Each of you has made your way to the Broken Spire Outpost—some travelling from afar, others from nearby. The cobblestone tower stands as the only structure on your side of Emberhold, serving as the sole entrance to grounds once divided by a deep, now-dry moat. Candlelight flickers faintly from a second-story window.
A head peers out. “Travelers,” comes a hoarse whisper. “Only four of you? That will have to do. Quickly now—the doors are open.”
You step into a room echoing with grandeur. A lit fireplace offers the only warmth in an otherwise sombre, grey space.
A man of considerable wealth descends the stairs and addresses the group. “With whom do I have the pleasure of being in the presence of?” he asks.
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My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
"Ashli," He shakes your hand with a soft, uncallused grip. "We are fortunate to have you here my friend."
@dreami_noodle I know some schools are on spring break around now, but I'm not too worried about it yet. If someone isn't online for 3-4 days I'll spam dm them. =]
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My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
If this was Table Top you would hear ruffling paper and me muttering as I search for his name. lol
Giving a warm smile, "Veylin of the Darkwhisper house. Second in line as heir to head of house." He has an almost innocent gleam in his eyes common of people with of noble heritage. "What about the rest of you?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
A moment of silence follows Veylin’s introduction, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant howling of wind against the outpost walls. Then, a soft voice, lilting and measured, drifts into the space like the whisper of an unseen breeze.
"Sylwen."
She does not elaborate at first, letting the name settle like a falling feather before adding, almost as an afterthought—"I go where the wind takes me. And it seems it has carried me here."Sylwen stands slightly apart from the group, her head tilted as if listening to something only she can hear. Her silver-streaked auburn hair falls loosely over the shoulders of her deep blue robes, catching the firelight in faint, shifting hues. One gold eye, one storm-grey, flickers to Veylin with quiet curiosity. "Second in line," she muses, as if testing the weight of the words. "That must be a peculiar place to stand—between certainty and the unknown. Or does fate already whisper your path?"
Her gaze sweeps over Ashli next, unreadable but not unkind. "Well met, Ashli."A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of her lips before she turns to the man who summoned them.
"And you, I imagine, are the one who has whispered on the wind to us?”
She folds her hands before her, expression calm, expectant—as if she has already foreseen where this night will lead.
"My voice must have caught the right wind." He gives Sylwen a warm but rehearsed smile. He sighs and turns to face a bookshelf that is rather barren to be interested in. "Fate. Fate is a childish way of explaining why good and bad things happen. I, however, like to choose my actions rather than let others choose mine." He speaks slowly and clearly as if you were a child.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
Sylwen watches Veylin with the dreamy patience of someone observing a butterfly land on their sleeve, fully content to let it believe it arrived entirely of its own accord. She tilts her head, her silver-streaked hair shifting like clouds across the moon.
"Oh, well, of course you do,"she says pleasantly. "That’s the funny thing about fate—it doesn’t feel like fate at all when you’re the one making the choices. Like a river thinking it decides its own path, when really, the banks were always there, gently nudging it along."
She takes a slow step forward, peering at the barren bookshelf with open curiosity, as if she might find something worth reading in the empty spaces. "I think the problem isn’t fate, really. It’s the idea that it should be kind. But fate isn’t a mother cradling her child—it’s a weaver at their loom. And whether the threads are gold or frayed and worn, well…"she trails off, running a finger along one of the empty shelves before turning back to him with a small, knowing smile. "Even a weaver can’t always say how the pattern will turn out, can they?"
Then, she brightens slightly. "But that’s all very serious, isn’t it? You must be terribly important, saying things in such a slow and careful way. Do you ever tire of the weight of your own words, or do they carry themselves quite nicely?"
Her mismatched eyes glimmer with mischief, but her tone remains light, absentminded, as if she is merely wondering aloud. She clasps her hands behind her back and rocks slightly on her heels, waiting to see where the next breeze might take the conversation.
"Oh, my words don't tire. My words are self-sufficient, they don't just carry themselves; they're too busy carrying the weight of actual substance. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand what that means." He turns to face the remaining two unintroduced people. "Are you two going to stand there gawking at us or are you going to speak?" He seems a little more impatient after he exchanges words with Sylwen.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
A half-elven woman with russet hair steps closer to the fireplace, rubbing her hands together for warmth. The light glimmers across the crevices in her well-worn chainmail armour, glinting upon a spear stowed with her belongings across her back. A round shield embossed with the face of a laughing skull lies atop her backpack. Large, long-lashed grey eyes scan the solemn chamber within the Broken Spire Outpost, before her gaze alights on the other individuals present.
