Some time later, as the midnight hour looms, the door of the apartment swings open. Striding out from the opening comes a hooded figure. He takes out a card from his robe and examines it whilst keeping an outstretched arm, to which a hawk swoops down and perches upon. Speaking in soft tones to the bird, he then lets it loose into the Korvosan skies as he begins to make his way out into the dimly lit streets, his path now clear.
The reek of dead fish, rancid meat, and worse assaults your nose as you venture down the filthy cobblestones. West Dock contains few residences, though it does house an extensive number of warehouses, fish processing facilities, and a meatpacking industry. The prevailing winds usually push the meaty stink of the ward southeast, providing Citadel Volshyenek and much of High Bridge with unending waves of unpleasantness. But tonight, the brine air of the Jeggare River is most definitely not behaving in your better interest.
Avoiding the ubiquitous herd of unwelcome druids proselytizing the evils of civilization and the impoverished draggle desperate to leech from it--”Alms for ‘da poor, sir? My baby girl, she’s sick, Miss!”--you keep your head low and your feet moving. You pass the weathered walls of Bailer’s Retreat, the rough tavern frequently serving recently-released prisoners of Citadel Volshyenek’s jails, along with the bleary-eyed Korvosa guardsmen pursuing their love-hate relationship with its acrid coffee. As usual, vulgar shouts and jeers escape its depths, though any fisticuffs have not, as of yet, escaped into the street.
The “home” located at 3 Lancet is barely deserving of the term, a derelict hovel crammed defiantly among the district’s typical industrial facilities. A flat tin roof adorns a rotten wooden frame, while a single, closed door offers the only portal providing ingress or egress to the pitiful dwelling.
Arandel is the first to arrive. From here, you arrive in the order you post.
A soft light glows beneath the door. It is unlocked. The cozy chamber within this small home is filled with a fragrant haze of flowers and strong spice. The haze comes from several sticks of incense smoldering in wall-mounted burners that look like butterfly-winged elves. The smoke itself seems to soften edges and gives the room a dream-like feel.
And this is just as well, for the walls are draped with the stuff of nightmares--thick brocaded tapestries, one showing a black-skulled beast juggling men’s hearts, another showing a pair of angels doing battle atop a snow-blasted mountain. A third tapestry on the far wall depicts a tall hooded figure shrouded in mist, a flaming sword held in a skeletal hand. Several brightly-colored rugs cover the floor, but the room’s only furnishings are a wooden table covered by a bright red throwcloth and six elegant high-backed chairs.
A single note sits on the table, weighed down with a stone, while a basket covered by a blue cloth sits under the table.
The Note:
Thank you for coming. I had to step out for a bit, but shall return shortly. Please, have a seat while you wait. The basket under the table contains bread and drink for you.
The Basket:
A loaf of bread and a flagon of wine. The bread is a little stale but is filling, and the wine, while not fine, tastes good enough.
"Wakey wakey," came the call as a clanging sack, presumably filled with loot of some sort, clattered to the floor near the head of the mat. Neria did her best to blink away the sleep and clear her eyes and mind. She hadn't heard them come in, but that's to be expected in an apartment filled with thieves and burglars.
Sitting up on her makeshift bed, the halfling ran a hand over her face and absently coiffed her hair to mitigate the unavoidable flat part that comes on the tail of every sleep.
"What the hell, Ellu?" Neria demanded as she noticed the lantern light coming in through the window from the street below, giving way to the secondary realization that the sun had already set. "I thought you were going to wake me before dark," she called as she jumped to her feet, steadied herself, and reached for her shoes.
"I'm not your mother," came the response from the privy.
"The job had some minor complications that carried us through unexpected parts of the city before we could head back safely," Brekath interjected before frustrations could mount yet again. "Nothing serious."
Neria had been crashing with some of the girls since the incident and, while she was still welcome (as Brekath frequently reminded her), it was quickly becoming apparent that she needed to figure out her next moves sooner rather than later.
