Somewhere, a wrinkled hand dips a Pegasus-feathered quill into a small glass vial.
Quickly and without pause, the old one begins to pen the details of the day. He writes with brevity. He laughs occasionally. He furrows his brow when fate has interceded and played her hand. He knows he should not express his own concerns, impose his own will upon the events that will soon transpire and light up the world known as Faerûn. But he cannot suppress the desire. He is as old as time itself, and yet, for some unspecified whim, he has taken an avid interest into the peninsula of Chult, where something developed a use for magic the gods did not intend. Nevertheless, the volumes of books stacked around him represent the multitude of adventurers who flocked to the jungles of that old and ancient world so few had ever seen.
Gold ink races across the pages of the book now beneath his nose. He knows he must hurry. He knows he cannot see the far future, only the imminent glimmer, as the future comes sharply into focus, and molds quickly into the present. The old one must know.
He can still send aid, if only he knew… the destiny of the Death Knight.
From the moment you, Ignis Petal, left the deck of the Tiara and set foot onto the dock of Port Nyanzaru, the gold dragonborn harbormaster hasn’t pulled his steely draconic eyes away from you, snarling every few minutes to make sure you see the sharp teeth lining his gums, lest you forget who’s in charge. No, he might not be a true dragon, but any creature with a link to dragonkind is still draconic in nature. And Zindar knows that, the arrogant half-gold dragon, half-man, creature, thing.
Your shipmates, a male halfling named Leftfoot and a male half-elf named Rassilio (russ-SEE-lee-oh), don’t take too kindly to the magisterial look the harbormaster seems intent on burrowing into your motivations, which as of yet are unformulated. The bustling port city offers riches, pleasures, and treasures for you to explore. But the harbormaster is all too familiar with the Tiara. She’s a sneaky pirate vessel, crewed by equally sneaky scalawags. You’re waiting for Zindar to approve your visit. He’s stalling. You’ve seen no less then four merchant vessels unload travelers over the last few hours. Two were boarded and departed for the Sword Coast.
“He’s a bit cranky, don’t ye think, gents,” Leftfoot says, taping his small boot against a weathered plank. The halfling is anxious. You don’t know why. “If Zindar didn’t breath fire, I might be up for stealing those keys dangling from his belt.”
Rassilio pulls his lips into a daring smile. “I could always distract him, while you lighten his load.”
Leftfoot snorts. “What do you think I am? A nob-headed dwarf with my head stuck in a forge? He has a ring.” It glows unnaturally—magically. “That’s three against two,” says Leftfoot, chewing on his lip. “He could take us, if his ring spits out spells.”
“Well, what do you suppose we do, then? Sit here, watching him watch us all day?” Rassilio turns to you. “Well, Ing, got any ideas?”
“Feel the jungle flowing through you,” the old, green-furred tabaxi Rolling Stone Rolls Downriver says. The old cat is old, even for one of his kind.
Gdrëdrugh, your yoga instructor slowly, gently closes his cinnamon-tinted feline eyes, turning inward, sensing outward. “Can you feel it? The Weave. Its energy surrounds all of us. It penetrates each and every one of us. It binds us. It brings Nyanzaru together.”
“My joints burn,” grumbles portly Broof. He’s on his hands and knees, attempting to contort his body so that he properly resembles the position, Veneration to the Jungle, or as it is more commonly known, Humble Serpent.
As if any of the serpents in the jungles of Chult were humble. Vicious predators would better describe their instincts.
With his hands loosely clasped behind his back, the tabaxi strolls around the group. There are six students today, including you.
Rolls Downriver comes to a stop. He claps Broof on the shoulder, and says. “Good. Keep practicing. Eventually you will understand what it means to venerate.”
“My poor knees.”
Rolls Downriver laughs. It’s a light chortle, full of mirth and vigor. “Open your hands. Release your pain.”
Broof follows the tabaxi's advice. “I don’t feel any better.”
“Because you haven’t released it yet,” the tabaxi whispers.
How are you faring, Gdrëdrugh? Are you properly performing the position Veneration to the Jungle this morning, on this Sixth Day of Marpenoth?
You feel it, Valora, suddenly and without warning. A tremor ripples through the air, followed by an uncomfortable silence.