She gives an incredulous look at the exchange taking place, and shakes her head. She cocks a brow so imperiously high that it almost threatens to fall off her forehead completely. "... What are you talking about? All these flowery metaphors, so much mysterious repartee." The plain-talking paladin laughs, bamboozled by the conversation. "I've met ghosts that were less fond of riddles."
She steps a little closer, and the no-nonsense woman offers her hand to each person in turn. "Alisande Margaux, once upon a time a frustrated undertaker... Now? An equally frustrated exorcist and spear for hire. Charmed to meet you all."
A half-elven woman with russet hair steps closer to the fireplace, rubbing her hands together for warmth. The light glimmers across the crevices in her well-worn chainmail armour, glinting upon a spear stowed with her belongings across her back. A round shield embossed with the face of a laughing skull lies atop her backpack. Large, long-lashed grey eyes scan the solemn chamber within the Broken Spire Outpost, before her gaze alights on the other individuals present.
She gives an incredulous look at the exchange taking place, and shakes her head. She cocks a brow so imperiously high that it almost threatens to fall off her forehead completely. "... What are you talking about? All these flowery metaphors, so much mysterious repartee." The plain-talking paladin laughs, bamboozled by the conversation. "I've met ghosts that were less fond of riddles."
She steps a little closer, and the no-nonsense woman offers her hand to each person in turn. "Alisande Margaux, once upon a time a frustrated undertaker... Now? An equally frustrated exorcist and spear for hire. Charmed to meet you all."
“So, you are a monster hunter?” I say to Alisande.
A tall woman, about 5ft 10 inches tall, dressed in what seems like dark blue clothing takes a step forward to have everyone else within her field of vision. While her clothing seemed like light padded armor at first, closer inspection reveals that it is far heavier and protective. Chainmail is woven into the padding of her cloth armor. Her face though, is hidden in long dark shadows cast from her emerald colored hood.In her right hand she holds a kite shield that's blue with white borders. A warhammer rests at her belt. From the darkness obscuring her face peers two red, animalistic eyes. These eyes combined with the long rattlesnake tail that rattles against the floor, hints that this woman is, at least to some extent, of monstrous blood.
Her eyes glance at Sylewen before falling back on Vylin. When she speaks her voice is rough and deep but still has a feminine and kind edge to it. "I am Jasmine. I am a traveling Paladin. Perhaps fate isn't always kind but it is my goal to nudge it towards kindness as much as possible for as many people as possible. Well met Lord Veylin and well met to all of you.
((I will be writing OoC stuff enclosed in these double brackets. Jasmine's voice is basically like the Oblivion Argonian NPCs.))
Sylwen watches the newcomers with open curiosity, her mismatched eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. She takes in the details—the shimmer of Alisande’s chainmail, the rattling of Jasmine’s tail against the stone floor—with the dreamy, thoughtful air of someone seeing shapes in the clouds.
At Alisande’s incredulous outburst, Sylwen blinks, then smiles as if she has just been gently roused from a pleasant daydream. “Oh, ghosts are usually more straightforward, aren’t they? They don’t need metaphors when they can simply moan and point at the things they want.” She taps a finger against her chin. “But people aren’t quite so lucky. We wrap our thoughts in ribbons and lace because the truth, all bare and unadorned, is often rather sharp.”
She clasps her hands together, the edges of her sleeves brushing like the whisper of turning pages. “Still, I quite like the idea of being a ghost. Drifting about, making ominous pronouncements… Oh, but I suppose I’d be a terrible one, wouldn’t I? I’d get distracted halfway through a warning and start talking about the way the candlelight dances on the walls.”
She reaches out to take Alisande’s offered hand with a gentle, almost absentminded touch, her grip surprisingly warm despite the wintry cast of her presence. “Sylwen,” she offers simply. “A traveler, a healer, and an observer of peculiar things. Charmed, truly.”
Her gaze switches to Jasmine, studying the way her red eyes catch the light and the quiet weight behind her words. “Ah, now that’s a noble thing, nudging fate toward kindness. Like shifting the course of a river with only your hands.” She tilts her head, considering. “But perhaps kindness, like water, is patient enough to find its way through, if given time. Or a little help.”
She takes a step back, rocking on her heels with a pleased little nod, as if she has successfully gathered up the necessary puzzle pieces of the moment. “Well met, well met. I do believe we’re gathering quite the cast for our little tale, aren’t we?”
