The lands of Pater Perditas, after their tumultuous settlement, enjoyed an extended period of peace. Settled by five brothers, their respective countries - Dunbane to the northeast, with its mountainous highlands and snow-capped crags; Tumulus to the south, verdant, its rolling hills gently forested; Súilleabháin on the west coast, famously sodden and boggy; Ardun Ghariba, the arid land bordering the great wasteland of the Cicatrix, and its purple-nighted city, Yoon-Suin; and Lannover sharing its borders with the others, home to the fair, walled capital of Cionn tSáile - endured the growing pains of settling a ruined continent with solidarity, sharing resources and manpower to beat the hostile land into submission. But that was a long time ago, now. Years passed and the five brothers faded from storied heroes to stout legends to half-forgotten myths, their only legacy the countries that bore their names and the abiding peace.
Roughly three thousand years have passed since First Landing and the continent enjoyed an unprecedented era of prosperity and stability. With the end of the half-millennium-long Wyrmhunt and the establishment and fortification of the transcontinental roads, the population soared, trade boomed, and knowledge and wealth flowed freely between the kingdoms.
But tragedy cannot be held in abeyance forever.
King Isidore of Lannover and his regent scholars dug deep beneath the white walls of Cionn tSáile, down into the buried detritus of the Old Empire, of those that came before. It is unclear what exactly Isidore and his scholars hoped to find, though many note that Lannover long stood as a bastion of scholastic inquiry and experimentation. What is clear, however, is that he made a terrible discovery, the nature of which defies reason or rationality. The exact nature of this epiphany is unknown; some say Isidore found an ancient artifact that imparted mysterious and dark power; others insist it was an arcane weapon, possibly even one of the great siege engines that had left the immutable scar of the Cicatrix; still others suggest that it was a fragment of a shattered old god, broken but corrosive in its malevolence. Whatever the cause, commerce and communication with Cionn tSáile died out almost overnight. A thin, cold fog began to pour from the walls of the city and slowly began to smother the countryside. Witnesses reported seeing strange lights and foreboding sounds in the mist, with some expressing concern for the return and use of the arcane arts, long forbidden throughout the continent save for in highly controlled, tightly supervised scholarly circles.
Eventually, the fog engulfed all of Lannover and began to spill over into the surrounding countries. Soon, reports of the border towns being razed, their populations slaughtered or abducted, began to reach the fraternal thrones. After much discussion, the ad hoc Four-Fifths Council and High Oireachtas formally censured Lannover and began to assemble an aggregate army. For the first time in 3 millennia, war was declared on Pater Perditus. As their armies encircled Lannover, they met relatively light resistance. Few Lannover garrisons were still manned, and those remaining soldiers were often surprised to learn that they were at war, citing limited correspondence with the capital or their martial hierarchy over the preceding few weeks. Many soldiers abandoned their posts, some even offering to join the combined host in order to drive off the fog corrupting their homeland. As the armies pushed forward, however, things became much stranger. Whole companies were swallowed in the myst, disappearing without a trace; other regiments reported encountering scattered Lannoveric troops, stating that the men seemed deranged, with wild, blank eyes and tremulous hands.
The closer the other countries drew to Cionn tSáile, the more demonic their foes appeared. Reports of necromantic activity began to surface, followed shortly thereafter by alleged battles against utter monstrosities that left the survivors raving mad. Huge battles were waged against eldritch abominations whose physiology suggested an extraplanar origin. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers were slaughtered, and many tens of thousands more abandoned the front, desperate to escape the inhuman horrors that had been seemingly released by Isidore. Their momentum stalled, the allied forces suffered tremendous attrition as the war dragged on for years, and then decades. All the while, the fog continued to spread across the continent, with more and more villages disappearing into its gelid depths.
But not all hope was lost.
As the decades grew into a century of unending conflict, the war saw the recognition and beatification of not one but two saints, the first to walk the earth in over two thousand years: Sixth Saint Alythsia, whose beauty was legendary and whose divine touch could heal fatal wounds; and Seventh Saint Arden, a stoic warrior and thaumaturge whose very word wrought miracles and whose courage and military acumen led his armies to victory against impossible, hopeless odds. In addition, both the high elves and mountain dwarves sent troops and resources to bolster the front, in spite of their dwindling population and history of persecution by the humans. With these boons, the combined host pushed forward, making ground against the demonic entities of the fog for the first time in one hundred years. With each victory, the fog regressed, retreating back to the walls of Cionn tSáile from which it seemed to emanate.
And that is where your story begins. The allied forces are sieging Cionn tSáile, its white-walls embattled on every side. The fog is thin. A special forces unit, including your characters, is being prepared to infiltrate the castle and find Isidore (if he still lives) and his scholars, bring them to justice, and end this nightmare. The world is on the edge of salvation, and you must strive to tip the balance.
You - Xaintlin, Rlyoos, Buoyside, and your leader, Sergeant Lofty - are seated at one of several tables in a mess tent, surrounded by other soldiers. The mood in the tent is mixed, underpinned by an ineluctable feeling of tension; as they eat, the men shoot furtive glances at one another, wincing at the sound of distant battle as they mindlessly pick at their food. It is clear that these men are desperate, but for the first time in a long their desperation is undercut by a palpable feeling of hope in the air. Today, the world might be saved. They only wonder who among them might live to see it.
