This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
There comes a moment in every warriors's life, a choice that distinguishes this warrior from all others, when the veil of destiny lifts for a brief moment reveal the truth beyond the present and into the future.
This is your time, Zara.
The creature running toward you has no quarrel with you. You realize that you are the only obstacle firmly placed between it and the freedom the triceratops so desperately wants. It did not ask to be domesticated, nor did it submit willingly, clearly, for the creature has declared in one strong voice, one thunderous run, freedom no stack of coin dare measure the sorting feelings an unbound spirit knows when its heart beats solely for itself. No glint of gold can compare to that inextinguishable light.
the triceratops lowers its head, intending to plow through you.
Freedom is just a few steps beyond, through the gate, and into the jungle.
Neither you, Dred, nor your fellow students can get around the pungent odor. Did Rolls Downriver relocate the group? No. Could he have? Certainly. Why didn’t he?
Waste is a part of life, he said not two minutes prior. Waste your life and the undead might come crawling for you. They consume everything. They leave nothing behind. Hunger—the dark urge of necromancy.
“I’m going to vomit,” gasps the Chultan named Khuafu (KUH-ah-foo). He’s the fifth-born son of a respected Chultan noble.
Khuafu complains about everything, even the color of water.
“Ignore the smell,” Rolling Stone Rolls Downriver reminds him.
“How, you old cat.”
The tabaxi offers a knowing smile in return. “Ignore everything. Then nothing will distract your mind.”
Khuafu rolls his eyes. “I hate him. Aren’t old ones supposed to be wise?” Khuafu is a talker. He’s told you every morning for the last few days that his father expects him to meditate himself directly into a state of transcendental usefulness so that he spends more hours serving customers and less time serving his loins.
It’s not working.
Khuafu was late today, by more than ten minutes. He was full of excuses. Going on about a long and sordid night with a woman he befriended in the Market Ward. She was a priestess of Loviatar, and she taught him a few things about pleasure, and pain, before boarding a ship headed for Neverwinter. He doesn’t remember her name. He should have. Her name is the Silver Queen.
“Gdrëdrugh,” says Rolls Downriver. “What is on your mind, today?”
OOC. No matter how many times you've corrected the yogi, he still calls you by your given name.
Hartha piles the scrolls into your hands, Valora. She grabs a few for herself and dashes toward a group of Flaming Fist soldiers. They suffered terrible wounds out in the jungle. Men from the Sword Coast have little experience with the ways of Chult. Goblins, orcs, drow, dragons, too, in some respects, are predictable. The jungles of Chult were anything but.
Immediately to you left are six beds. You know the names of the men and women—there are no children in this tent. They are separated into a Children's Ward.
OOC The Perception roll I asked you was for this reason:
Three human male Flaming Fist soldiers named Karth, Mergoon, and Deagan occupy three beds. A human woman named Daniva never wakes. She sleeps all day long. You've seen wounds like this before. Whatever took her the first time, is unapologetically pulling her toward death with cruel efficiency. A native human male native to Chult named Adar mumbles about his son. His fever is constant. He nears death. A female elf named Qu'i'ell'stir—Hartha nicknamed her Leafstring—hasn't moved an inch. She rests peacefully, even as the disease ravages her body. Her features are gaunt. Her suffering is an unwelcome sight.
Now that the death curse is lifted, these six patients have little time left.
"You're a pirate," the half-gold dragon hisses at you, Ignis. "But you have manners. Unlike others," he says tilting his head to one side so that he has a direct line of sight with your fellow crewmates. Rassilio bows. It's not so much of an apology. More of a humorous salutation. Humbling himself, as it were, before arrogance.
Izifo, you do recall hearing something in your travels as to the craftsmanship of this container. Somewhere you heard or knew someone, a nobleman, or a house messenger, perhaps, deliver a prized item in such a similar lavish container.
As the key disappears into the mouth, the dragon's eyes twinkle. A ray of red light bursts forth form each orb. They shoot skyward, then expand into cones and only to cascade down like soft rain over the trunk's padded leather surface.
The dragon's head splits three-ways, away from the keyhole. You hear sounds like grinding and whirring inside. The lid rises and springs away on levers.
Within the box, resting upon gentling rolling satin padding, you see one long sword and two daggers. They are of fine craftsmanship. Motes of light lift from the tang of both daggers. The blade of the sword sizzles and crackles with flecks of lightning.
