Phlan is a city with a thousand year history of both rich and poor times.Currently, it is suffering through one of its lean periods, as the previous Lord Protector died without an heir, and the new Lord Protector, Ector Brahms a Knight Commander of the Black Fist, lacks skill in the nuances of civilian leadership. The Black Fist enforces its edicts according to its own tenets of honor, but with the harshness of martial law. Their increasingly harsh methods are failing to preserve either order or respect among the populace. Still, a city, any city, is a good place to pick up coin, work, or even to make a name for one’s self.
Seven adventurers come to the city gates, your reasons and histories your own.As you approach, a delicate man with a stack of papers and an image of weighted scales upon his tunic hammers a notice onto a public board.Satisfied with hits placement, he rushes off, presumably to place more copies around town.The seven of you reach the public board at the same time, and see the following notice:
This would be a good time to introduce your characters to each other, and to discuss back and forth your reasons to work together and to follow (or not) the notice.
Headed into town is a human man who stands a little under six feet tall. He is garbed in clothes, traveler's and armoured with scale mail. A pair of handaxes hand from metal loops attached to his belt as his heavily filled backpack on his back seems like little concern to his stride, a longbow, unstrung, is tethered to the side beside a quiver of arrows. He has lightly tanned features and a shaggy black beard that has not been cut for perhaps a month, as his hair appears around a similar length, the fringe cut short so it doesn't cover his emerald eyes.
The man walks over towards the noticeboard, interested in what has recently been posted. Undead, he thinks with a suitable rage in his heart. Looks like these parts have just as many problems with those abominations. He walks through the street, then speaks to a passerby. "You there, boy." He says in a gruff tone. "Where would I find the graveyard?"
A young halfling walks up to the notice board and stands on tip-toe to get a good look at the new notice. His chain mail armour looks new, and he walks, not clumsily exactly, but a little awkwardly in it, as though he’s used to something lighter. A rapier hangs at his belt, just high enough to keep the weapon from dragging along the floor, and he carries a shield strapped to his arm. His hair is cut short, and his armour and clothing are neat and in good condition. His determined expression wavers slightly when he reads the word ‘undead’, but his resolve returns in a moment, and he nods. Seems appropriate, for my first real adventure, he thinks.
Hearing the voice next to him, Marrow turns to the figure in the green cloak and answers: Some trouble with undead, it looks like. I’ve only ever seen such things once, myself. Still, it looks more interesting than anything else I've seen today.
"Yes, I think so too!" Keksi is trying to hide her kobold accent, poorly. "They say even the undead have spirits, trapped inside. Can they be reached? I wonder." She pauses for several moments before continuing. "Shall we head to the graveyard, then? I saw it on my way into town I believe."
By way of magic, obviously, a male elf fades into view in front of the notice. As his eyes finish reading the words, he seems to notice his surroundings for the first time. In fact, he starts and looks around with great surprise, his long, white hair whipping. He takes a step back away from the public board and smiles a little self consciously at another reader. "Pardon me," he says cordially in Common, but with an Elvish accent. "What place is this?" After a skeptical look, his neighbor replies that he stands at the gates of Phlan. "The City of Phlan?" Ralotumal Dalanthan replies more to himself than the kind stranger. He looks away for a second and then back, giving the man a grateful smile. "I've never been to 'Phlan' before. Could you, perchance, direct me to the graveyard mentioned on the notice there?" Still looking skeptical, and now a bit wary, the man gives Tumal curt directions, also relaying through body language a desire to be rid of the strange elf. Tumal nods appreciatively and takes the road through the gate. As he walks, he lifts a hand to his neck and starts again. His fingers grope at a white crystal held snugly within the hollow of his throat by a strap of black leather. As he walks a bit distractedly, he raises his other hand and gets the fingers of both hands underneath the collar, tugging. With mounting frustration, he looks about and then hurries to a dirty shop window. Turning his head this way and that, he inspects the band of leather and the crystal prize it holds in what little reflection the surface affords. His fingers caress the crystal, analyzing it physically to make up for the lack of visual inspection he can make due to the quality (or lack thereof) of the dirty pane of glass. With a sigh, his fingers slowly lower. That's when he notices his hair. "Amarth faeg!" he exclaims, grabbing a handful of his hair. He pulls it forward far enough to look at it with his own wide eyes. He grabs from the other side to inspect it as well. Once again, he looks at himself in the dirty window, his hands in his hair, his face aghast. Slowly, he touches the crystal delicately with the fingertips of one hand. Swallowing and rearranging his face into a more confident appearance, he sets off again in search of Valhingen Graveyard.
