Mister_Whisker Presents: Chronicles of the Accursed

It has been three days since you met him. A stranger. A man who claimed to know how to rid you of the curses that have plagued you.

How he knew what you possessed is anyone's guess, but there he was. With a smile and an extended hand, he offered you a way to escape the darkness that you can feel pressing on you:

“Five were bound to end the night,
Five who bore the dragon’s spite.

One was chained in borrowed flame,
Beneath a lord who speaks her name.

One in iron, standing still—
A fortress frozen by its will.

One where storms obeyed a hand,
Now broken bones beneath the sand.

One who saw through every lie,
Now lost where mirrored truths deny.

And one who reached beyond the veil…
And found that power always fails.

Find them not for what they were—
But for what remains of her.”

Now, you have found yourselves on the road to the town of Redford, where each of you have met four others who share the same fate. Bound to items of immense power... and by oppressive darkness. Together you forge on, travelling with a small caravan.

Please introduce your character, and describe what you are doing as you approach the town.

Brynja Oathkeeper walks in front of the caravan, leading the way, alert for any trouble ahead. 

She is short and stout, at 4'6" height and 220 lbs. A young girl away from home for the first time, she takes guarding the caravan seriously, even though she has little experience as a guard and what problems might occur. 

She has fair skin which has only recently seen the sun, and red hair which has been braided into twin braids which drape to the front of her shoulders. But the most noticeable feature about her is the gleaming jeweled armor she's wearing. 

Abishai sits atop his workshop wagon, guiding his faithful draft horse Bucephalus along with the caravan. The young Red Dragonborn had inherited the wagon and horse from his former mentor, the late Profession Thaddeus Wyrmwright. It wasn't the only thing he'd inherited, a ring was also given. The ring that a strange man knew far too much about. He'd never had cause to use the ring, Abishai hoped he never would. He would have ignored the strange man and continued about his business, but for the words that persuaded the impressionable and quite curious Dragonborn... 'five were bound to end the night, five who bore the dragon's spite... one who saw through every lie, now lost where mirrored truths deny.'

Abishai was intelligent, far beyond his 22 years hatched. The thing that bothered him most, that had ultimately persuaded him to join this motley crew was the fact that he'd left the ring in his wagon once, stepping away briefly to eat at a nearby tavern when a sharp pain assaulted his mind, nearly killing the Dragonborn. He never took the ring off again, scared of the consequences if he did. 'Can this stranger truly help rid me of this curse? I have to find out!'

Abishai had run into his fair share of bandits on the road and they were not always reasonable. He was glad to see this dwarven woman 'Brynja, was it?' at the head of the caravan looking out for trouble, though he couldn't help but notice the flashy armor she wore would like as not draw trouble to them as much as keep it away. 'Looks expensive..' Always thinking, always analyzing, only being brought back into the here and now as Bucephalus neighs. "Not long now, boy. Once we get to Redford, I'll make sure you're properly fed and watered. You may even get combed!"

Two red eyes in the shadows of a wagon observe everything with a mixture of wariness and interest. If anyone could see Dhamila, the Cthonic Tiefling who, perhaps out of habit, has furtively hidden herself on one of the wagons, they might be uneasy about her pale complexion, her straight black hair, her fiery eyes, her penchant for black clothing. But Dhamila, accustomed to hiding from danger and eluding surveillance or searches, won't show up. Unless absolutely necessary, at least...

Brynja is already there, in that formidable, eye-catching armor, making herself visible—and hopefully drawing the attention of any threats on her behalf.

And then there's Abishai, with that wagon of his that seems so... unusual... Dhamila thinks with a twinge of regret that perhaps it would have been more interesting to hide in there, rather than in the more common wagon she'd chosen—who knows what's inside the Dragonborn's vehicle? She's truly tempted to try and find out...