Alisande gives Ashli's hand a firm, amiable squeeze in greeting. "Monster hunting? Sure, if the situation calls for it. But sometimes the line between man and monster can get a little blurry when you're in the business of casting out demons or parleying with ghosts."
"Who, by the way, are often quite capable of complex thought and emotion." Alisande remarks as an aside to Sylwen. "The pesky buggers won't leave me the hell alone with all their nagging. Unfinished business, typically - a vendetta that requires just resolution, a wronged lover pleading vengeance for being murdered by a mistress, sometimes foul necromantic magic shackling them to this mortal realm." She rubs her temples briefly and exhales deeply, as if a long-lingering headache just worsened.
"One such voice called me to this place, as it happens. A restless soul somehow connected to the Emberhold. But perhaps the picture will become clearer once Mr. Darkwhisper explains himself." Like Jasmine and the others, she turns to Veylin, awaiting some measure of elucidation as to the nature of their mission.
Sylwen watches the newcomers with open curiosity, her mismatched eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. She takes in the details—the shimmer of Alisande’s chainmail, the rattling of Jasmine’s tail against the stone floor—with the dreamy, thoughtful air of someone seeing shapes in the clouds.
At Alisande’s incredulous outburst, Sylwen blinks, then smiles as if she has just been gently roused from a pleasant daydream. “Oh, ghosts are usually more straightforward, aren’t they? They don’t need metaphors when they can simply moan and point at the things they want.” She taps a finger against her chin. “But people aren’t quite so lucky. We wrap our thoughts in ribbons and lace because the truth, all bare and unadorned, is often rather sharp.”
She clasps her hands together, the edges of her sleeves brushing like the whisper of turning pages. “Still, I quite like the idea of being a ghost. Drifting about, making ominous pronouncements… Oh, but I suppose I’d be a terrible one, wouldn’t I? I’d get distracted halfway through a warning and start talking about the way the candlelight dances on the walls.”
She reaches out to take Alisande’s offered hand with a gentle, almost absentminded touch, her grip surprisingly warm despite the wintry cast of her presence. “Sylwen,” she offers simply. “A traveler, a healer, and an observer of peculiar things. Charmed, truly.”
Her gaze switches to Jasmine, studying the way her red eyes catch the light and the quiet weight behind her words. “Ah, now that’s a noble thing, nudging fate toward kindness. Like shifting the course of a river with only your hands.” She tilts her head, considering. “But perhaps kindness, like water, is patient enough to find its way through, if given time. Or a little help.”
She takes a step back, rocking on her heels with a pleased little nod, as if she has successfully gathered up the necessary puzzle pieces of the moment. “Well met, well met. I do believe we’re gathering quite the cast for our little tale, aren’t we?”
A group only known as the Ashen Pack has put on a wager that they can find a precious stone deep inside the Emberhold. If they win the houses of power will give them a little more space to, quote-on-quote, work. But if a house finds it before them, they swear to work solely for that house.
This is where you come in. I cannot go there to fetch the stone, but I can spend good money on people who can. Each of you will receive 10,000gp if you bring me the stone.
Now as for what the stone looks like, it can't be mistaken for any other stone. It glows giving off a red light and it's warm to the touch."
Veylin paces slightly as he talks, his gaze shifts from person to person. He seems to have returned to his demeanour before bickering with Sylwen.
Sylwen clasps her hands behind her back as she listens. Her eyes move between Veylin and Jasmine, watching the exchange with interest—though her gaze never quite settles in one place for long, as if she were seeing more than what was merely before her.
At Jasmine’s question, she tilts her head, her silver-streaked hair shifting like threads of moonlight. “Oh, of course, it isn’t a simple stone. Nothing that glows and hums with warmth in a forsaken ruin is ever just a stone.”She lifts a finger, her voice light but certain. “It’s always an artifact of untold power, a cursed relic, or a heart torn from something that wasn’t quite willing to part with it.”
Her expression remains serene, almost amused, as if she were remarking on the weather rather than the potential dangers lurking beneath Emberhold. “And then there’s the Ashen Pact,” she continues thoughtfully. “Who, for some reason, don’t want to dig up treasure for the fun of it, but rather to gain favor with those in power. That suggests it’s more than just a pretty bauble, doesn’t it?”