Outside, the camp is utterly rife with activity. Groups of armed men march meaningfully to and from battle, hordes of messengers run into and out of various tents carrying officious letters, decorated officers walk about barking orders. The deep bass of war drums undercuts the sound of clanking armor and heavy footsteps. More remotely, you can heard the creaking of heavy ballistae being loaded, their heavy spring-mechanisms drawn taut. Groups of priests and clerics rove about, offering final rites to ashen-faced, freshly pious men. Armorers and blacksmiths labor over hot forges and vendors hawk their wares. Medics hurry injured men into the blood-stained convalescence tents where they toil stoically over gaping lacerations, eviscerated bowel, and comminuted bone; nearby, gravetenders wait patiently for when their efforts fail.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
“The mood in this room is too grim”
H.E.L.I.O.S stands up from the table where the men around him are eating having no need for nourishment himself, and lifts his bagpipes off the ground next to him.”
”I will provide entertainment for the evening”
Performance check - 14
The sound that comes from the bagpipes is both amazing and horrific. The notes are all played perfectly, but there is no cohesion between them. It’s a shame as the construct standing in front of you could be one of the most talented musicians you have ever heard, but he just doesn’t seem to understand or realize that there is more to a song than the perfect execution of random notes.
The sergeant's eyes snap open and he snatches at his spear, nearly toppling from his chair in a sleepy haze. "Whoozit? What?!" He blinks slowly at the soldiers around the table. Calm, familiar, faces. He relaxes. The shrieking wasn't a banshee or an alarm, it was Helios trying his hand at the pipes.
"Oh...That's a fine tune Helios. Reminds me of a little town called Dunsbury I visited once." Specifically, it reminded him of when the granary at Dunsbury caught fire and a hundred screaming rats fled for the sewers, but he kept that bit to himself.
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Lofty looks around the table at the men under his command. He'd only known them for a few weeks and already had the utmost confidence in their abilities. Each soldier at the table was a distinguished fighter, taken together they were probably the most dangerous squad in the whole damn army. That fact made waiting to find out why this team had been assembled all the more agonizing. "How long are they going to keep us waiting? I hate sieges. I can handle enemy fire. I can handle the anticipation of a difficult fight to come, but this reek." His face wrinkles in disgust. "Nothing stinks like a siege. I'll be first up the walls just for a breath of fresh air."
Here are my character sheets in glorious incorruptible .pngpage1page2page3
Buoyside smiles broadly to HELIOS’s tune. His fingers tap along the hilt of his odachi, a monstrous blade spanning 9 feet from hilt to tip. It’s propped against the side of the table where they sit, rising high above each man.
“My friend! That was beautiful! Truly glorious!”
In the right light, you can almost swear his skin reflects a colorful aura of pastels, a truly positive sight.
“Wasn’t that swell, everyone? My lord, my beautiful lord, today will be absolutely grand!”
He looks lovingly to his blade, whispering “we shall share the taste of victory today, my love.”
Xantlin clutches his Amulet in his left hand while his right hand flips through his Prayer Book at a pace that couldn't possibly allow reading. He snaps his head up, having heard Buoyside's comment without fully processing it. He then looks to HELIOS holding the bagpipe and realizes the sounds hadn't been coming from the battle, but from his own table. He smiles and nods in HELIOS's direction, feigning appreciation and hoping the others hadn't been offended by the way he was ignoring them.
"Sargeant. if we're to be spending much more time waiting, do you know of a vendor selling books or tomes? I'm growing bored of my current stock."
HELIOS' music is, in a word, unpleasant. Nearby troops cringe and glower at the machine. Your group in general garners a number of nasty looks; though the nonhuman races have proved to be invaluable allies in what has come to be called "The War in the Mist," humans are ever mistrustful of outsiders. But they say nothing and turn back to their food; the terrible sounds have proven to be merely a passing distraction from the underlying dread that the men feel.
A group of flamboyantly-garbed landsknecht from Tumulus pass through the tent, wielding their oversized polearms and grosse messer. Unlike your messmates, the landsknecht seem unaffected by the overall grim mood of the camp. They laugh gaily and sing war songs as they march; hearing HELIOS' abysmal bagpipes, they lock arms with one another and dance a comical jig, slapping Xantlin on the back as they pass. Their commander, a man dressed in lurid orange and yellow cloth pantaloons, shakes Lofty's arm vigorously.
"Today is the day, my friends! Today we drive back the fog and these wretched leathchinn." He practically spits the last word, as if he can taste its vileness. "We're off now to the front - I'll be damned if my blade is not the first to remind Isidore of his folly! We'll try to leave some for you lot!"
HELIOS finishes his song and returns his bagpipes to the floor beside him.
He Turns to Xantlin and fishes in his pack pulling out an old musty tome. "This is a tome about the great god of the sun, Pelor. He is the source of all of my wisdom and power. You are welcome to read it if you would like." The tome is thrust forward towards Xantlin, the smell of it finally hitting his nose. One would not imagine a material object to smell of rot the same way that a corpse might, but the scent coming from this book is certainly familiar.