"Fine, fine," Neria attempted to wave off her frustration as she shouldered her pack and checked the pockets of her cloak.
It was still there. That damned harrow card. They'd made her feel all sorts of ways in the past, but always left her feeling hopeful and inspired, thanks to Zellara's charismatic guidance through those soothsaying sessions. This time, however, the thing was downright off-putting. Not noticing someone slipping things into one's pocket was dangerous in her chosen line of work. How had it gotten there? The Varisian sage had clearly arranged for its placement, but Neria hadn't seen her in quite some time. Why her? Why now? Why the theatrics? And why the Cricket card? How did she know her parents' nickname for her?? That was the most frightening part... Neria had always held Zellara in the highest regard as something of a spiritual guide in this time of reinventing herself, but this seemed to cross a line she wasn't sure she was comfortable with.
Heaving a sigh, she called to the others, "Okay, I'm off. Hoping to have things resolved before long and be back out of your hair."
"Sounds good, honey! We'll have dinner on the table and the children bathed and put to bed when you return from the fields," came the reply from the other room, dripping with sarcasm and thinly-veiled distain.
Neria rolled her eyes. She'd never had a reason to think any of the girls actually disliked her, but two weeks was a long stay for something they perceived as a minor inconvenience like having your home burgled. But they didn't know the full story. COULDN'T know the full story.
They knew she refused the latest of Gaedren's jobs when she discovered it involved murder. They'd warned her about him from the beginning, but she wouldn't listen. Work had been sparse for her and, always the overachiever, she jumped at what seemed to be a perfect opportunity for recurring patronage. But it seemed Mr. Lamm saw her as an employee, owing him some sort of twisted fealty or something, rather than as a contracted agent who came and went as she pleased. After the refusal, some of his goons ransacked her apartment while she was out one night and stole not only her money and trophies, but managed to find one of the last vestiges of her past life she couldn't bring herself to part with: a signet ring bearing her family's crest.
She couldn't bear the thought of scum like Gaedren wreaking untold havoc in her family's name and business from the shadows of Korvosa. But, more importantly, she could NOT allow him to connect her to them and jeopardize her hard-won freedom and the life she'd fought to build and maintain every day. Her family can handle their business and things would eventually right themselves, but she can't go back. WON'T go back. She has to get this sorted before she'll feel safe in her own home again.
Heaving a sigh, she rushes out into the cool night air and weaves her way through the city streets, hooded cloak pulled tight around her form to keep at bay both curious eyes and the chill of the seemingly ever-present night fog that permeates West Dock.
Arriving at Zellara's shack on Lancet, she finds the door ajar and slips in silently only to find a handful of unfamiliar faces pointedly studying anything in the room they can without meeting eyes. Awkward.
"You saps must've gotten roped into whatever she's got going on, too, huh?" she asks no one in particular, breaking the strained silence.
Grabbing a loaf and goblet, Neria takes a bite as her stomach rumbles audibly in the quiet room, and washes it down quickly with a grimace. A fortuneteller's hospitality was never to be spurned but this one's always left her wistfully missing the refreshments at her parents' home.
"You look scary. That could be helpful. So what's your deal?" she blurts out, a fleck of red-stained bread leaving her mouth as she sees it, grins, and shrugs sheepishly at Julia.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Mis'tuv (Halfling Fathomless Warlock) - The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Meresaa (Vedalken Artillerist Artificer) - Destination Unknown
Hutton Crowcreek (Human Fighter) - Curse of the Crimson Throne
The Korvosa Market was already teeming with folks, Quite the usual for half past Ten. Not my ideal way to spend the morning, but coin wasn't going to just find itself to me without the work.
The Work. It was always something quick and easy to dodge in and out of. Tidying up at the Inn after a long night; Unloading the latest shipment of wares brought in from out of town; Even cleaning the occasional Stable - Whatever paid the best that day, and I could get in and get out the least noticed.