She shifts her gaze back to Veylin, studying him with an owlish curiosity. “You called it a wager. A little game of who can claim the prize first.” A faint smile comes across her lips. “But I do wonder, Lord Veylin, is it merely a game to you? Or is there a greater story written between the lines?”
Her tone is gentle, her words almost lilting, but there’s an undeniable weight behind them. Though she spoke of fate and riddles before, there is a sharpness in her mind—one that cuts through the veils of half-truths like a blade through silk. She does not press, not yet, but the question lingers in the air like the echo of a bell waiting to be answered.
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Each of you has made your way to the Broken Spire Outpost—some travelling from afar, others from nearby. The cobblestone tower stands as the only structure on your side of Emberhold, serving as the sole entrance to grounds once divided by a deep, now-dry moat. Candlelight flickers faintly from a second-story window.
A head peers out. “Travelers,” comes a hoarse whisper. “Only four of you? That will have to do. Quickly now—the doors are open.”
You step into a room echoing with grandeur. A lit fireplace offers the only warmth in an otherwise sombre, grey space.
A man of considerable wealth descends the stairs and addresses the group. “With whom do I have the pleasure of being in the presence of?” he asks.
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
Rubik's PR: 18.05 Ao5: 21.49 Ao12: 24.35 Ao100: 27.97
“I am Ashli.”
I am going to use red colored text to indicate OOC chat.
Check these out: My Imgur Page, My Deviant Art
Am I the only one online?
Check these out: My Imgur Page, My Deviant Art
"Ashli," He shakes your hand with a soft, uncallused grip. "We are fortunate to have you here my friend."
@dreami_noodle I know some schools are on spring break around now, but I'm not too worried about it yet. If someone isn't online for 3-4 days I'll spam dm them. =]
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
Rubik's PR: 18.05 Ao5: 21.49 Ao12: 24.35 Ao100: 27.97
I shake back with a firm grip and ask: “May I ask what your name is sir?”
That would explain some things, I hope we can actually play together.
Check these out: My Imgur Page, My Deviant Art
If this was Table Top you would hear ruffling paper and me muttering as I search for his name. lol
Giving a warm smile, "Veylin of the Darkwhisper house. Second in line as heir to head of house." He has an almost innocent gleam in his eyes common of people with of noble heritage. "What about the rest of you?"
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
Rubik's PR: 18.05 Ao5: 21.49 Ao12: 24.35 Ao100: 27.97
A moment of silence follows Veylin’s introduction, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant howling of wind against the outpost walls. Then, a soft voice, lilting and measured, drifts into the space like the whisper of an unseen breeze.
"Sylwen."
She does not elaborate at first, letting the name settle like a falling feather before adding, almost as an afterthought—"I go where the wind takes me. And it seems it has carried me here." Sylwen stands slightly apart from the group, her head tilted as if listening to something only she can hear. Her silver-streaked auburn hair falls loosely over the shoulders of her deep blue robes, catching the firelight in faint, shifting hues. One gold eye, one storm-grey, flickers to Veylin with quiet curiosity. "Second in line," she muses, as if testing the weight of the words. "That must be a peculiar place to stand—between certainty and the unknown. Or does fate already whisper your path?"
Her gaze sweeps over Ashli next, unreadable but not unkind. "Well met, Ashli." A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of her lips before she turns to the man who summoned them.
"And you, I imagine, are the one who has whispered on the wind to us?”
She folds her hands before her, expression calm, expectant—as if she has already foreseen where this night will lead.
"My voice must have caught the right wind." He gives Sylwen a warm but rehearsed smile. He sighs and turns to face a bookshelf that is rather barren to be interested in. "Fate. Fate is a childish way of explaining why good and bad things happen. I, however, like to choose my actions rather than let others choose mine." He speaks slowly and clearly as if you were a child.
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
Rubik's PR: 18.05 Ao5: 21.49 Ao12: 24.35 Ao100: 27.97
Sylwen watches Veylin with the dreamy patience of someone observing a butterfly land on their sleeve, fully content to let it believe it arrived entirely of its own accord. She tilts her head, her silver-streaked hair shifting like clouds across the moon.
"Oh, well, of course you do," she says pleasantly. "That’s the funny thing about fate—it doesn’t feel like fate at all when you’re the one making the choices. Like a river thinking it decides its own path, when really, the banks were always there, gently nudging it along."