"I am ready to proceed to the front lines now. I will not be needing this tome any longer upon my return so please, take your time with it"
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
At far end of the table, opposite of Lofty, Ryloos sits close enough to be considered part of Lofty's crew but still at noticeable distance from the closest "companion." Her concentration is broken by the noise of Helios' bagpipes and for a split second, she toys with the idea of stabbing them just for her amusement alone. And as retribution for annoying her.
She calms herself and regains her gaze. Ryloos' eyes fixing on each member of the party in deliberate, calculated glares. She says nothing and observes all.
First, there's Lofty. Confident, slightly arrogant but for good reasons. Most prominently, in charge. "Or so everyone believes," she thinks to herself. Next, Helios. Already on her bad side. Something about this machine inspires distain. Maybe because she doesn't have a formulated way to manipulate it. Not yet. Then, Buoyside. Ah a Palladin. I've known many, none as holy as they claim. Easy target. Finally, Xantlin. Fidgeting, darting eyes, uncomfortable.
Ryloos leaves her gaze there, fixed on Xantlin, in hopes of adding to his discomfort. In her mind, Ryloos reaches out, casting her mage hand cantrip. Her spectral hand finds it way into Helios's pack searching for any leverage she can get on this..thing.
"Sorry Xantlin but that'll have to do for now" Lofty gestures to the mouldering tome across the table. "We're supposed to stay put till we get our orders. On the bright side, I doubt anyone's read that particular tome in a very long time." He was glad to have Xantlin along on the mission. The dragon priest had come up with him from Captain Hull's 4th army, and it was nice to have someone around from the old days. "If we have time, we can track down the quartermaster later. He owes me a few favors and with the proper persuasion, he can be quite resourceful."
When the Landsknecht come bustling through, Lofty rises to the occasion and greets them manfully. "You old fool! Off to get yourself killed on the last day of the war? Serves your right, prancing around the battlefield in your mother's drapes." He turns to address the squad. "If I ever see any of you wearing bright red feathers on your head, I'll pull em out the other end."
As you grasp the forearm of the landsknecht leader, he suddenly pulls you close and whispers in your ear, his voice deep and grave.
“Lad, I don’t know what today will hold for us, but I know it will be something terrible and grand. It is what the bones foretell.” He nods subtly to a bag hanging at his hip, and you realize that he is an osteomancer. “It’s just...if I lose myself in the mist...should you find me like that...well, I’d want you to make it right. Promise me that?”
And just as quickly his solemnity dissipates, the man now all smiles and cheer. No one else seems to have noticed his foreboding words, but they echo in your thoughts.
Ryloos
Your spell is successful. Surreptitiously, your invisible projected hand wiggles free an elaborately colored scroll covered in meticulously painted symbols from HELIOS’ sack. You tuck it furtively away in a roll of your armor as the remainder of your squad is distracted by the ostentatious landsknechts.
Paul, you can choose a secret that the scroll reveals about HELIOS. Or, if you’d prefer, I can make something up.
HELIOS
It would seem that the brightly colored, raucous crowd of landsknechts does little to titillate your machine senses. They register merely as potential allied resources; you consider their potential utility in the coming conflict with a cold objectivity that would make the men shiver, could they but glimpse into your machine mind.
Xantlin
HELIOS’ book, as previously sold, details the feats and aspects of the god Pelor. As a cleric, you are intimately familiar with the sun god, his worship having been shared between both men and elves. You recall that the Seventh Saint Arden is allegedly patronized by Pelor; others speculate that the saint is actually Pelor’s mortal incarnation, the first such transubstantiation since before First Fall on Pater Perditas.
This book is remarkably old. It is covered with the fine, woolly mycelia of fungal fruiting bodies and smells of dust and secrets.
Buoyside
After some initially wary sidelong looks, the landsknecht soldiers doff their caps in deference to the size of your sword. You notice them mouthing awe and praise to one another; several of the men make rather graphic, lewd gestures at the size of your weapon, pantomiming the myriad ways they might use it to skewer their enemies and their women. Men will ever be men. Truly, if anyone could appreciate your oversized weapon, it would be these merry few.
All
Just then, a pale, thin man wearing a feathered cap peels back the tent’s flap, scanning the room before settling on your collective team. His face is tired and his voice is strained as he calls to you. “Oi, you lot - the “Wartime Special Solutions Unit” or whatever the fook they call ye - yer wanted at the gates.” Without a second glance, he runs off. It seems that your superiors are calling for you.
You should finish any desired preparations or inquiries before leaving for the front. You will be unable to rest for sometime after leaving the tent.
Without hesitation HELIOS follows the feather capped man out of the room, tossing his bagpipes over his one should and backpack over the other.
"Wartime Special Solutions Unit is a highly illogical name as there is no functional pronunciation of W.S.S.U." he calls out seemingly to no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to hear.
"perrhaps we can workshop the name on the way into battle. Even simply rearranging the order of the name would work. Wartime Unit Special Solutions, or W.U.S.S. for short. I think this is a fine name. From now on we shall be known as W.U.S.S." he continues seemingly growing louder as he walks through the doorway. "Yes, W.U.S.S, now that is an acronym I can pronounce!'
Buoyside maintains his smile as the men lewdly, and rudely, gesticulate in front of his Blade. “Pay them no mind, love. Only jealous that they can’t have you...not the way I can.”