You see the dark-haired half-elven cleric of Waukeen named Hartha race down the center aisle of the healing tent, crowbar in hand, toward a large wooden chest that’s been gathering dust for as long as anyone can remember.
Wild-eyed, she raises the tool high over her head and then with a snarl befit a tyrannosaur drives the crowbar down and through the padlock. She twists. It groans. She twists more. And it pops, like a magical ward canceled by an anti-magic spell. The iron chain threaded through the padlock gives way. Cold metal clatters around her feet, along with the crowbar she drops. Joyful tears burst from her light brown eyes. “We can use these again!”
“Use what?” a gnomish healer shouts back, looking up from the Flaming Fist soldier she’s tending 20 feet away. Laporra is unfamiliar with the chest’s contents.
Hartha can barely contain her elation it’s been so long. “Scrolls of resurrection, lesser restoration,” she huffs euphorically, listing off an entire slate of spells neither she nor her fellow priests have been permitted to cast over the last year. A selfish evil wedged itself between the forces of life and death, commanding a power the gods failed to notice might even exist.
Hartha flings the treasure chest open. It’s packed full of rolled parchment.
She hands you a scroll of cure wounds. “Apply it to anyone in need,” she pants. “Here,” she adds, shoving three more cure wounds scrolls into your hands. “Heal as many as you can. Their injuries may still take them.”
“Well boys..... I think it might be easier to win over the bear with a little honey. Those keys will always be there. Maybe once we win him over, we’ll have less eyes on us. Let me try to get him to our side. If I fail we can try it your way?”
i would like to attempt to persuade my crewmates to let me try my way.
Ignis claps Leftfoot on the shoulder. “ let’s see if I can get ya out of here without getting us incinerated. Trust me Lefty, I got this. ( I think?)” ignis turns and walks toward the gold dragon born.
”excuse me kind sir, perhaps you have a moment to spare for a weary traveler.” With his most respectful demeanor possible, ignis engages zindar in conversation while doing so I would like to get a better read on him to see if it’s more then just the pirate aspect of us that has him keeping us at port?
As you, Ignis, approach Zindar, he sneers. He can barely stand the sight of you, like someone who's bothered but must address you for the sake of courtesy. You're on the dock, and he is the harbormaster. "Yessss. How can I helpss you?"
Giving him a one over doesn't shed a lot of light on your predicament. Although, over the past year, he has been watching adventurers come and go. Maybe he just wants this all to end. Maybe he's tired of the kind of attention the city is getting. Or, maybe, he's just a prude. You can't tell.
Gdrëdrugh relaxes into the pose closing his eyes and feeling the weave flow through and around him. He may not know these poses so well, but it feels good to focus mind and body.
When life throws ye lemons, yer old pappy used to say, Merry. Throw them back! Don’t be taken for a fool. Don’t be judged fer yer size. And don’t accept what’s been given ye, unless, of course, it’s what ye’ve asked fer. Then grab it with a grin and squeeze every ounce of gold ye can out of them lemons. Starting with that tree. Now, get to it, before we lose that crop! There’s juice and tarts to be made.
Stodgy gaffer.
A fine mist is rolling into the Market Ward this morning, on the sixth day of Marpenoth, in a city located somewhere on the far side of the world.
It’s been a few weeks since your arrival to the peninsula of Chult, and in that time you have seen more than your share of wild and weird—lumbering lizards that rather resemble draft horses, trustworthy spells that fail without explanation, races and cultures of every description; it’s like your pappy’s herb garden: one big mess.
“Now that the Death Curse is lifted, are ye heading back home, Merry,” the halfling named Thimb Handenhand asks, raising his head from under a collapsible wooden table. “The legs were wobbly.” He shrugs. Gnomes invent all manner of wondrous devices. “Repairs,” he winks. “That’s my other trade.”
You share a small vendor booth with the halfling. It’s one of many booths crammed under crisscrossing burlap sails in the middle of the Market Ward, in an alley the locals call, Serpent’s Belly—on account of its constant motion. People spend hours milling about.
A sign hanging from a nail reads: Fresh water.
The halfling rigged rain catchers to the posts that bound the booth. He adds a small lemon wedge for flavor. He sells a cup for a few coppers, a sprig of mint for one additional copper. Sales from drinks pay for the downtime in between jobs.