She takes a slow step forward, peering at the barren bookshelf with open curiosity, as if she might find something worth reading in the empty spaces. "I think the problem isn’t fate, really. It’s the idea that it should be kind. But fate isn’t a mother cradling her child—it’s a weaver at their loom. And whether the threads are gold or frayed and worn, well…" she trails off, running a finger along one of the empty shelves before turning back to him with a small, knowing smile. "Even a weaver can’t always say how the pattern will turn out, can they?"
Then, she brightens slightly. "But that’s all very serious, isn’t it? You must be terribly important, saying things in such a slow and careful way. Do you ever tire of the weight of your own words, or do they carry themselves quite nicely?"
Her mismatched eyes glimmer with mischief, but her tone remains light, absentminded, as if she is merely wondering aloud. She clasps her hands behind her back and rocks slightly on her heels, waiting to see where the next breeze might take the conversation.
"Oh, my words don't tire. My words are self-sufficient, they don't just carry themselves; they're too busy carrying the weight of actual substance. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand what that means." He turns to face the remaining two unintroduced people. "Are you two going to stand there gawking at us or are you going to speak?" He seems a little more impatient after he exchanges words with Sylwen.
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
Rubik's PR: 18.05 Ao5: 21.49 Ao12: 24.35 Ao100: 27.97
A half-elven woman with russet hair steps closer to the fireplace, rubbing her hands together for warmth. The light glimmers across the crevices in her well-worn chainmail armour, glinting upon a spear stowed with her belongings across her back. A round shield embossed with the face of a laughing skull lies atop her backpack. Large, long-lashed grey eyes scan the solemn chamber within the Broken Spire Outpost, before her gaze alights on the other individuals present.
She gives an incredulous look at the exchange taking place, and shakes her head. She cocks a brow so imperiously high that it almost threatens to fall off her forehead completely. "... What are you talking about? All these flowery metaphors, so much mysterious repartee." The plain-talking paladin laughs, bamboozled by the conversation. "I've met ghosts that were less fond of riddles."
She steps a little closer, and the no-nonsense woman offers her hand to each person in turn. "Alisande Margaux, once upon a time a frustrated undertaker... Now? An equally frustrated exorcist and spear for hire. Charmed to meet you all."
“Do you have a reason for summoning us, Lord Veylin?”
I realized something as I was looking at our campaign characters, we’re all female.
Check these out: My Imgur Page, My Deviant Art
“So, you are a monster hunter?” I say to Alisande.
Check these out: My Imgur Page, My Deviant Art
A tall woman, about 5ft 10 inches tall, dressed in what seems like dark blue clothing takes a step forward to have everyone else within her field of vision. While her clothing seemed like light padded armor at first, closer inspection reveals that it is far heavier and protective. Chainmail is woven into the padding of her cloth armor. Her face though, is hidden in long dark shadows cast from her emerald colored hood.In her right hand she holds a kite shield that's blue with white borders. A warhammer rests at her belt. From the darkness obscuring her face peers two red, animalistic eyes. These eyes combined with the long rattlesnake tail that rattles against the floor, hints that this woman is, at least to some extent, of monstrous blood.
Her eyes glance at Sylewen before falling back on Vylin. When she speaks her voice is rough and deep but still has a feminine and kind edge to it. "I am Jasmine. I am a traveling Paladin. Perhaps fate isn't always kind but it is my goal to nudge it towards kindness as much as possible for as many people as possible. Well met Lord Veylin and well met to all of you.
((I will be writing OoC stuff enclosed in these double brackets. Jasmine's voice is basically like the Oblivion Argonian NPCs.))
Sylwen watches the newcomers with open curiosity, her mismatched eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. She takes in the details—the shimmer of Alisande’s chainmail, the rattling of Jasmine’s tail against the stone floor—with the dreamy, thoughtful air of someone seeing shapes in the clouds.
At Alisande’s incredulous outburst, Sylwen blinks, then smiles as if she has just been gently roused from a pleasant daydream. “Oh, ghosts are usually more straightforward, aren’t they? They don’t need metaphors when they can simply moan and point at the things they want.” She taps a finger against her chin. “But people aren’t quite so lucky. We wrap our thoughts in ribbons and lace because the truth, all bare and unadorned, is often rather sharp.”
She clasps her hands together, the edges of her sleeves brushing like the whisper of turning pages. “Still, I quite like the idea of being a ghost. Drifting about, making ominous pronouncements… Oh, but I suppose I’d be a terrible one, wouldn’t I? I’d get distracted halfway through a warning and start talking about the way the candlelight dances on the walls.”