Today's Work brought me back to the Market, but this time helping bring in the fresh produce off the carts and setting them up in crates to be sold off for that nights supper. For being half Ten, The sun was already started to blaze - Thank goodness I only had a few more crates to go…
"Fourteen.. Fifteen.." I counted aloud as I checked for the last bin of Onions but falling short. Could've sworn I brought the last one over? I scanned the already stationed crates and small tables - There! At the edge of the tent, the last crate knocked over, The onions spilling onto the ground.. Great.
I shuffled over and knelt down to the dirt and started picking up the onions and putting them into the now right-sided crate. I reached up and wiped my brow, My hand coming away clammy. Was it really this hot this early already? I tossed one of the onions in, but it didn't settle against the rest. I reached down to pick it back up and see the reason it hadn't settled was because it wasn't laying against other onions, But a Card.
I replace the onion in the bin and pull the card out, A Harrow Card - Did someone drop this when they knocked this over? People need to watch where they're going..
At first glance, The card shown just a picture of a Bear wearing a party hat riding a unicycle. I always thought these cards were silly, Their meanings given to them by those who already had the answer they were searching for in their heads - But this was just ridiculous. I went to throw the card back on the ground, but as I did my fingers traced over markings on the other side. I caught the card mid-toss and flipped it over, curious to what the loon scribbled.
A message - Hastily written as if done while the person was walking. I scanned the words and my stomach instantly turning. "I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him. Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at Sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done".
I scan the words three times over, Not fully believing the words that were written. Why was I finding this and who dropped it? Surely this couldn’t have been a coincidence. I suddenly grew very aware of everyone walking past me, trudging tent to tent. Eyes darting quicker than I could focus on. The air growing sweltering and a drop of sweat running from my nose landing in the middle of the card. The card. I looked back down and reread Gaedren - Memories flooded back at lightning speed.. And so was my breakfast. I scrambled out of the tent, maybe about 15 feet from the cart I was unloading and the next thing I saw was the remnants of this morning spilling to the dirt.
I catch my breath enough to look up and notice a small crowd backing away from me as turning up their noses.. Rightfully so. "Mate, What's wrong with you?! You can't be near the goods like that - Get out of here!" yelled the Stand Owner. Usually I would've pulled myself together and fought to stay and get the few coin I was promised for my work, But I couldn't think of anything else other than running home.
-
The stars overhead were blaring, Having voices of their own screeching down at me. The growing flock of look-seers growing around me mumbling under their breaths - At me? Their whispers deafening. I've been here before, Night after night - Pushing through the same solid bodies but not able to see their blurred faces. Just as my arm pushes past another into a small clearing, I jolt upright - The feeling similar to the feeling of falling out of a dream.
I look around.. No Crowd.. No more falling.. Home. Trying to pull myself back to a stable rhythm, I glance around the small room and shift to the edge of my bed. The remnants of a fire in the hearth crackling just enough to let me know it was still alive somehow - Had I lit that? And when?
All too fast, memory of earlier fought back to the front of my mind and my stomach rumbled. I reached down into my pocket and felt the edges of the cards from the Onion Bin. My eyes racing to the open window above my bed - Oh no. The sky already a crisp burgundy as the sun slid below the shoreline. Lancet Street.. Sunset, that was happening as I just stood in my room.
Before I could give my stomach time to react to the impulse reaction, I grabbed my pack off the floor and dove out of the eerily quiet home.
-
The little sunlight that was running from the shore, now dim and the clouds hung low in the dark sky. Just up ahead, a Small hand painted "3" above the door leaking light and warmth. The last 10 paces a blur but felt way too direct at the same time. I took in one last long breath, Readying myself for whatever lie on the other side of the door - Preparing for the worst, What if this was another set-up?
Confusingly surprised to find the card may not have lied after all. I wasn't met with immediate chaos, But a handful of faces who looked at me just as confusingly surprised as well.