A tall man wearing clean chain mail and a shield with the emblem of a skeletal hand holding a balanced scale peruses the board. Hearing the others speaking, he removes his helm revealing an elvish like presence, yet he is clearly not elvish, not even mixed breed. His hair is pale blond and almost floats in the air. His eyes are the palest of blues and his skin looks radiantly pale and flawless. He looks at the others and speaks, "I hunt undead, it is what I do. Dreams guide me to find them, and lately I have dreamed all of us will head out together."
Placing the helm back on his head, the shadows hiding his features, he appears ready to follow. "Shall we go? And to answer your questions, the souls of the undead are brought back to this realm and don't belong here. Returning them to the realm of the dead is what I do."
Keksi tries not to panic. "I work under the auspices of the Emerald Enclave as a guardian of nature; I come from under the mountains. As to my new friend, I do not know from where he hails, you will have to ask him."
I'm from Turmish, sir, says Marrow. From a little town, I doubt you'd know the name. I came most of the way by ship, of course, and only arrived in your fair city today. Given his own background in the town guard, he's not as uncomfortable at being questioned in this manner as others might be, and pauses to see if the guard has any further questions for him.
"Well, my apologies, Your Dreamship," the guard not quite sneers, "and my little Turmishan and even littler guardian of nature, you'll find the graveyard north of the City, across the river. Follow the road, can't miss the bridge. Don't blame me if you don't find it all you dream of. Or if you do" he chuckles and goes back to his rather self-important stance at the gate.
When the guard is out of earshot Keksi sighs, "Well, that wasn't my worst encounter with a guard at least." She makes her way across the bridge along with Marrow and the tall man whose name she does not yet know.
The boy shrinks from Destin's gruff approach. "Sir, the graveyard is north of town, sir. Cross the river. Mind you, you don't want to go there, if you don't mind me sayin." He backs slowly away, and with one final "Sir" bolts down an alley.
Across the bridge, the three newcomers encounter an elf of average height; long, white hair; and fine features standing in the road looking around. He's wearing leather armor, has a longbow slung across his back, and a lyre hangs from his hip. Looking over the three and finally settling on trying to find eyes within Casmenos's helm, Ralotumal smiles warmly. "Greetings, travelers. Pray, can you help me find the graveyard? I believe it's on this side of the river, but now I'm worried I've taken a wrong turn."
A young man, gray-eyed and sandy-haired, strolls up to the board, behind the assembled group. He is dressed in the cloaked and rugged, durable styles from the far North - of Neverwinter, Luskan or some other forsaken and unnamed Savage Frontier trading post on the brink of cold, dead ruin.
Paying no heed to the guard's inquiry, the man briskly scans over the newly-posted notice. A moment later, a long sigh escapes as he takes relief from his pack, heavy with dust from weeks on the road and whatever detritus such journeys attract. The sigh lingers a bit, only to end as a thick, short chuckle. "So tell me - is it proper to have a toast for the improperly departed before their internment or should one wait for the wake?"
The guard glances down at Bastian, and says with a grin "what is improper is toasting alone, without giving the Black Fist a taste." He chuckles, and adds "never you mind -- but if you want a piece, you had best hurry. Others have gone ahead of you to the Doomguide."