"Well, now, ain't those a few eye openers," Handenhand grins. "No one's been able to open the box before." He looks up curious now. "Except for you."
"My mind is but a passing configuration of energy Master, and nothing is upon it," Gdrëdrugh says to the yogi. "It is as clear as a mountain stream." Dred then loses himself in the movements and feels the energy of the world around him strengthen his mind, body, and soul.
After the days lessons, Gdrëdrugh approaches Khuafu. "You know, you really should learn to release yourself during the sessions. Become one with what is around you. Let your mind relax and focus only on the pose." While Dred does want to help the young lad with his approach to yoga, other things from the morning piqued his interest. "So, tell me more about this priestess which you met upon the night hence." Dred listens to anything that Khuafu may recall about his encounter with the woman. (History: 14)
Khuafu grins, unabashedly. "She was glorious Dred. Her body was a temple of unblemished beauty and fiery passion." He leans in. He lowers his voice. "I've never been subjected to such painless torture." He goes to lift his shirt but thinks better of it. The grassy hill is sacred ground. At least he has some manner of decorumn. "She prays to Loviatar."
As the spoiled brat narrates his late-night adventures, you do seem to recall hearing something about this Silver… Queen. She operates a private academy. One is located in Baldur's Gate. The other is located in Yartar. Students from as far south as Amn and as east as Kara-Tur travel to hear her lectures on pain. She accepts three students per year and trains them on anatomy.
You do not submit a request. She locates you, and makes an offer, for you are her slave, and she is your master.
Izifo's eyes widen and he takes a half-step back as the rays of light shine up and out from the dragon's eyes. Upon hearing the vendors suggestion that only for him had the lock opened, Izifo motions to the box and its contents with an open palm.
"What do you mean that its only opened for me? What are these blades? I know this box, but not from where--who is the craftsman?"
He reaches out for the hilt of the sword cautiously, noticing the way in which the blade seems to course with energy. To him, the steel of both the sword and the daggers seems lithe and he wonders whether he would be able to wield them with finesse and grace.
"Vendor, were I to buy one, two or all of these from you, what would you charge?"
OOC: Is there any way to tell whether or not the sword has the Finesse property?
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
"So tell me more about yourself Khuafu. I am foreign to these shores and always interested in local folk." Dred says to the young Chultan. He continues walking with the man as they talk trying to ascertain any information possible. As they he listens to the man boast, Dred would also ask more about Khuafu's contact with the woman, "How did you come to be introduced to this priestess?" Dred asks. "I am sure before she taught you her ways behind closed doors, you must have had a few things to discuss with her. What were her interests as far as you could deduce?" Dred listens carefully for any clues the young Chultan. (Insight18)
From your conversations with Khuafu, you know his father is Ingali (in-GAH-lee) Fassah, a powerful merchant lord. He owns and operates Ingali’s, a high-end furniture store with locations in Nyanzaru, Amn, Waterdeep, and Yartar. He first opened Ingali’s in Amn then relocated his shop’s headquarters to Nyanzaru so that he could mill exotic wood, and therefore set a higher price.
Khuafu slips, when he says to you, Dred, “My father’s reputation is well earned. He wields his business like a serrated sword.”
The young man’s eyes go wide, as though he admitted something he should not have, but truthfully, Ingali cares not. Evidenced by the fact that his immature son is here, foolishly trying to find himself, and failing gloriously in the process. Perhaps Ingali is more concerned about his son’s reckless behavior, that he is a liability? Khuafu beds any woman, and boasts about his selfish acts. As you have so often heard.
Khuafu considers your question with the skill of a leech. "The attraction was instant. What else matters?" But you planted a thought, and it grows like a weed under a bright sun; a light too powerful to ignore. "She did ask questions about my father's business. I thought she was merely asking because everyone wants to know my father. He is a powerful man. Collectors and artists from all over the world—" He stops. "Dred," he starts once again. He gulps hard. "I may have offered my head to the lion's mouth."
"Of course, of course, thank you," Izifo says to the halfling, placing the blade in his outstretched hands. He puts a hand against his heart and the talisman of Talona that rests beneath his shirt and silently thanks her for this stroke of luck, promising to use the tools to exact her aims.
Dred listens carefully as Khuafu clamors on about his conquests, but his attention is piqued when he finds out that Khuafu is from a merchant family, and is even more interested at the mention of the priestess' prying questions. He looks at Khuafu, "Perhaps you did. It is intriguing that she should be so inquisitive about your father's business."