Speaks for Many made haste through the dank streets and alleyways towards 3 Lancet Street, deftly maneuvering around the poorly maintained cobblestones and curbs of the slums. Like a sentry in the sky, his hawk encircled his route, silently scouting the unseen path by which he went. He would pause only for a moment now and then at various intersections and gaze up to his avian companion before proceeding onward down another twisting road. By luck or intention, Speaks for Many seemed to avoid all of the guard patrols along the way to his destination.
After a while, he arrives at the mysterious residence listed on the card now in his possession. He gives a quick hand gesture towards his hawk, who in turn soars high above the house before doubling back and landing atop an outcropping from the roof. Speaks for Many then removes the hood from his sleeveless robe and calmly enters.
Entering the parlor, the other two individuals see a well-built, bald man stride in with tranquil confidence. His well-toned features were highlighted prominently in the light from within, as is the various tattoos running alongside his arms. Only one tattoo marked his face, a single black dot beneath his right eye. His flowing, sleeveless robe carries a modest assortment of flowing, intricate patterns, and he had little else among him aside from a staff and satchel. One thing could be made out for certain despite the dim ambiance of the room, his complexion betrayed him as one who was obviously not native to Korvosa.
Within the abode, Speaks for Many gazed upon the two others who were already within the parlor. He made not a smile nor grimace at their presence as he noted them silently. Calmly, he reaches into his pocket and produces the Harrow card, flashing it briefly on both sides to the individuals. He watches their expressions in reaction to seeing the card, seeming satisfied at the recognition of its importance, then proceeds to take a seat at the table. He positions himself equal distance from the others and gazes up at the various tapestries dotted about. Despite ignoring introductions, his expression and demeanor do not show any signs of arrogance or hostility. Instead, it would appear that he is instead deep in contemplative thought and hesitant to break the peaceful stillness of the room.
Conversation stalls, each participant sizing up the next, and all of you musing as to the meaning of your cards and the motives of the one who beckoned you here. Outside, the wind picks up. It whistles through the holes in the walls, carrying the stink of the Jeggare through the room. The candles flicker and the light pales, but does not expire.
In the darkness outside, measured footsteps drag closer, each one heavier than the last. They halt, dead still, at the threshold. Then, with an agonizing groan, the door begins to yawn open.
Standing in the doorway is an attractive, middle-aged Varisian woman with long, dark hair hastily tied under a handkerchief. She enters the home with a smile. ”Greetings,” she says in a thick Varisian accent. She glances at Julia and Neria. Her expression falters ever so, almost saddened, but she recovers quickly. ”Some of you I know. For the others, I am Zellara.”
Without another word, she takes a seat at the table and withdraws a Harrow deck from a pocket. She begins idly shuffling the cards. Her skill with the deck is apparent by the way the cards seem to float and dance over her hands and the table. As you reach for your own Harrow card, you find that you are unable to locate it. Wherever did it go?
With a nod of her head she indicates that you should all sit. Conveniently, five empty chairs are positioned around the modest table.
Once everyone has claimed a seat, she speaks in a soft but clear voice. ”Thank you for coming, my friends, and for putting up with my, ah, unconventional method of contacting you. I have reason to remain hidden, you see--a terrible man would see great harm done to me if he knew I were reaching out for help. This is a man you know, for he has done something terrible to each of you as well. I speak, of course, of Gaedren Lamm, a man whose cruelty and capacity to destroy the lives of those he touches are matched only by his gift for avoiding reprisal. You see, a year ago, his thieves stole this, my Harrow deck, from me. It is important to me, an heirloom passed down through a dozen generations, and also my sole means of support. When Lamm’s pickpockets stole it, my son, Eran, tracked them down. While he was able to return it to me, Gaedren had him followed. Soon after Eran left my home, they tracked him down and, in reward, Gaedren’s thugs murdered my son.”