"Greetings, travelers. Pray, can you help me find the graveyard? I believe it's on this side of the river, but now I'm worried I've taken a wrong turn."
Please do join us, good sir, we're all headed in the same direction, it seems. Marrow had felt some qualms about facing this undead threat alone, but was feeling better now that there seemed a good number of others who would share the task. So he continues along the street with the group, following the green-cloaked figure who knew the way. As they walk, he takes in the sights of the unfamiliar city, enjoying the strange architecture and also trying to get a feel for the layout of the city. After a while, worried that he's being rude, he looks at the three others in the small group, and says Well, since it seems we may be working together, we should probably know each other's names, at the very least. My name's Marrow.
Destin shakes his head. Gotta do better at this conversation thing he thinks to himself as he begins to head northward towards the graveyard. He wasn't planning on scaring the child, but as one who spends most of his time in the wilds, he hasn't really adapted the best tact for conversation. He seems to walk alongside the two shorter companions, but isn't particularly associating with them initially. When the elf speaks forward to the trio, it's then he realises that they are all headed to the same location.
"If you want to tag along. Looks like we're all going that way." He says, adjusting his pack to sort out the itch on his back. He looks to Marrow after his introduction. "Destin." He replies simply before continuing across to the northern part of town to get to the graveyard.
"Ralotumal Dalanthan," the white-haired elf responds to Marrow grandiosely. He does a little flourish and a bow, all the while never breaking stride. "But if we're getting acquainted, you may call me Tumal. I have been a musician and storyteller these past three centuries almost. Though," he says with a barely noticeable look of confusion, "it seems I've been pressed into service as an exorcist as of late." He perhaps unconsciously reaches up with his thin fingers and touches the white crystal at his throat.
Nodding his head as the others introduce themselves, the tall armored man introduces himself as well, "It is nice to know the names to the forms I've been seeing in my dreams. You may call me Casmenos."
Phlan is a city with a thousand year history of both rich and poor times. Currently, it is suffering through one of its lean periods, as the previous Lord Protector died without an heir, and the new Lord Protector, Ector Brahms a Knight Commander of the Black Fist, lacks skill in the nuances of civilian leadership. The Black Fist enforces its edicts according to its own tenets of honor, but with the harshness of martial law. Their increasingly harsh methods are failing to preserve either order or respect among the populace. Still, a city, any city, is a good place to pick up coin, work, or even to make a name for one’s self.
Seven adventurers come to the city gates, your reasons and histories your own. As you approach, a delicate man with a stack of papers and an image of weighted scales upon his tunic hammers a notice onto a public board. Satisfied with hits placement, he rushes off, presumably to place more copies around town. The seven of you reach the public board at the same time, and see the following notice:
This would be a good time to introduce your characters to each other, and to discuss back and forth your reasons to work together and to follow (or not) the notice.
Headed into town is a human man who stands a little under six feet tall. He is garbed in clothes, traveler's and armoured with scale mail. A pair of handaxes hand from metal loops attached to his belt as his heavily filled backpack on his back seems like little concern to his stride, a longbow, unstrung, is tethered to the side beside a quiver of arrows. He has lightly tanned features and a shaggy black beard that has not been cut for perhaps a month, as his hair appears around a similar length, the fringe cut short so it doesn't cover his emerald eyes.
The man walks over towards the noticeboard, interested in what has recently been posted. Undead, he thinks with a suitable rage in his heart. Looks like these parts have just as many problems with those abominations. He walks through the street, then speaks to a passerby. "You there, boy." He says in a gruff tone. "Where would I find the graveyard?"
Current Player In: The Guild as Elsara Deepmoon
A short figure in a hooded green cloak has joined the crowd around the public board. "What do we have here," Keksi says to no-one in particular.