He nods heartedly to HELIOS “Yes! WUSS! Powerful stuff!”
He stands and claps his hand together. “Joyous work, friends! I look forward to sharing the battlefield with you! Surely with our hearts working together, we will dance in the majesty of victory!” He grabs his sheathed blade and picks it up, struggling with its length to hold it without knocking down the tent or spilling a table. “To victory! To Team WUSS!”
"Thank you HELIOS", Xantlin said as the machine got up and walked from the table, unsure if it heard him, or even if it would care. But Xantlin was truly appreciative of gesture, the musty old thing would surely quell some boredom down the road.
Xantlin stood up and began following behind Buoyside, attempting not to trip over the ridiculous sword dragging on the ground. He took a few steps before pausing to take a look back at Lofty, and with a wry smile and a shrug said, "I guess we're wusses now." He caught another awkward eye with Ryloos while turning back to continue out of the tent, but it didn't phase him, he was ready to focus on whatever task lay ahead.
As Lofty gathers his things and heads out with the squad, he casts a subtle sending after the landsknecht leader. 'If I find you in the mist, I'll be sorely tempted to run the other way oestoemancer, but I'll do what I can. The bones may speak a warning, but fate is what you make it. Do us both a favor and don't get lost.'
"Wusses, huh? That's what'll be written in the histories? Sung in the songs they write about this day?" He chuckles softly to himself "Sure, why not. I look forward to sitting in a tavern one night and listening to the ballad of the wuss."
You make your way through the camp, eventually reaching the tents of your commanding officers. A perimeter has been formed outside the white wall of Cionn tSáile. Though the typical mores of human warfare little apply to the undead, the heavy wall of spiked logs provides an undeniable psychological boon.
Curiously, the commanding officers of the 4/5ths Army have erected their domicile nearest to the White Road, the marble thoroughfare into the city. As the commissioned officers pour over maps and plan stratagems for their assault, their army flows and ebbs around them. Nearby, a battalion of soldiers marches by, following the White Road to Cionn tSáile’s main gates. Once, the pale granite slope of this gentle acclivity would be crowded with merchants and nobles and pilgrims, bustling with the commerce and the trappings of humanity. Now, the only travelers are variegated groups of warriors, men appearing tired and resolved and pallid and frightened; various companies march by, brightly-colored banners flapping in the cool morning breeze, to be swallowed by the impenetrable fog as they march towards Cionn tSáile’s storied portcullis.
The city itself stands shrouded in fog. It's white parapets tower over the mist and, in the distance, you can appreciate massive siege towers creeping toward the ramparts, appending themselves and disgorging men onto the walls of the city. There is a brilliant flash of light and an enormous roar drowning out the faint screams of men; one of the walls involutes in an impressive display of color and sound, hundreds of men buried in the rubble.
LOFTY
In the distance, you can make out the company of landsknechts from the messhall as they disappear into the mist. You perhaps vie to see them off, but they are soon swallowed into the mist. Your attention is subsequently drawn to an impatient-appearing mustachioed man wearing well-worn leather armor surrounded by a cadre of aides and subordinates. Men hurry between tables covered in maps and diagrams, drawing and redrawing the estimated positions of the 4/5ths Army. The mustachioed man stands at the center, a focus of calm in a storm of activity. Alas, it is none other than Colonel Agrellis, the man placed in charge of your Wartime Special Solutions Unit. He studies a piece of parchment bound to a messenger hawk's talon briefly before dismissing the bird; spying you and your team, he gestures for you to approach.
"Colonel Agrellis, Sir!" The sergeant snaps off a quick salute as he approaches, his gaze lingering on the battle plans and intelligence reports splayed out across the table.
HELIOS positions himself 3 steps behind Lofty and a few paces to his left and snaps to attention. As his hand comes up to a salute his head tils up towards the sky. You quickly realize he is not saluting the Colonel but rather the Sun itself.... Or at least where the sun would be if it was visible through the thick mist that encompasses the horizon.
He stands this way for what seems like several minutes, no movement at all, not even the smallest sway. His blue crystalline eyes staring off into the distance and the feintest trace of a smile forms across his face before he speaks. "Awaiting Orders!'"
Buoyside walks along the road, his enormous blade dragging a gash in the gravel and mud behind him. He takes in The sights and and sounds, though he doesn’t feel fear. He knows team WUSS can accomplish anything when they work together. He approaches Lofty and the Colonel, stopping and standing just a bit too close to the Captain.
Ryloos keeps in pace with the rest of the WUSS, her eager showing itself in some shape and form. Looking at the white walls Cioon T''Saile, hundreds of memories flood her mind and in a instant, they all turn to ash in her mouth as she envisions her only companion taken by the mist.
She shakes her head attempting to clear her mind and immediately looks for a distraction. As Lofty, Helios and Buoyside speak with the commanding officer, Ryloos wonders near a one of the tabes with the maps of the city in an attempt to glean some information off of it.
You find yourself at the end of things.