Fresh water only falls from the sky, Handenhand reminds you constantly. Water from every other source is contaminated. “Drink only the rain, Merry. Remember, the rain. Rain falls through the air. A pool, or a lake can be still for months. Such a water source may seem potable, but do not be fooled by its shimmering glass. It’s a lair, Merry; mark my words, a lair for creatures bred from nightmares. The creatures here on Chult come in all shapes and sizes, some so small, they make a rot grub seem like a purple wyrm. Imagine what would happen to ye if a full-grown purple wyrm the size of yer finger were to burst through yer chest? How many more might be churning in yer stomach, using that bag fer a lair, until they move on to another lair, and then another, and another?” Handenhand can be excitable.
The halfling hails from Waterdeep. He owns and operates Handenhand Supplies. It’s a full-service gear and repair shop. His prices are fair. He has repeat business.
You recall the day you met him. You were strolling by. Handenhand’s head was in a crate. He looked up, saw you, smiled amicably, and presumptuously handed you two hammers, two for each hand. “Don’t just stand there. Help a halfling in need!”You haven’t looked away since. He’s been your tour guide of sorts. He’s been in Port Nyanzaru for the past nine months. Not as long as some, but certainly he’s outlasted many of the adventurers who thought they were prepared for what was in store for them once they disappeared into the jungle. At last count, he estimated no less than two thousand souls perished since the Death Curse first stirred trouble. By some accounts the souls lost number that of Neverwinter! The latter likely is closest to the actual count, still, a conservative number at best. No one keeps a census, well, perhaps the harbormaster Zindar might. He records all port activity.
“This in no place to make a life,” Handenhand grunts, “Go home, Merry. Go back to the Sword Coast. Live, while you have life in ye. That’s the lesson of the Death Curse, I think. Give yer heart a reason to drum. Make it pound against the sky.”
While the old gabber goes on about this and that, dreams and adventure, you organize the wares you’re selling across a thin colorful cloth.
Over the next hour, friendly faces stop by to examine your items. Most nod and move on. A small number closely examine your offerings.
You’re reaching for a snack around midday, when you notice a large mass eclipse the sun.
Merry grins at the approaching, potential customers.
"Welcome to Merry's shop of unusual trinkets." She says, placing the most charming grin on her lips. "Can I interest you in some goods? Or can my friend," Indicating the elder halfling, "Get you a drink of water?"
"A cup of water would be most welcome, thank you," Izifo says to the grinning halfling. He motions to the other two people people who have approached the stall and adds, "These two look quite parched as well. If they would have it, I would also buy them a cup of water."
Spying the other trinkets, gear and wares available, Izifo brings his hand to his chin.
"Ne, by some luck, you wouldn't happen to have for sale any quick blades like a rapier or a Chultan short sword?"
“Yes, that’s it,” Rolls Downriver says to you, Gdrëdrugh. “But try a little less doing, and with a lot more feeling. Let the jungle f-l-o-w through you,” he says, gliding around the crowd assembled outside Tiryki Anchorage, some 30 yards from the triceratops pens.
If it wasn’t for the wonderful smell of animal dung your teacher discovered, perhaps you might be able to concentrate. He found the smelly mound quite by accident, by stepping into it—the blind cat.
"A rapier," Handenhand replies. "I'm not sure. Let me check." He falls away to the various crates and boxes stacked along the back of the booth. It's a makeshift wall. The vendor on the other side sells fresh fruit, sandals and belt purses of nearly every size.
Your halfling pries open a lid. "No. Not that one."
Another lid pops off. "Not that one either. Hmmm. Now, where did I put those blades?" he grumbles, tapping his nose. Perhaps by pressing the button on his face he might activate his memory. "Ah-ha! Yes." He whirls around and separates a long box from a stack. He lays the box on the ground, grabs a hoist-a-ma-thing, then cranks the box up with the contraption so that he can just tip the box over onto the table. it slides off with ease.
The box is ornate. Padded leather surrounds the container. Buckles and handles adorn four faces. Handendhand stuffs his hand down a pocket, finds and key and hands it to you, Izifo. The key hole is on top and is nothing like you've seen before. Down the throat of a colorless dragon you would insert the key.