Watching the young Chultan's reaction, Dred adds, "As it happens, I too am from a merchant family. My parents run a jewel and music shop in Elversult where I grew up. There is a chance our parents know of each other. I have of course heard of your father but admit I do not know much about him, nor your family's business. Is your father here in Nyanzaru now? I would welcome the chance to meet such a great merchant. Maybe you could introduce us. It could also offer you a chance to warn him of your indiscretion. It may be nothing, but could be of great interest to him." While Gdrëdrugh is trying to help the young man and his family to be aware of possible danger, it could also be of great benefit to Dred's clan to have contact with such a powerful merchant lord. (Persuasion18)
Handenhand notices your gesture of prayer, Izifo, but his eyes are on the blade. He turns the weapon over in his palms. They two seem to be very nearly the same in size! To watch him turn the blade edge over edge, then hilt over blade, he closely examines the weapon's craftsmanship as he casts the spell.
"Yes, yes. Of course, Dred. An introduction might be necessary." Khuafu shows alarm in his eyes. Something deeper than fear. Something darker than punishment. "She was asking about my father's interests in Neverwinter. I laughed, Dred. My father does not deal with Neverwinter. Not since Dagult declared himself Lord Protector." The now deposed Dagult.
You have heard tell of some disagreements with the deposed Open Lord, but you've never heard them confirmed before. Not like this. Not from someone who has a vested interested in the security of the realms. "I must tell my friend in the Lord's Alliance, Dred. But first, my father." He trembles at the mention of his forbearer. "He will not be pleased with me. But I must beg for his forgiveness. I must make things right. I shall sponsor your assistance," he says. "If you would join me on my quest."
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There comes a moment in every warriors's life, a choice that distinguishes this warrior from all others, when the veil of destiny lifts for a brief moment reveal the truth beyond the present and into the future.
This is your time, Zara.
The creature running toward you has no quarrel with you. You realize that you are the only obstacle firmly placed between it and the freedom the triceratops so desperately wants. It did not ask to be domesticated, nor did it submit willingly, clearly, for the creature has declared in one strong voice, one thunderous run, freedom no stack of coin dare measure the sorting feelings an unbound spirit knows when its heart beats solely for itself. No glint of gold can compare to that inextinguishable light.
the triceratops lowers its head, intending to plow through you.
Freedom is just a few steps beyond, through the gate, and into the jungle.
But first…
The triceratops rolls initiative: 21
Before the creature engages you, Zara, your initial attempt at animal handling breaks through.
The adolescent trike was not expecting you to attempt to befriend it.
What do you do?
Neither you, Dred, nor your fellow students can get around the pungent odor. Did Rolls Downriver relocate the group? No. Could he have? Certainly. Why didn’t he?
Waste is a part of life, he said not two minutes prior. Waste your life and the undead might come crawling for you. They consume everything. They leave nothing behind. Hunger—the dark urge of necromancy.
“I’m going to vomit,” gasps the Chultan named Khuafu (KUH-ah-foo). He’s the fifth-born son of a respected Chultan noble.
Khuafu complains about everything, even the color of water.
“Ignore the smell,” Rolling Stone Rolls Downriver reminds him.
“How, you old cat.”
The tabaxi offers a knowing smile in return. “Ignore everything. Then nothing will distract your mind.”
Khuafu rolls his eyes. “I hate him. Aren’t old ones supposed to be wise?” Khuafu is a talker. He’s told you every morning for the last few days that his father expects him to meditate himself directly into a state of transcendental usefulness so that he spends more hours serving customers and less time serving his loins.
It’s not working.
Khuafu was late today, by more than ten minutes. He was full of excuses. Going on about a long and sordid night with a woman he befriended in the Market Ward. She was a priestess of Loviatar, and she taught him a few things about pleasure, and pain, before boarding a ship headed for Neverwinter. He doesn’t remember her name. He should have. Her name is the Silver Queen.
“Gdrëdrugh,” says Rolls Downriver. “What is on your mind, today?”
OOC. No matter how many times you've corrected the yogi, he still calls you by your given name.
Hartha piles the scrolls into your hands, Valora. She grabs a few for herself and dashes toward a group of Flaming Fist soldiers. They suffered terrible wounds out in the jungle. Men from the Sword Coast have little experience with the ways of Chult. Goblins, orcs, drow, dragons, too, in some respects, are predictable. The jungles of Chult were anything but.