She reaches out to take Alisande’s offered hand with a gentle, almost absentminded touch, her grip surprisingly warm despite the wintry cast of her presence. “Sylwen,” she offers simply. “A traveler, a healer, and an observer of peculiar things. Charmed, truly.”
Her gaze switches to Jasmine, studying the way her red eyes catch the light and the quiet weight behind her words. “Ah, now that’s a noble thing, nudging fate toward kindness. Like shifting the course of a river with only your hands.” She tilts her head, considering. “But perhaps kindness, like water, is patient enough to find its way through, if given time. Or a little help.”
She takes a step back, rocking on her heels with a pleased little nod, as if she has successfully gathered up the necessary puzzle pieces of the moment. “Well met, well met. I do believe we’re gathering quite the cast for our little tale, aren’t we?”
Alisande gives Ashli's hand a firm, amiable squeeze in greeting. "Monster hunting? Sure, if the situation calls for it. But sometimes the line between man and monster can get a little blurry when you're in the business of casting out demons or parleying with ghosts."
"Who, by the way, are often quite capable of complex thought and emotion." Alisande remarks as an aside to Sylwen. "The pesky buggers won't leave me the hell alone with all their nagging. Unfinished business, typically - a vendetta that requires just resolution, a wronged lover pleading vengeance for being murdered by a mistress, sometimes foul necromantic magic shackling them to this mortal realm." She rubs her temples briefly and exhales deeply, as if a long-lingering headache just worsened.
"One such voice called me to this place, as it happens. A restless soul somehow connected to the Emberhold. But perhaps the picture will become clearer once Mr. Darkwhisper explains himself." Like Jasmine and the others, she turns to Veylin, awaiting some measure of elucidation as to the nature of their mission.
“I do say so.”
Check these out: My Imgur Page, My Deviant Art
Veylin watches as greetings are exchanged.
"I am pleased to meet you Alisandre. Jasmin.
As for why I called for you,
A group only known as the Ashen Pack has put on a wager that they can find a precious stone deep inside the Emberhold. If they win the houses of power will give them a little more space to, quote-on-quote, work. But if a house finds it before them, they swear to work solely for that house.
This is where you come in. I cannot go there to fetch the stone, but I can spend good money on people who can. Each of you will receive 10,000gp if you bring me the stone.
Now as for what the stone looks like, it can't be mistaken for any other stone. It glows giving off a red light and it's warm to the touch."
Veylin paces slightly as he talks, his gaze shifts from person to person. He seems to have returned to his demeanour before bickering with Sylwen.
My top 3 answers: "You can try to do that." "No, that does not mean I like pans." "Yes, I am pansexual."
Rubik's PR: 18.05 Ao5: 21.49 Ao12: 24.35 Ao100: 27.97
Jasmine holds her gaze with Veylin. Her eyes narrow a bit and she asks, "This gem... it is not a simple stone, is it? Does it have some significance?"
She watches Veylin closely, trying to study his mannerisms and trying to gleam if he is hiding something.
Insight on Veylin: 5
Sylwen clasps her hands behind her back as she listens. Her eyes move between Veylin and Jasmine, watching the exchange with interest—though her gaze never quite settles in one place for long, as if she were seeing more than what was merely before her.
At Jasmine’s question, she tilts her head, her silver-streaked hair shifting like threads of moonlight. “Oh, of course, it isn’t a simple stone. Nothing that glows and hums with warmth in a forsaken ruin is ever just a stone.” She lifts a finger, her voice light but certain. “It’s always an artifact of untold power, a cursed relic, or a heart torn from something that wasn’t quite willing to part with it.”
Her expression remains serene, almost amused, as if she were remarking on the weather rather than the potential dangers lurking beneath Emberhold. “And then there’s the Ashen Pact,” she continues thoughtfully. “Who, for some reason, don’t want to dig up treasure for the fun of it, but rather to gain favor with those in power. That suggests it’s more than just a pretty bauble, doesn’t it?”
She shifts her gaze back to Veylin, studying him with an owlish curiosity. “You called it a wager. A little game of who can claim the prize first.” A faint smile comes across her lips. “But I do wonder, Lord Veylin, is it merely a game to you? Or is there a greater story written between the lines?”
Her tone is gentle, her words almost lilting, but there’s an undeniable weight behind them. Though she spoke of fate and riddles before, there is a sharpness in her mind—one that cuts through the veils of half-truths like a blade through silk. She does not press, not yet, but the question lingers in the air like the echo of a bell waiting to be answered.