“I don’t wish to take up too much of your time” ignis says to Zindar. “ you know the sooner we go about our business the sooner we are out of your hair.” Smiling he says “we simple wish to bring a little commerce to your beautiful port city, we don’t bring any ill will with us.”
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Valora's heart thumped against her chest as if trying to liberate itself from the cage, her eyes welling with tears to match Hartha's. She, too, cant not contain her happiness.
"Is it real? I felt something! It's really happening! it's over!" Valora booms with joy at Hartha. Taking her directions in stride, the chipmunk cheeked cutie busies herself with the scrolls, barely being able to stay in place. And finally, she's off to the races, blurring down the aisles to do as told.
However, a thought strikes her, stopping her in stride for a moment. If the death curse is over, what will come of the "addiction" she's built up over the course of a year? When she came to Port N, she'd been under the impression the curse wouldn't be lifted for years, maybe decades, if ever. But now? She'll be sent back to the Sword Coast, with only a fraction of her services needed there.
Pushing the negative thought aside, she spies the tent for the most maimed and ill of health, aiming to get one last "fix" in before the inevitable shipping back to the homestead for her. She spots one and heads their way shuffling the scrolls in her arms and adjusting them to put in her pack. Her heavily dimpled smile, a spirit lifter some have said, morphs across her face as she approaches.
Perception: 15
OOC: With so many in this thread, just wanted to remind you that you asked me to roll perception in your intro piece. Let me know if you do or don't want me posting OOC reminders. Thanks bud. :)
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
(CON ST: 11) Dred tries to concentrate, but the odor... They could at least practice their movements somewhere... clean. He clears his mind. He moves into the pose, trying to feel the strength and wellness the yogi is teaching them. As he allows his body to move into pose and opens his mind, he feels the magic of the world around him. He offers his thoughts to the jungle around him, feeling what it has to offer, and paying it tribute in return.
This weapon, you, Zara, recall your father saying time and again, is not merely made of metal. It does not make judgments for the gods to obey or deny. It is an instrument of your will, your desire to battle the forces of Nature. All around you. Some of these forces side with what is good and green, home and hearth. Other forces side with evil and fire. They burn and claim.
Know which side you stand with, before you draw your weapon.
He turns the hefty axe over in his hand. It is a marvelous weapon. It has survived for decades while other weapons break. There is nothing particularly magical about its craftsmanship. You know the story.
You also know that it must be kept secret.
The battleaxe travels through time. It has known many grips, and fought for many hearts… except yours. You hope someday that you will be worthy, that you will wield this mighty weapon in the name of your people, and bring pride to your father’s eyes.
If only you could get off this blasted peninsula of Chult. You have wasted precious hours, thinking you could make a name for yourself here. All that you have found is monotony and distraction, not the wind of adventure you were expecting your wild spirit to breathe.
As you stroll through the Red Bazaar on this Sixth Day of Marpenoth, you ponder the truth of your life, the connection you have to the natural world. The differences are obvious. Nyanzaru might be on the very edge of the jungle, inches from that untamed wilderness, but yet, it is still too far apart from your liking.
Your thoughts wander. Your eyes catch movement.
You spot a dinosaur. It’s handler pulls too tightly on the reigns. You see the error. But it’s too late. The creature bucks. It roars. Its eyes glisten with discomfort. The adolescent triceratops breaks free full tilt, charging through the city. People scream as they leap away.
The creature charges down the street, free from its master's hold. It doesn't know where to go. Other than straight toward you.
Zara doesn't flinch, she races towards the strange large beast and tries to leap onto it to grab it's reigns and bring it under control. (Animal Handling)
Somewhere, a wrinkled hand dips a Pegasus-feathered quill into a small glass vial.
Quickly and without pause, the old one begins to pen the details of the day. He writes with brevity. He laughs occasionally. He furrows his brow when fate has interceded and played her hand. He knows he should not express his own concerns, impose his own will upon the events that will soon transpire and light up the world known as Faerûn. But he cannot suppress the desire. He is as old as time itself, and yet, for some unspecified whim, he has taken an avid interest into the peninsula of Chult, where something developed a use for magic the gods did not intend. Nevertheless, the volumes of books stacked around him represent the multitude of adventurers who flocked to the jungles of that old and ancient world so few had ever seen.