A young halfling walks up to the notice board and stands on tip-toe to get a good look at the new notice. His chain mail armour looks new, and he walks, not clumsily exactly, but a little awkwardly in it, as though he’s used to something lighter. A rapier hangs at his belt, just high enough to keep the weapon from dragging along the floor, and he carries a shield strapped to his arm. His hair is cut short, and his armour and clothing are neat and in good condition. His determined expression wavers slightly when he reads the word ‘undead’, but his resolve returns in a moment, and he nods. Seems appropriate, for my first real adventure, he thinks.
Hearing the voice next to him, Marrow turns to the figure in the green cloak and answers: Some trouble with undead, it looks like. I’ve only ever seen such things once, myself. Still, it looks more interesting than anything else I've seen today.
"Yes, I think so too!" Keksi is trying to hide her kobold accent, poorly. "They say even the undead have spirits, trapped inside. Can they be reached? I wonder." She pauses for several moments before continuing. "Shall we head to the graveyard, then? I saw it on my way into town I believe."
By way of magic, obviously, a male elf fades into view in front of the notice. As his eyes finish reading the words, he seems to notice his surroundings for the first time. In fact, he starts and looks around with great surprise, his long, white hair whipping. He takes a step back away from the public board and smiles a little self consciously at another reader. "Pardon me," he says cordially in Common, but with an Elvish accent. "What place is this?" After a skeptical look, his neighbor replies that he stands at the gates of Phlan. "The City of Phlan?" Ralotumal Dalanthan replies more to himself than the kind stranger. He looks away for a second and then back, giving the man a grateful smile. "I've never been to 'Phlan' before. Could you, perchance, direct me to the graveyard mentioned on the notice there?" Still looking skeptical, and now a bit wary, the man gives Tumal curt directions, also relaying through body language a desire to be rid of the strange elf. Tumal nods appreciatively and takes the road through the gate. As he walks, he lifts a hand to his neck and starts again. His fingers grope at a white crystal held snugly within the hollow of his throat by a strap of black leather. As he walks a bit distractedly, he raises his other hand and gets the fingers of both hands underneath the collar, tugging. With mounting frustration, he looks about and then hurries to a dirty shop window. Turning his head this way and that, he inspects the band of leather and the crystal prize it holds in what little reflection the surface affords. His fingers caress the crystal, analyzing it physically to make up for the lack of visual inspection he can make due to the quality (or lack thereof) of the dirty pane of glass. With a sigh, his fingers slowly lower. That's when he notices his hair. "Amarth faeg!" he exclaims, grabbing a handful of his hair. He pulls it forward far enough to look at it with his own wide eyes. He grabs from the other side to inspect it as well. Once again, he looks at himself in the dirty window, his hands in his hair, his face aghast. Slowly, he touches the crystal delicately with the fingertips of one hand. Swallowing and rearranging his face into a more confident appearance, he sets off again in search of Valhingen Graveyard.
"Oi!" exclaims the guard by the gate to the pair of short figures at the board. "Where are you from? I do not place your accent from around here."
A tall man wearing clean chain mail and a shield with the emblem of a skeletal hand holding a balanced scale peruses the board. Hearing the others speaking, he removes his helm revealing an elvish like presence, yet he is clearly not elvish, not even mixed breed. His hair is pale blond and almost floats in the air. His eyes are the palest of blues and his skin looks radiantly pale and flawless. He looks at the others and speaks, "I hunt undead, it is what I do. Dreams guide me to find them, and lately I have dreamed all of us will head out together."
Placing the helm back on his head, the shadows hiding his features, he appears ready to follow. "Shall we go? And to answer your questions, the souls of the undead are brought back to this realm and don't belong here. Returning them to the realm of the dead is what I do."
Keksi tries not to panic. "I work under the auspices of the Emerald Enclave as a guardian of nature; I come from under the mountains. As to my new friend, I do not know from where he hails, you will have to ask him."
I'm from Turmish, sir, says Marrow. From a little town, I doubt you'd know the name. I came most of the way by ship, of course, and only arrived in your fair city today. Given his own background in the town guard, he's not as uncomfortable at being questioned in this manner as others might be, and pauses to see if the guard has any further questions for him.