Immediately to you left are six beds. You know the names of the men and women—there are no children in this tent. They are separated into a Children's Ward.
OOC The Perception roll I asked you was for this reason:
Three human male Flaming Fist soldiers named Karth, Mergoon, and Deagan occupy three beds. A human woman named Daniva never wakes. She sleeps all day long. You've seen wounds like this before. Whatever took her the first time, is unapologetically pulling her toward death with cruel efficiency. A native human male native to Chult named Adar mumbles about his son. His fever is constant. He nears death. A female elf named Qu'i'ell'stir—Hartha nicknamed her Leafstring—hasn't moved an inch. She rests peacefully, even as the disease ravages her body. Her features are gaunt. Her suffering is an unwelcome sight.
Now that the death curse is lifted, these six patients have little time left.
"You're a pirate," the half-gold dragon hisses at you, Ignis. "But you have manners. Unlike others," he says tilting his head to one side so that he has a direct line of sight with your fellow crewmates. Rassilio bows. It's not so much of an apology. More of a humorous salutation. Humbling himself, as it were, before arrogance.
"How can I help you?" Zindar asks you.
Izifo, you do recall hearing something in your travels as to the craftsmanship of this container. Somewhere you heard or knew someone, a nobleman, or a house messenger, perhaps, deliver a prized item in such a similar lavish container.
As the key disappears into the mouth, the dragon's eyes twinkle. A ray of red light bursts forth form each orb. They shoot skyward, then expand into cones and only to cascade down like soft rain over the trunk's padded leather surface.
The dragon's head splits three-ways, away from the keyhole. You hear sounds like grinding and whirring inside. The lid rises and springs away on levers.
Within the box, resting upon gentling rolling satin padding, you see one long sword and two daggers. They are of fine craftsmanship. Motes of light lift from the tang of both daggers. The blade of the sword sizzles and crackles with flecks of lightning.
"Well, now, ain't those a few eye openers," Handenhand grins. "No one's been able to open the box before." He looks up curious now. "Except for you."
"My mind is but a passing configuration of energy Master, and nothing is upon it," Gdrëdrugh says to the yogi. "It is as clear as a mountain stream." Dred then loses himself in the movements and feels the energy of the world around him strengthen his mind, body, and soul.
After the days lessons, Gdrëdrugh approaches Khuafu. "You know, you really should learn to release yourself during the sessions. Become one with what is around you. Let your mind relax and focus only on the pose." While Dred does want to help the young lad with his approach to yoga, other things from the morning piqued his interest. "So, tell me more about this priestess which you met upon the night hence." Dred listens to anything that Khuafu may recall about his encounter with the woman. (History: 14)
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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Khuafu grins, unabashedly. "She was glorious Dred. Her body was a temple of unblemished beauty and fiery passion." He leans in. He lowers his voice. "I've never been subjected to such painless torture." He goes to lift his shirt but thinks better of it. The grassy hill is sacred ground. At least he has some manner of decorumn. "She prays to Loviatar."
As the spoiled brat narrates his late-night adventures, you do seem to recall hearing something about this Silver… Queen. She operates a private academy. One is located in Baldur's Gate. The other is located in Yartar. Students from as far south as Amn and as east as Kara-Tur travel to hear her lectures on pain. She accepts three students per year and trains them on anatomy.
You do not submit a request. She locates you, and makes an offer, for you are her slave, and she is your master.
The question is, Dred: Why would she who has such great skill spend an evening with someone like him, Khuafu, who brags more than he should?
Izifo's eyes widen and he takes a half-step back as the rays of light shine up and out from the dragon's eyes. Upon hearing the vendors suggestion that only for him had the lock opened, Izifo motions to the box and its contents with an open palm.
"What do you mean that its only opened for me? What are these blades? I know this box, but not from where--who is the craftsman?"
He reaches out for the hilt of the sword cautiously, noticing the way in which the blade seems to course with energy. To him, the steel of both the sword and the daggers seems lithe and he wonders whether he would be able to wield them with finesse and grace.
"Vendor, were I to buy one, two or all of these from you, what would you charge?"
OOC: Is there any way to tell whether or not the sword has the Finesse property?
By sight alone, Izifo, you can tell the sword is a rapier. So, yes, the blade is a finesse weapon.