Gold ink races across the pages of the book now beneath his nose. He knows he must hurry. He knows he cannot see the far future, only the imminent glimmer, as the future comes sharply into focus, and molds quickly into the present. The old one must know.
He can still send aid, if only he knew… the destiny of the Death Knight.
Knack for Plunder
From the moment you, Ignis Petal, left the deck of the Tiara and set foot onto the dock of Port Nyanzaru, the gold dragonborn harbormaster hasn’t pulled his steely draconic eyes away from you, snarling every few minutes to make sure you see the sharp teeth lining his gums, lest you forget who’s in charge. No, he might not be a true dragon, but any creature with a link to dragonkind is still draconic in nature. And Zindar knows that, the arrogant half-gold dragon, half-man, creature, thing.
Your shipmates, a male halfling named Leftfoot and a male half-elf named Rassilio (russ-SEE-lee-oh), don’t take too kindly to the magisterial look the harbormaster seems intent on burrowing into your motivations, which as of yet are unformulated. The bustling port city offers riches, pleasures, and treasures for you to explore. But the harbormaster is all too familiar with the Tiara. She’s a sneaky pirate vessel, crewed by equally sneaky scalawags. You’re waiting for Zindar to approve your visit. He’s stalling. You’ve seen no less then four merchant vessels unload travelers over the last few hours. Two were boarded and departed for the Sword Coast.
“He’s a bit cranky, don’t ye think, gents,” Leftfoot says, taping his small boot against a weathered plank. The halfling is anxious. You don’t know why. “If Zindar didn’t breath fire, I might be up for stealing those keys dangling from his belt.”
Rassilio pulls his lips into a daring smile. “I could always distract him, while you lighten his load.”
Leftfoot snorts. “What do you think I am? A nob-headed dwarf with my head stuck in a forge? He has a ring.” It glows unnaturally—magically. “That’s three against two,” says Leftfoot, chewing on his lip. “He could take us, if his ring spits out spells.”
“Well, what do you suppose we do, then? Sit here, watching him watch us all day?” Rassilio turns to you. “Well, Ing, got any ideas?”
One With the Jungle
“Feel the jungle flowing through you,” the old, green-furred tabaxi Rolling Stone Rolls Downriver says. The old cat is old, even for one of his kind.
Gdrëdrugh, your yoga instructor slowly, gently closes his cinnamon-tinted feline eyes, turning inward, sensing outward. “Can you feel it? The Weave. Its energy surrounds all of us. It penetrates each and every one of us. It binds us. It brings Nyanzaru together.”
“My joints burn,” grumbles portly Broof. He’s on his hands and knees, attempting to contort his body so that he properly resembles the position, Veneration to the Jungle, or as it is more commonly known, Humble Serpent.
As if any of the serpents in the jungles of Chult were humble. Vicious predators would better describe their instincts.
With his hands loosely clasped behind his back, the tabaxi strolls around the group. There are six students today, including you.
Rolls Downriver comes to a stop. He claps Broof on the shoulder, and says. “Good. Keep practicing. Eventually you will understand what it means to venerate.”
“My poor knees.”
Rolls Downriver laughs. It’s a light chortle, full of mirth and vigor. “Open your hands. Release your pain.”
Broof follows the tabaxi's advice. “I don’t feel any better.”
“Because you haven’t released it yet,” the tabaxi whispers.
How are you faring, Gdrëdrugh? Are you properly performing the position Veneration to the Jungle this morning, on this Sixth Day of Marpenoth?
Make an Athletics check, please.
Your Humbled Masses
You feel it, Valora, suddenly and without warning. A tremor ripples through the air, followed by an uncomfortable silence.
You see the dark-haired half-elven cleric of Waukeen named Hartha race down the center aisle of the healing tent, crowbar in hand, toward a large wooden chest that’s been gathering dust for as long as anyone can remember.
Wild-eyed, she raises the tool high over her head and then with a snarl befit a tyrannosaur drives the crowbar down and through the padlock. She twists. It groans. She twists more. And it pops, like a magical ward canceled by an anti-magic spell. The iron chain threaded through the padlock gives way. Cold metal clatters around her feet, along with the crowbar she drops. Joyful tears burst from her light brown eyes. “We can use these again!”