The lands of Pater Perditas, after their tumultuous settlement, enjoyed an extended period of peace. Settled by five brothers, their respective countries - Dunbane to the northeast, with its mountainous highlands and snow-capped crags; Tumulus to the south, verdant, its rolling hills gently forested; Súilleabháin on the west coast, famously sodden and boggy; Ardun Ghariba, the arid land bordering the great wasteland of the Cicatrix, and its purple-nighted city, Yoon-Suin; and Lannover sharing its borders with the others, home to the fair, walled capital of Cionn tSáile - endured the growing pains of settling a ruined continent with solidarity, sharing resources and manpower to beat the hostile land into submission. But that was a long time ago, now. Years passed and the five brothers faded from storied heroes to stout legends to half-forgotten myths, their only legacy the countries that bore their names and the abiding peace.
Roughly three thousand years have passed since First Landing and the continent enjoyed an unprecedented era of prosperity and stability. With the end of the half-millennium-long Wyrmhunt and the establishment and fortification of the transcontinental roads, the population soared, trade boomed, and knowledge and wealth flowed freely between the kingdoms.
But tragedy cannot be held in abeyance forever.
King Isidore of Lannover and his regent scholars dug deep beneath the white walls of Cionn tSáile, down into the buried detritus of the Old Empire, of those that came before. It is unclear what exactly Isidore and his scholars hoped to find, though many note that Lannover long stood as a bastion of scholastic inquiry and experimentation. What is clear, however, is that he made a terrible discovery, the nature of which defies reason or rationality. The exact nature of this epiphany is unknown; some say Isidore found an ancient artifact that imparted mysterious and dark power; others insist it was an arcane weapon, possibly even one of the great siege engines that had left the immutable scar of the Cicatrix; still others suggest that it was a fragment of a shattered old god, broken but corrosive in its malevolence. Whatever the cause, commerce and communication with Cionn tSáile died out almost overnight. A thin, cold fog began to pour from the walls of the city and slowly began to smother the countryside. Witnesses reported seeing strange lights and foreboding sounds in the mist, with some expressing concern for the return and use of the arcane arts, long forbidden throughout the continent save for in highly controlled, tightly supervised scholarly circles.
Eventually, the fog engulfed all of Lannover and began to spill over into the surrounding countries. Soon, reports of the border towns being razed, their populations slaughtered or abducted, began to reach the fraternal thrones. After much discussion, the ad hoc Four-Fifths Council and High Oireachtas formally censured Lannover and began to assemble an aggregate army. For the first time in 3 millennia, war was declared on Pater Perditus. As their armies encircled Lannover, they met relatively light resistance. Few Lannover garrisons were still manned, and those remaining soldiers were often surprised to learn that they were at war, citing limited correspondence with the capital or their martial hierarchy over the preceding few weeks. Many soldiers abandoned their posts, some even offering to join the combined host in order to drive off the fog corrupting their homeland. As the armies pushed forward, however, things became much stranger. Whole companies were swallowed in the myst, disappearing without a trace; other regiments reported encountering scattered Lannoveric troops, stating that the men seemed deranged, with wild, blank eyes and tremulous hands.
The closer the other countries drew to Cionn tSáile, the more demonic their foes appeared. Reports of necromantic activity began to surface, followed shortly thereafter by alleged battles against utter monstrosities that left the survivors raving mad. Huge battles were waged against eldritch abominations whose physiology suggested an extraplanar origin. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers were slaughtered, and many tens of thousands more abandoned the front, desperate to escape the inhuman horrors that had been seemingly released by Isidore. Their momentum stalled, the allied forces suffered tremendous attrition as the war dragged on for years, and then decades. All the while, the fog continued to spread across the continent, with more and more villages disappearing into its gelid depths.
But not all hope was lost.
As the decades grew into a century of unending conflict, the war saw the recognition and beatification of not one but two saints, the first to walk the earth in over two thousand years: Sixth Saint Alythsia, whose beauty was legendary and whose divine touch could heal fatal wounds; and Seventh Saint Arden, a stoic warrior and thaumaturge whose very word wrought miracles and whose courage and military acumen led his armies to victory against impossible, hopeless odds. In addition, both the high elves and mountain dwarves sent troops and resources to bolster the front, in spite of their dwindling population and history of persecution by the humans. With these boons, the combined host pushed forward, making ground against the demonic entities of the fog for the first time in one hundred years. With each victory, the fog regressed, retreating back to the walls of Cionn tSáile from which it seemed to emanate.
And that is where your story begins. The allied forces are sieging Cionn tSáile, its white-walls embattled on every side. The fog is thin. A special forces unit, including your characters, is being prepared to infiltrate the castle and find Isidore (if he still lives) and his scholars, bring them to justice, and end this nightmare. The world is on the edge of salvation, and you must strive to tip the balance.
And so it begins.
THE SIEGE OF CIONN TSÁILE
“The mood in this room is too grim”
H.E.L.I.O.S stands up from the table where the men around him are eating having no need for nourishment himself, and lifts his bagpipes off the ground next to him.”
”I will provide entertainment for the evening”
Performance check - 14
The sound that comes from the bagpipes is both amazing and horrific. The notes are all played perfectly, but there is no cohesion between them. It’s a shame as the construct standing in front of you could be one of the most talented musicians you have ever heard, but he just doesn’t seem to understand or realize that there is more to a song than the perfect execution of random notes.