"Well, my apologies, Your Dreamship," the guard not quite sneers, "and my little Turmishan and even littler guardian of nature, you'll find the graveyard north of the City, across the river. Follow the road, can't miss the bridge. Don't blame me if you don't find it all you dream of. Or if you do" he chuckles and goes back to his rather self-important stance at the gate.
When the guard is out of earshot Keksi sighs, "Well, that wasn't my worst encounter with a guard at least." She makes her way across the bridge along with Marrow and the tall man whose name she does not yet know.
The boy shrinks from Destin's gruff approach. "Sir, the graveyard is north of town, sir. Cross the river. Mind you, you don't want to go there, if you don't mind me sayin." He backs slowly away, and with one final "Sir" bolts down an alley.
Across the bridge, the three newcomers encounter an elf of average height; long, white hair; and fine features standing in the road looking around. He's wearing leather armor, has a longbow slung across his back, and a lyre hangs from his hip. Looking over the three and finally settling on trying to find eyes within Casmenos's helm, Ralotumal smiles warmly. "Greetings, travelers. Pray, can you help me find the graveyard? I believe it's on this side of the river, but now I'm worried I've taken a wrong turn."
A young man, gray-eyed and sandy-haired, strolls up to the board, behind the assembled group. He is dressed in the cloaked and rugged, durable styles from the far North - of Neverwinter, Luskan or some other forsaken and unnamed Savage Frontier trading post on the brink of cold, dead ruin.
Paying no heed to the guard's inquiry, the man briskly scans over the newly-posted notice. A moment later, a long sigh escapes as he takes relief from his pack, heavy with dust from weeks on the road and whatever detritus such journeys attract. The sigh lingers a bit, only to end as a thick, short chuckle. "So tell me - is it proper to have a toast for the improperly departed before their internment or should one wait for the wake?"
The guard glances down at Bastian, and says with a grin "what is improper is toasting alone, without giving the Black Fist a taste." He chuckles, and adds "never you mind -- but if you want a piece, you had best hurry. Others have gone ahead of you to the Doomguide."
Please do join us, good sir, we're all headed in the same direction, it seems. Marrow had felt some qualms about facing this undead threat alone, but was feeling better now that there seemed a good number of others who would share the task. So he continues along the street with the group, following the green-cloaked figure who knew the way. As they walk, he takes in the sights of the unfamiliar city, enjoying the strange architecture and also trying to get a feel for the layout of the city. After a while, worried that he's being rude, he looks at the three others in the small group, and says Well, since it seems we may be working together, we should probably know each other's names, at the very least. My name's Marrow.
Destin shakes his head. Gotta do better at this conversation thing he thinks to himself as he begins to head northward towards the graveyard. He wasn't planning on scaring the child, but as one who spends most of his time in the wilds, he hasn't really adapted the best tact for conversation. He seems to walk alongside the two shorter companions, but isn't particularly associating with them initially. When the elf speaks forward to the trio, it's then he realises that they are all headed to the same location.
"If you want to tag along. Looks like we're all going that way." He says, adjusting his pack to sort out the itch on his back. He looks to Marrow after his introduction. "Destin." He replies simply before continuing across to the northern part of town to get to the graveyard.
Current Player In: The Guild as Elsara Deepmoon
"Ralotumal Dalanthan," the white-haired elf responds to Marrow grandiosely. He does a little flourish and a bow, all the while never breaking stride. "But if we're getting acquainted, you may call me Tumal. I have been a musician and storyteller these past three centuries almost. Though," he says with a barely noticeable look of confusion, "it seems I've been pressed into service as an exorcist as of late." He perhaps unconsciously reaches up with his thin fingers and touches the white crystal at his throat.
Nodding his head as the others introduce themselves, the tall armored man introduces himself as well, "It is nice to know the names to the forms I've been seeing in my dreams. You may call me Casmenos."