“Use what?” a gnomish healer shouts back, looking up from the Flaming Fist soldier she’s tending 20 feet away. Laporra is unfamiliar with the chest’s contents.
Hartha can barely contain her elation it’s been so long. “Scrolls of resurrection, lesser restoration,” she huffs euphorically, listing off an entire slate of spells neither she nor her fellow priests have been permitted to cast over the last year. A selfish evil wedged itself between the forces of life and death, commanding a power the gods failed to notice might even exist.
Hartha flings the treasure chest open. It’s packed full of rolled parchment.
She hands you a scroll of cure wounds. “Apply it to anyone in need,” she pants. “Here,” she adds, shoving three more cure wounds scrolls into your hands. “Heal as many as you can. Their injuries may still take them.”
Please make a Perception check.
“Well boys..... I think it might be easier to win over the bear with a little honey. Those keys will always be there. Maybe once we win him over, we’ll have less eyes on us. Let me try to get him to our side. If I fail we can try it your way?”
i would like to attempt to persuade my crewmates to let me try my way.
Persuasion- 17
Leftfoot is skeptical, Ignis. "Ye think ye can persuade him—a gold dragonborn?"
"I like Ing's style," Rassilio says, crossing his arms. He chuckles at the bear and honey reference.
Ignis claps Leftfoot on the shoulder. “ let’s see if I can get ya out of here without getting us incinerated. Trust me Lefty, I got this. ( I think?)” ignis turns and walks toward the gold dragon born.
”excuse me kind sir, perhaps you have a moment to spare for a weary traveler.” With his most respectful demeanor possible, ignis engages zindar in conversation while doing so I would like to get a better read on him to see if it’s more then just the pirate aspect of us that has him keeping us at port?
Insight- 13
As you, Ignis, approach Zindar, he sneers. He can barely stand the sight of you, like someone who's bothered but must address you for the sake of courtesy. You're on the dock, and he is the harbormaster. "Yessss. How can I helpss you?"
Giving him a one over doesn't shed a lot of light on your predicament. Although, over the past year, he has been watching adventurers come and go. Maybe he just wants this all to end. Maybe he's tired of the kind of attention the city is getting. Or, maybe, he's just a prude. You can't tell.
(Athletics: 12)
Gdrëdrugh relaxes into the pose closing his eyes and feeling the weave flow through and around him. He may not know these poses so well, but it feels good to focus mind and body.
Though not currently a member, seeking admission to the really long and important signature club. Please consider this as a current CV.
Other personalities... Burgee , The Colorless Knight, Fiorello, RW Goodbarrel, Dred, Evrik - Out of the Abyss & Dungeon of the Mad Mage
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When life throws ye lemons, yer old pappy used to say, Merry. Throw them back! Don’t be taken for a fool. Don’t be judged fer yer size. And don’t accept what’s been given ye, unless, of course, it’s what ye’ve asked fer. Then grab it with a grin and squeeze every ounce of gold ye can out of them lemons. Starting with that tree. Now, get to it, before we lose that crop! There’s juice and tarts to be made.
Stodgy gaffer.
A fine mist is rolling into the Market Ward this morning, on the sixth day of Marpenoth, in a city located somewhere on the far side of the world.
It’s been a few weeks since your arrival to the peninsula of Chult, and in that time you have seen more than your share of wild and weird—lumbering lizards that rather resemble draft horses, trustworthy spells that fail without explanation, races and cultures of every description; it’s like your pappy’s herb garden: one big mess.
“Now that the Death Curse is lifted, are ye heading back home, Merry,” the halfling named Thimb Handenhand asks, raising his head from under a collapsible wooden table. “The legs were wobbly.” He shrugs. Gnomes invent all manner of wondrous devices. “Repairs,” he winks. “That’s my other trade.”
You share a small vendor booth with the halfling. It’s one of many booths crammed under crisscrossing burlap sails in the middle of the Market Ward, in an alley the locals call, Serpent’s Belly—on account of its constant motion. People spend hours milling about.
A sign hanging from a nail reads: Fresh water.
The halfling rigged rain catchers to the posts that bound the booth. He adds a small lemon wedge for flavor. He sells a cup for a few coppers, a sprig of mint for one additional copper. Sales from drinks pay for the downtime in between jobs.