"So tell me more about yourself Khuafu. I am foreign to these shores and always interested in local folk." Dred says to the young Chultan. He continues walking with the man as they talk trying to ascertain any information possible. As they he listens to the man boast, Dred would also ask more about Khuafu's contact with the woman, "How did you come to be introduced to this priestess?" Dred asks. "I am sure before she taught you her ways behind closed doors, you must have had a few things to discuss with her. What were her interests as far as you could deduce?" Dred listens carefully for any clues the young Chultan. (Insight 18)
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
Site Rules & Guidelines || Tooltips || Homebrew FAQ || Snippet Codes || Syllvva's Guides
OOC: Bless. Wasn't sure since your description of it in the box described it as a long sword.
"I am most certain that I would like to take this sword with me, vendor," Izifo continues, pulling the sword from its box.
Yeah, I switched it out. You asked about Finesse, why not. We're all here to have fun.
From your conversations with Khuafu, you know his father is Ingali (in-GAH-lee) Fassah, a powerful merchant lord. He owns and operates Ingali’s, a high-end furniture store with locations in Nyanzaru, Amn, Waterdeep, and Yartar. He first opened Ingali’s in Amn then relocated his shop’s headquarters to Nyanzaru so that he could mill exotic wood, and therefore set a higher price.
Khuafu slips, when he says to you, Dred, “My father’s reputation is well earned. He wields his business like a serrated sword.”
The young man’s eyes go wide, as though he admitted something he should not have, but truthfully, Ingali cares not. Evidenced by the fact that his immature son is here, foolishly trying to find himself, and failing gloriously in the process. Perhaps Ingali is more concerned about his son’s reckless behavior, that he is a liability? Khuafu beds any woman, and boasts about his selfish acts. As you have so often heard.
Khuafu considers your question with the skill of a leech. "The attraction was instant. What else matters?" But you planted a thought, and it grows like a weed under a bright sun; a light too powerful to ignore. "She did ask questions about my father's business. I thought she was merely asking because everyone wants to know my father. He is a powerful man. Collectors and artists from all over the world—" He stops. "Dred," he starts once again. He gulps hard. "I may have offered my head to the lion's mouth."
Handenhand shrugs. "They're yours traveler. May I?" the halfling asks.
He offers to identify them, for you, Izifo. Too curious now, he insists, free of charge.
"Of course, of course, thank you," Izifo says to the halfling, placing the blade in his outstretched hands. He puts a hand against his heart and the talisman of Talona that rests beneath his shirt and silently thanks her for this stroke of luck, promising to use the tools to exact her aims.
Dred listens carefully as Khuafu clamors on about his conquests, but his attention is piqued when he finds out that Khuafu is from a merchant family, and is even more interested at the mention of the priestess' prying questions. He looks at Khuafu, "Perhaps you did. It is intriguing that she should be so inquisitive about your father's business."
Watching the young Chultan's reaction, Dred adds, "As it happens, I too am from a merchant family. My parents run a jewel and music shop in Elversult where I grew up. There is a chance our parents know of each other. I have of course heard of your father but admit I do not know much about him, nor your family's business. Is your father here in Nyanzaru now? I would welcome the chance to meet such a great merchant. Maybe you could introduce us. It could also offer you a chance to warn him of your indiscretion. It may be nothing, but could be of great interest to him." While Gdrëdrugh is trying to help the young man and his family to be aware of possible danger, it could also be of great benefit to Dred's clan to have contact with such a powerful merchant lord. (Persuasion 18)
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
Site Rules & Guidelines || Tooltips || Homebrew FAQ || Snippet Codes || Syllvva's Guides
Handenhand notices your gesture of prayer, Izifo, but his eyes are on the blade. He turns the weapon over in his palms. They two seem to be very nearly the same in size! To watch him turn the blade edge over edge, then hilt over blade, he closely examines the weapon's craftsmanship as he casts the spell.
Make an Arcana check.
"Yes, yes. Of course, Dred. An introduction might be necessary." Khuafu shows alarm in his eyes. Something deeper than fear. Something darker than punishment. "She was asking about my father's interests in Neverwinter. I laughed, Dred. My father does not deal with Neverwinter. Not since Dagult declared himself Lord Protector." The now deposed Dagult.
You have heard tell of some disagreements with the deposed Open Lord, but you've never heard them confirmed before. Not like this. Not from someone who has a vested interested in the security of the realms. "I must tell my friend in the Lord's Alliance, Dred. But first, my father." He trembles at the mention of his forbearer. "He will not be pleased with me. But I must beg for his forgiveness. I must make things right. I shall sponsor your assistance," he says. "If you would join me on my quest."