H.E.L.I.O.S - Warforged Sun Soul Monk
AC - 19
Sergeant Lofty
The sergeant's eyes snap open and he snatches at his spear, nearly toppling from his chair in a sleepy haze. "Whoozit? What?!" He blinks slowly at the soldiers around the table. Calm, familiar, faces. He relaxes. The shrieking wasn't a banshee or an alarm, it was Helios trying his hand at the pipes.
"Oh...That's a fine tune Helios. Reminds me of a little town called Dunsbury I visited once." Specifically, it reminded him of when the granary at Dunsbury caught fire and a hundred screaming rats fled for the sewers, but he kept that bit to himself.
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Lofty looks around the table at the men under his command. He'd only known them for a few weeks and already had the utmost confidence in their abilities. Each soldier at the table was a distinguished fighter, taken together they were probably the most dangerous squad in the whole damn army. That fact made waiting to find out why this team had been assembled all the more agonizing. "How long are they going to keep us waiting? I hate sieges. I can handle enemy fire. I can handle the anticipation of a difficult fight to come, but this reek." His face wrinkles in disgust. "Nothing stinks like a siege. I'll be first up the walls just for a breath of fresh air."
Here are my character sheets in glorious incorruptible .png page1 page2 page3
He looks something like this, but with a shield
Character Sheets: Page1 Page2 Page3
HP: 35 AC: 20 Saves: Str+2 Dex+0 Con+4 Int+2 Wis+2 Cha+6
Buoyside smiles broadly to HELIOS’s tune. His fingers tap along the hilt of his odachi, a monstrous blade spanning 9 feet from hilt to tip. It’s propped against the side of the table where they sit, rising high above each man.
“My friend! That was beautiful! Truly glorious!”
In the right light, you can almost swear his skin reflects a colorful aura of pastels, a truly positive sight.
“Wasn’t that swell, everyone? My lord, my beautiful lord, today will be absolutely grand!”
He looks lovingly to his blade, whispering “we shall share the taste of victory today, my love.”
Character Sheet
AC: 16
Xantlin Pegason
Xantlin clutches his Amulet in his left hand while his right hand flips through his Prayer Book at a pace that couldn't possibly allow reading. He snaps his head up, having heard Buoyside's comment without fully processing it. He then looks to HELIOS holding the bagpipe and realizes the sounds hadn't been coming from the battle, but from his own table. He smiles and nods in HELIOS's direction, feigning appreciation and hoping the others hadn't been offended by the way he was ignoring them.
"Sargeant. if we're to be spending much more time waiting, do you know of a vendor selling books or tomes? I'm growing bored of my current stock."
Xantlin Pegason (imgur)
33/33 HP
4/4 level 1 spells, 3/3 level 2 spells, 2/2 level 3 spells
AC = 15, Spell attack bonus = 7, spell save DC = 15
HELIOS' music is, in a word, unpleasant. Nearby troops cringe and glower at the machine. Your group in general garners a number of nasty looks; though the nonhuman races have proved to be invaluable allies in what has come to be called "The War in the Mist," humans are ever mistrustful of outsiders. But they say nothing and turn back to their food; the terrible sounds have proven to be merely a passing distraction from the underlying dread that the men feel.
A group of flamboyantly-garbed landsknecht from Tumulus pass through the tent, wielding their oversized polearms and grosse messer. Unlike your messmates, the landsknecht seem unaffected by the overall grim mood of the camp. They laugh gaily and sing war songs as they march; hearing HELIOS' abysmal bagpipes, they lock arms with one another and dance a comical jig, slapping Xantlin on the back as they pass. Their commander, a man dressed in lurid orange and yellow cloth pantaloons, shakes Lofty's arm vigorously.
"Today is the day, my friends! Today we drive back the fog and these wretched leathchinn." He practically spits the last word, as if he can taste its vileness. "We're off now to the front - I'll be damned if my blade is not the first to remind Isidore of his folly! We'll try to leave some for you lot!"
HELIOS finishes his song and returns his bagpipes to the floor beside him.
He Turns to Xantlin and fishes in his pack pulling out an old musty tome. "This is a tome about the great god of the sun, Pelor. He is the source of all of my wisdom and power. You are welcome to read it if you would like." The tome is thrust forward towards Xantlin, the smell of it finally hitting his nose. One would not imagine a material object to smell of rot the same way that a corpse might, but the scent coming from this book is certainly familiar.
"I am ready to proceed to the front lines now. I will not be needing this tome any longer upon my return so please, take your time with it"
H.E.L.I.O.S - Warforged Sun Soul Monk
AC - 19
At far end of the table, opposite of Lofty, Ryloos sits close enough to be considered part of Lofty's crew but still at noticeable distance from the closest "companion." Her concentration is broken by the noise of Helios' bagpipes and for a split second, she toys with the idea of stabbing them just for her amusement alone. And as retribution for annoying her.
She calms herself and regains her gaze. Ryloos' eyes fixing on each member of the party in deliberate, calculated glares. She says nothing and observes all.
First, there's Lofty. Confident, slightly arrogant but for good reasons. Most prominently, in charge. "Or so everyone believes," she thinks to herself. Next, Helios. Already on her bad side. Something about this machine inspires distain. Maybe because she doesn't have a formulated way to manipulate it. Not yet. Then, Buoyside. Ah a Palladin. I've known many, none as holy as they claim. Easy target. Finally, Xantlin. Fidgeting, darting eyes, uncomfortable.