Fresh water only falls from the sky, Handenhand reminds you constantly. Water from every other source is contaminated. “Drink only the rain, Merry. Remember, the rain. Rain falls through the air. A pool, or a lake can be still for months. Such a water source may seem potable, but do not be fooled by its shimmering glass. It’s a lair, Merry; mark my words, a lair for creatures bred from nightmares. The creatures here on Chult come in all shapes and sizes, some so small, they make a rot grub seem like a purple wyrm. Imagine what would happen to ye if a full-grown purple wyrm the size of yer finger were to burst through yer chest? How many more might be churning in yer stomach, using that bag fer a lair, until they move on to another lair, and then another, and another?” Handenhand can be excitable.
The halfling hails from Waterdeep. He owns and operates Handenhand Supplies. It’s a full-service gear and repair shop. His prices are fair. He has repeat business.
You recall the day you met him. You were strolling by. Handenhand’s head was in a crate. He looked up, saw you, smiled amicably, and presumptuously handed you two hammers, two for each hand. “Don’t just stand there. Help a halfling in need!”You haven’t looked away since. He’s been your tour guide of sorts. He’s been in Port Nyanzaru for the past nine months. Not as long as some, but certainly he’s outlasted many of the adventurers who thought they were prepared for what was in store for them once they disappeared into the jungle. At last count, he estimated no less than two thousand souls perished since the Death Curse first stirred trouble. By some accounts the souls lost number that of Neverwinter! The latter likely is closest to the actual count, still, a conservative number at best. No one keeps a census, well, perhaps the harbormaster Zindar might. He records all port activity.
“This in no place to make a life,” Handenhand grunts, “Go home, Merry. Go back to the Sword Coast. Live, while you have life in ye. That’s the lesson of the Death Curse, I think. Give yer heart a reason to drum. Make it pound against the sky.”
While the old gabber goes on about this and that, dreams and adventure, you organize the wares you’re selling across a thin colorful cloth.
Over the next hour, friendly faces stop by to examine your items. Most nod and move on. A small number closely examine your offerings.
You’re reaching for a snack around midday, when you notice a large mass eclipse the sun.
Izifo, Pyre, and Zara stop by your table.
Merry grins at the approaching, potential customers.
"Welcome to Merry's shop of unusual trinkets." She says, placing the most charming grin on her lips. "Can I interest you in some goods? Or can my friend," Indicating the elder halfling, "Get you a drink of water?"
"A cup of water would be most welcome, thank you," Izifo says to the grinning halfling. He motions to the other two people people who have approached the stall and adds, "These two look quite parched as well. If they would have it, I would also buy them a cup of water."
Spying the other trinkets, gear and wares available, Izifo brings his hand to his chin.
"Ne, by some luck, you wouldn't happen to have for sale any quick blades like a rapier or a Chultan short sword?"
“Yes, that’s it,” Rolls Downriver says to you, Gdrëdrugh. “But try a little less doing, and with a lot more feeling. Let the jungle f-l-o-w through you,” he says, gliding around the crowd assembled outside Tiryki Anchorage, some 30 yards from the triceratops pens.
If it wasn’t for the wonderful smell of animal dung your teacher discovered, perhaps you might be able to concentrate. He found the smelly mound quite by accident, by stepping into it—the blind cat.
Make a Constitution save.
"A rapier," Handenhand replies. "I'm not sure. Let me check." He falls away to the various crates and boxes stacked along the back of the booth. It's a makeshift wall. The vendor on the other side sells fresh fruit, sandals and belt purses of nearly every size.
Your halfling pries open a lid. "No. Not that one."
Another lid pops off. "Not that one either. Hmmm. Now, where did I put those blades?" he grumbles, tapping his nose. Perhaps by pressing the button on his face he might activate his memory. "Ah-ha! Yes." He whirls around and separates a long box from a stack. He lays the box on the ground, grabs a hoist-a-ma-thing, then cranks the box up with the contraption so that he can just tip the box over onto the table. it slides off with ease.
The box is ornate. Padded leather surrounds the container. Buckles and handles adorn four faces. Handendhand stuffs his hand down a pocket, finds and key and hands it to you, Izifo. The key hole is on top and is nothing like you've seen before. Down the throat of a colorless dragon you would insert the key.