Tears form in Zellara’s eyes. A single teardrop flows down her cheek, reflecting in the soft candlelight. She wipes it away, embarrased. ”I sought help from the Guard, but they turned me away. And so I asked around. I paid bribes, such as I could afford. I consulted my Harrow for advice. And recently, I was...rewarded. I found out where Gaedren dwells. He can be found in an old fishery not far from here, just north, at Westpier 17, where he trains his abducted children to be pickpockets and counts his stolen treasures.”
“But now, I need your help. I cannot hope to face this man on my own, and the Guard moves so slowly that if I were to go to them, Gaedren would certainly know of their coming well in advance. Even if they did arrest him--what guarantee would I have he would be punished? This criminal has evaded the law for decades." Her expression is sly. "But you know of these frustrations as well, for word on the street has it that Gaedren has wronged each of you, too.”
Her eyes pass to each person sitting around her table. ”So there we are. It is time for him to pay.” She wipes her nose on her worn sleeve and returns to shuffling her cards, adding, ”By way of reward I fear I haven’t much to offer. What little coin I had was spent in locating Lamm. But, I can offer you the wisdom of the Harrow, free of charge, to guide you on your way. What do you say?”
Neria's heart jumps into her throat as adrenaline courses through her body at Zellara's words. She hops up into a chair to hear the whole tale and proposal.
"I'm not entirely sure what I can do to help," she begins, chewing on her lower lip contemplatively. "While I'm also after revenge... Protection... Closure... I don't honestly know yet what I'll do once I catch up to the geezer. I desperately need to find a workable solution to my problem, but -- and please correct me if I'm wrong -- it sounds like we're talking about murder here! By the look of you, I'm sure some of you have long-festering injuries perpetrated by him," she continues while looking to each person gathered around the table. "I'm resolved to figure something out to protect myself and my interests, but I don't know if I could go that far with it." Her brow furrows and lips pucker in a lopsided grimace.
Her eyes settle back on the Varisian.
"But I think we're skipping over an important bit," she says with a cocked eyebrow. "I need to know the significance of this card you sent me before I commit to anything or leave this place."
She holds up the card, which looks huge in her tiny hand. "Why this one?" Neria's gaze doesn't falter as she waits for an answer.
Characters currently being ruined on this forum:
Mis'tuv (Halfling Fathomless Warlock) - The Voyage of the Fallen Star
Meresaa (Vedalken Artillerist Artificer) - Destination Unknown
Hutton Crowcreek (Human Fighter) - Curse of the Crimson Throne
Making my way over the bridges into North Point, the streets open up into more accommodating passageways, and after a few turns I join up with the main thoroughfare past City Hall. The lights surrounding it feel as though they count many as the entire of Old Dock, built with a sense of permanence to it. Lit up as a beacon in the otherwise dim evening, the building certainly captures the gaze of any onlooker, more eye-catching and grandiose than any of the nearby structures. Tonight though it is a fleeting glance in my periphery as I hasten past, following the main route south to Midland, the chill breeze from the Jeggare giving my goosebumps for the second time in my trip as I approach West Dock, and amidst the warehouses and storehouses, Lancet street.
Despite arriving late, there doesn't seem to be much noise coming from inside the building as I step cautiously closer. The soft glow that pierces the gaps in and around the door are the only indications of inhabitancy. A gentle rapping on the wooden door causes a slow creak from the tired hinges as the door starts to swing open... Leaving a door unlocked, even on an unappealing a hovel as this, seems like folly to me. Though at home he doors would rarely get locked, here it seemed to be inviting any dancer or beggar, thug or basher to just stroll in and take whatever they saw fit. I step inside and the interior décor sways my first thought, as the fear-inspiring and horrific trappings seem more than enough to ward off the uninvited.
"Hello" I call out, softly, almost afraid that someone will answer... Only silence greets me.
I see the note, then the bread and wine. Unknowing how many might turn up I tear a small chunk and pour just enough to wet my mouth as I settle in to wait in these unsettling surroundings.