Ryloos leaves her gaze there, fixed on Xantlin, in hopes of adding to his discomfort. In her mind, Ryloos reaches out, casting her mage hand cantrip. Her spectral hand finds it way into Helios's pack searching for any leverage she can get on this..thing.
27
Sergeant Lofty
"Sorry Xantlin but that'll have to do for now" Lofty gestures to the mouldering tome across the table. "We're supposed to stay put till we get our orders. On the bright side, I doubt anyone's read that particular tome in a very long time." He was glad to have Xantlin along on the mission. The dragon priest had come up with him from Captain Hull's 4th army, and it was nice to have someone around from the old days. "If we have time, we can track down the quartermaster later. He owes me a few favors and with the proper persuasion, he can be quite resourceful."
When the Landsknecht come bustling through, Lofty rises to the occasion and greets them manfully. "You old fool! Off to get yourself killed on the last day of the war? Serves your right, prancing around the battlefield in your mother's drapes." He turns to address the squad. "If I ever see any of you wearing bright red feathers on your head, I'll pull em out the other end."
Character Sheets: Page1 Page2 Page3
HP: 35 AC: 20 Saves: Str+2 Dex+0 Con+4 Int+2 Wis+2 Cha+6
Lofty
As you grasp the forearm of the landsknecht leader, he suddenly pulls you close and whispers in your ear, his voice deep and grave.
“Lad, I don’t know what today will hold for us, but I know it will be something terrible and grand. It is what the bones foretell.” He nods subtly to a bag hanging at his hip, and you realize that he is an osteomancer. “It’s just...if I lose myself in the mist...should you find me like that...well, I’d want you to make it right. Promise me that?”
And just as quickly his solemnity dissipates, the man now all smiles and cheer. No one else seems to have noticed his foreboding words, but they echo in your thoughts.
Ryloos
Your spell is successful. Surreptitiously, your invisible projected hand wiggles free an elaborately colored scroll covered in meticulously painted symbols from HELIOS’ sack. You tuck it furtively away in a roll of your armor as the remainder of your squad is distracted by the ostentatious landsknechts.
Paul, you can choose a secret that the scroll reveals about HELIOS. Or, if you’d prefer, I can make something up.
HELIOS
It would seem that the brightly colored, raucous crowd of landsknechts does little to titillate your machine senses. They register merely as potential allied resources; you consider their potential utility in the coming conflict with a cold objectivity that would make the men shiver, could they but glimpse into your machine mind.
Xantlin
HELIOS’ book, as previously sold, details the feats and aspects of the god Pelor. As a cleric, you are intimately familiar with the sun god, his worship having been shared between both men and elves. You recall that the Seventh Saint Arden is allegedly patronized by Pelor; others speculate that the saint is actually Pelor’s mortal incarnation, the first such transubstantiation since before First Fall on Pater Perditas.
This book is remarkably old. It is covered with the fine, woolly mycelia of fungal fruiting bodies and smells of dust and secrets.
Buoyside
After some initially wary sidelong looks, the landsknecht soldiers doff their caps in deference to the size of your sword. You notice them mouthing awe and praise to one another; several of the men make rather graphic, lewd gestures at the size of your weapon, pantomiming the myriad ways they might use it to skewer their enemies and their women. Men will ever be men. Truly, if anyone could appreciate your oversized weapon, it would be these merry few.
All
Just then, a pale, thin man wearing a feathered cap peels back the tent’s flap, scanning the room before settling on your collective team. His face is tired and his voice is strained as he calls to you. “Oi, you lot - the “Wartime Special Solutions Unit” or whatever the fook they call ye - yer wanted at the gates.” Without a second glance, he runs off. It seems that your superiors are calling for you.
You should finish any desired preparations or inquiries before leaving for the front. You will be unable to rest for sometime after leaving the tent.
Without hesitation HELIOS follows the feather capped man out of the room, tossing his bagpipes over his one should and backpack over the other.
"Wartime Special Solutions Unit is a highly illogical name as there is no functional pronunciation of W.S.S.U." he calls out seemingly to no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to hear.
"perrhaps we can workshop the name on the way into battle. Even simply rearranging the order of the name would work. Wartime Unit Special Solutions, or W.U.S.S. for short. I think this is a fine name. From now on we shall be known as W.U.S.S." he continues seemingly growing louder as he walks through the doorway. "Yes, W.U.S.S, now that is an acronym I can pronounce!'
H.E.L.I.O.S - Warforged Sun Soul Monk
AC - 19
Buoyside maintains his smile as the men lewdly, and rudely, gesticulate in front of his Blade. “Pay them no mind, love. Only jealous that they can’t have you...not the way I can.”
He nods heartedly to HELIOS “Yes! WUSS! Powerful stuff!”
He stands and claps his hand together. “Joyous work, friends! I look forward to sharing the battlefield with you! Surely with our hearts working together, we will dance in the majesty of victory!” He grabs his sheathed blade and picks it up, struggling with its length to hold it without knocking down the tent or spilling a table. “To victory! To Team WUSS!”