Make a History or Arcana check, your choice.
“I don’t wish to take up too much of your time” ignis says to Zindar. “ you know the sooner we go about our business the sooner we are out of your hair.” Smiling he says “we simple wish to bring a little commerce to your beautiful port city, we don’t bring any ill will with us.”
Persuasion- 8
:(
“What magnificent detail...” Izifo says, slipping the key into the dragon's-mouth keyhole. He hesitates, thinking about what the design might mean.
History 16
Valora's heart thumped against her chest as if trying to liberate itself from the cage, her eyes welling with tears to match Hartha's. She, too, cant not contain her happiness.
"Is it real? I felt something! It's really happening! it's over!" Valora booms with joy at Hartha. Taking her directions in stride, the chipmunk cheeked cutie busies herself with the scrolls, barely being able to stay in place. And finally, she's off to the races, blurring down the aisles to do as told.
However, a thought strikes her, stopping her in stride for a moment. If the death curse is over, what will come of the "addiction" she's built up over the course of a year? When she came to Port N, she'd been under the impression the curse wouldn't be lifted for years, maybe decades, if ever. But now? She'll be sent back to the Sword Coast, with only a fraction of her services needed there.
Pushing the negative thought aside, she spies the tent for the most maimed and ill of health, aiming to get one last "fix" in before the inevitable shipping back to the homestead for her. She spots one and heads their way shuffling the scrolls in her arms and adjusting them to put in her pack. Her heavily dimpled smile, a spirit lifter some have said, morphs across her face as she approaches.
Perception: 15
OOC: With so many in this thread, just wanted to remind you that you asked me to roll perception in your intro piece. Let me know if you do or don't want me posting OOC reminders. Thanks bud. :)
(CON ST: 11) Dred tries to concentrate, but the odor... They could at least practice their movements somewhere... clean. He clears his mind. He moves into the pose, trying to feel the strength and wellness the yogi is teaching them. As he allows his body to move into pose and opens his mind, he feels the magic of the world around him. He offers his thoughts to the jungle around him, feeling what it has to offer, and paying it tribute in return.
Though not currently a member, seeking admission to the really long and important signature club. Please consider this as a current CV.
Other personalities... Burgee , The Colorless Knight, Fiorello, RW Goodbarrel, Dred, Evrik - Out of the Abyss & Dungeon of the Mad Mage
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The Warrior Within
This weapon, you, Zara, recall your father saying time and again, is not merely made of metal. It does not make judgments for the gods to obey or deny. It is an instrument of your will, your desire to battle the forces of Nature. All around you. Some of these forces side with what is good and green, home and hearth. Other forces side with evil and fire. They burn and claim.
Know which side you stand with, before you draw your weapon.
He turns the hefty axe over in his hand. It is a marvelous weapon. It has survived for decades while other weapons break. There is nothing particularly magical about its craftsmanship. You know the story.
You also know that it must be kept secret.
The battleaxe travels through time. It has known many grips, and fought for many hearts… except yours. You hope someday that you will be worthy, that you will wield this mighty weapon in the name of your people, and bring pride to your father’s eyes.
If only you could get off this blasted peninsula of Chult. You have wasted precious hours, thinking you could make a name for yourself here. All that you have found is monotony and distraction, not the wind of adventure you were expecting your wild spirit to breathe.
As you stroll through the Red Bazaar on this Sixth Day of Marpenoth, you ponder the truth of your life, the connection you have to the natural world. The differences are obvious. Nyanzaru might be on the very edge of the jungle, inches from that untamed wilderness, but yet, it is still too far apart from your liking.
Your thoughts wander. Your eyes catch movement.
You spot a dinosaur. It’s handler pulls too tightly on the reigns. You see the error. But it’s too late. The creature bucks. It roars. Its eyes glisten with discomfort. The adolescent triceratops breaks free full tilt, charging through the city. People scream as they leap away.
The creature charges down the street, free from its master's hold. It doesn't know where to go. Other than straight toward you.
Roll initiative.
(1d20+1)
(16+1 = 17)
Zara doesn't flinch, she races towards the strange large beast and tries to leap onto it to grab it's reigns and bring it under control. (Animal Handling)