I stay silent as others arrive, everyone appears to be a little on edge as they arrive, no-one offers their own name or asks anothers as we all await 'something'. The halfling attempts to alleviate the oppressive silence, but it isn't until the woman arrives and introduces herself as Zellara, the instigator of tonight's little gathering, that faces seem to lower their suspicions and trepidation about what is going on. I sit down as invited, along with the others before Zellara manages some sleight of hand to reclaim my card... She definitely hadn't gotten close enough to swipe it, but I've seen magic before, and as deft as it may have been, in and of itself, it didn't concern me.
I listen to Zellara's tale, and though I try to remain passive, too many of her words echo my own sentiments and experiences - time timing, the theft, the guards; my heart nearly leaps out of my chest at her mention of abducted children, and I fidget uncomfortably in my seat to try and cover my reaction. The halfling again is the first to voice her mind - something I get the impression is not an uncommon situation. Her reticence helps re-enforce my better senses, reminding me that confidence shamsters use these very ploys to lull you in, to earn your trust with only words. My first thought is that this Zellara would so freely risk the loss of cards she values as mere invites, but then I remember how easily she recovered them and maybe there wasn't as much risk to it as I first thought.
The halfling asks her question, and despite having my own, I was brought up right and pause for Zellara to address one question at a time, before I ask my own...
"Respectfully, I'm not one for your readings, all superstition and trickery if you ask me. I'm not ashamed to admit I have beef with Gaedren, but I'm a plain man, so tell me what sort of help you are after?"
Bring out your inner chatacter class...
"You look scary. That could be helpful. So what’s your deal?"
Julia's gaze flicks over the rogue—taking in the daggers, the stance, the restless energy of someone who’s always looking for the next move. A a slow smile curves Julia's lips, tilting her head just slightly as she appraises the halfling in return. Her voice is smooth, laced with amusement but not without a sharp edge.
"Scary? Darling, that’s such an ugly word. Let’s say… commanding."
She takes a measured step forward, not enough to threaten, but enough to let her presence settle. The air between them carries the faintest trace of perfume, undercut by something metallic—like old coins or dried blood.
"As for my deal—let’s just say I have a talent for knowing what people want… and what they fear," she says with a slight wink. "Call me Julia."
With that, she turns her attention back to the conversation at hand.
Julia watches Zellara closely as she speaks, her expression unreadable. The woman’s words are carefully chosen, steeped in sorrow and resolve, but Julia has spent too much time among the cunning (and a little among the desperate) to take things at face value. The air in the room is thick—grief, old wood, and the ever-present stench of the Jeggare clinging to everything. She hates this city. She loves this city.
Julia leans back in her chair, one long, elegant finger tracing absent patterns on the table’s surface. The candlelight catches the sharp angles of her face, casting shadows that shift like restless specters. Her smile is slow, deliberate—velvet over steel.
“Gaedren Lamm,” she repeats, as if savoring the shape of his name on her tongue. “Oh, I know him well.”
She taps her nail against the wood, the rhythmic tick, tick, tick filling the silence between words.
“A man like that leaves a trail of ruin in his wake, doesn’t he? Ruined lives, shattered dreams, discarded playthings.” Her eyes darken. “He takes what he wants, then moves on without a second thought. Without consequence.”
Her fingers curl, nails biting into her palm.
“But you’re right about one thing, Zellara.” Julia tilts her head, her voice dipping into something rich, something honeyed. “It is time for him to pay.”
She exhales slowly, smoothing an imagined wrinkle from her dress.
“I don’t put much stock in fate. But justice? Revenge?” A wry smile. “That, I can believe in.”
She leans forward, voice dropping just slightly.
"But tell me, Zellara—how did you come by our names? Our histories? Did your cards tell you? Or have you been watching, just like Gaedren watches through his street urchins?"
There is no accusation in her tone, only curiosity, razor-sharp and glinting in the candlelight.