But in the meantime, her gaze lingers on the other travelers, lingering on the most unusual ones... and on the potential dangers, of course. Dhamila knows that dangers are always lurking. Just as she knows that she can always elude them. Blood will out.

Balthathar was known among the caravan folk as the “masked elf”—or, more quietly, the strange druid.

He stood around 5'11" with much of his body hidden beneath layered cloth and an eccentric wooden mask. He claimed it was because he was an albino—and, to be fair, the glimpses of his hair and hands were indeed bone white.

He spoke little. And when he did, it was usually business.

Balthathar offered magic in exchange for coin—silver when possible, copper when not.

He healed wounds, lit bonfires, and offered small blessings of guidance. Sometimes he flavored bland food or cleaned dirty clothes—simple spells, but invaluable on long journeys where salt and water were scarce.

Still, for an elven druid, he was remarkably… mercenary.

Yet there was one exception. When a young girl in the caravan lost her dog, Balthathar said nothing. He simply raised a hand—and shaped an illusion.

The dog returned—spectral and translucent. It wagged its tail and licked the girl’s face.

He asked for no payment.And that was the only time anyone remembered him giving his magic freely

The massive goliath marched on tiredlessly towards the town of Redford. He had spent a long time on the road now and he would enjoy drinks and food at the local tavern. He had barely spoken to the others yet, not being much of a talker, but he keeps himself good company by humming a marching tune in his deep basso. He wears quite worn greyish fairly loose fit 3/4 length pants with a quite impressive belt, his bare chest is covered with numerous goliath tattoos of unclear significance, his gear in a large but simple backpack. Notably the goliath seems unarmed but he still carries himself with great confidence.

He had been pondering what the mysterious man had said, and who these other people were, perhaps one of them could rid him of his one true curse, seemingly not being able to master his one true passion, dragonchess.

"Heavy?!" He finally says to the young dwarfess walking alongside him, like it was an astute observation on his part, glancing over her impressive armour. "Thorgath need no metal." He states with a confident shrug of his heavily muscled shoulders, but in a good-natured way. "Must be curse to be inside that in heat." He says, chuckling deeeply at his own sharp wit.

As the caravan approaches the gate, you see the city local guards waiting. But something about them feels off.



As Brynja approaches at the front of the caravan, one of them smirks.

"Well now... ain't that a pretty set o' armor," he says with a smirk. "Seems like we might 'ave ourselves some deep pockets today. Entry fee is 5 gold a head, ten per wagon. And if ya' don't like it... well... we might just have to enforce the toll a bit mo' aggressive than usual."

Having absolutely no idea what the sign says, the massive and heavily tattooed goliath scratches his bald head and tries to recall how much five is, something about fingers...

Insight to realize this is a scam: 5

Abishai just so happened to be the second wagon in the line when the group is stopped. Overhearing the conversation, he hops down from his wagon and approaches the guards, standing next to Thorgath and Brynja. He speaks up, "Um, excuse me, what's this now?" Pulling his goggles down over his eyes, he rotates a mechanism over the left side, glancing past the guards... "I couldn't help but notice your sign just there suggesting the price of admission is 5sp per person and 10sp per wagon." Pulling the goggles back up, he continues while gesturing to the rest of the caravan, "You can hardly base your price increase on a single suit of armor. Logic dictates that this caravan doesn't have the liquidity to entertain such a transaction. Is there a supervisor we can talk to?"

'Hmm... these folk are aggressive here in Redford, best be prepared for anything.' Abishai produces his tinkerer's tools and begins turning gears and dials on a rod-like invention that had been hanging from his belt. He looks up from his work and smiles at the guards, waiting for a reply.

Persuasion: 11/7 if help is provided, 11 stands.

The leader of the guards chuckles.

"Prices change... you folks look like ye can afford it," he says with a jagged smile, revealing several missing teeth. "An' it looks to me like ye got a good bit o' coin with that nice wagon there. If the price is a bit steep, maybe you'd prefer we take the wagon..."