Character Sheet
AC: 16
"Thank you HELIOS", Xantlin said as the machine got up and walked from the table, unsure if it heard him, or even if it would care. But Xantlin was truly appreciative of gesture, the musty old thing would surely quell some boredom down the road.
Xantlin stood up and began following behind Buoyside, attempting not to trip over the ridiculous sword dragging on the ground. He took a few steps before pausing to take a look back at Lofty, and with a wry smile and a shrug said, "I guess we're wusses now." He caught another awkward eye with Ryloos while turning back to continue out of the tent, but it didn't phase him, he was ready to focus on whatever task lay ahead.
Xantlin Pegason (imgur)
33/33 HP
4/4 level 1 spells, 3/3 level 2 spells, 2/2 level 3 spells
AC = 15, Spell attack bonus = 7, spell save DC = 15
As Lofty gathers his things and heads out with the squad, he casts a subtle sending after the landsknecht leader. 'If I find you in the mist, I'll be sorely tempted to run the other way oestoemancer, but I'll do what I can. The bones may speak a warning, but fate is what you make it. Do us both a favor and don't get lost.'
"Wusses, huh? That's what'll be written in the histories? Sung in the songs they write about this day?" He chuckles softly to himself "Sure, why not. I look forward to sitting in a tavern one night and listening to the ballad of the wuss."
Character Sheets: Page1 Page2 Page3
HP: 35 AC: 20 Saves: Str+2 Dex+0 Con+4 Int+2 Wis+2 Cha+6
ALL
You make your way through the camp, eventually reaching the tents of your commanding officers. A perimeter has been formed outside the white wall of Cionn tSáile. Though the typical mores of human warfare little apply to the undead, the heavy wall of spiked logs provides an undeniable psychological boon.
Curiously, the commanding officers of the 4/5ths Army have erected their domicile nearest to the White Road, the marble thoroughfare into the city. As the commissioned officers pour over maps and plan stratagems for their assault, their army flows and ebbs around them. Nearby, a battalion of soldiers marches by, following the White Road to Cionn tSáile’s main gates. Once, the pale granite slope of this gentle acclivity would be crowded with merchants and nobles and pilgrims, bustling with the commerce and the trappings of humanity. Now, the only travelers are variegated groups of warriors, men appearing tired and resolved and pallid and frightened; various companies march by, brightly-colored banners flapping in the cool morning breeze, to be swallowed by the impenetrable fog as they march towards Cionn tSáile’s storied portcullis.
The city itself stands shrouded in fog. It's white parapets tower over the mist and, in the distance, you can appreciate massive siege towers creeping toward the ramparts, appending themselves and disgorging men onto the walls of the city. There is a brilliant flash of light and an enormous roar drowning out the faint screams of men; one of the walls involutes in an impressive display of color and sound, hundreds of men buried in the rubble.
LOFTY
In the distance, you can make out the company of landsknechts from the messhall as they disappear into the mist. You perhaps vie to see them off, but they are soon swallowed into the mist. Your attention is subsequently drawn to an impatient-appearing mustachioed man wearing well-worn leather armor surrounded by a cadre of aides and subordinates. Men hurry between tables covered in maps and diagrams, drawing and redrawing the estimated positions of the 4/5ths Army. The mustachioed man stands at the center, a focus of calm in a storm of activity. Alas, it is none other than Colonel Agrellis, the man placed in charge of your Wartime Special Solutions Unit. He studies a piece of parchment bound to a messenger hawk's talon briefly before dismissing the bird; spying you and your team, he gestures for you to approach.
"Colonel Agrellis, Sir!" The sergeant snaps off a quick salute as he approaches, his gaze lingering on the battle plans and intelligence reports splayed out across the table.
Perception Check 21 Any intriguing documents on that table?
Character Sheets: Page1 Page2 Page3
HP: 35 AC: 20 Saves: Str+2 Dex+0 Con+4 Int+2 Wis+2 Cha+6
HELIOS positions himself 3 steps behind Lofty and a few paces to his left and snaps to attention. As his hand comes up to a salute his head tils up towards the sky. You quickly realize he is not saluting the Colonel but rather the Sun itself.... Or at least where the sun would be if it was visible through the thick mist that encompasses the horizon.
He stands this way for what seems like several minutes, no movement at all, not even the smallest sway. His blue crystalline eyes staring off into the distance and the feintest trace of a smile forms across his face before he speaks. "Awaiting Orders!'"
H.E.L.I.O.S - Warforged Sun Soul Monk
AC - 19
Buoyside walks along the road, his enormous blade dragging a gash in the gravel and mud behind him. He takes in The sights and and sounds, though he doesn’t feel fear. He knows team WUSS can accomplish anything when they work together. He approaches Lofty and the Colonel, stopping and standing just a bit too close to the Captain.
Character Sheet
AC: 16
Ryloos keeps in pace with the rest of the WUSS, her eager showing itself in some shape and form. Looking at the white walls Cioon T''Saile, hundreds of memories flood her mind and in a instant, they all turn to ash in her mouth as she envisions her only companion taken by the mist.
She shakes her head attempting to clear her mind and immediately looks for a distraction. As Lofty, Helios and Buoyside speak with the commanding officer, Ryloos wonders near a one of the tabes with the maps of the city in an attempt to glean some information off of it.