Tale of the Clueless - Chapter 1: On the Seas of Air [IC Thread]

Rogues Gallery Combat Thread
OOC Thread

Mironallia

Mironallia had went out on her pilgrimage from Qualinost in order to bring the word and healing gifts of Mishakal wherever they were needed, but she'd never thought she'd end up in a place like this. The ever present stench of industry, the almost-complete lack of flora. It was definitely not a place friendly for elves.

And the people, the people! The races she was familiar with were bizaree and totally unlike any Mironallia had encountered. And worse, there were outright monsters, not just roaming the streets mind you, but interacting with people, drinking at the bars, and going about business as though they're not even aware they have auras of flame and palpable evil about them!

The worst part about it was when she tried to talk to some of them. Oh sure, she knew it's customary for locals to poke fun at newcomers wherever they went. But these locals gave her some of the worst derision she'd encountered in her travels. It was almost as though they considered her more daft than most new arrivals they cross paths with.

Eventually, Mir ran into another group of new arrivals that welcomed her. Well all of them save one. She looked vaguely human, only someone had beaten her with an ugly stick, a wart-growth stick, and an awful body-odor stick for good measure. This woman seemed to have an equally low opinion of her, and of all elves in general. Oddly enough, the orc (as the woman called herself) wasn't the oddest of the bunch. There was the metal-man (the likes of which Mir had never even dreamt of), the kobold (familiar enough), the dwarf (rather odd that his oath of choice was by "Moradin's hammer" than by "Reorx's beard") and the hunter, each with their own peculiarities. This pilgrimage had suddenly become a lot more interesting.

Drotha Stonebreaker found this place confusing upon confusing. Even though the others she had met thought the inn was a safe haven, Drotha had never even seen an inn like this until a year ago. She still found them strange, though at least it was away from the worst of the oddities. And the ale was descent.

Drotha was rather asounded by who she had met here. Two short earth-grubbers, compact as boulders, a slender human bearing arms as if she could use them, a little miniature dragon, and one of the reed-thin, sharp-featured, colorless elves. If it hadn't been so obvious that here was not a place where blood ran thickly in the streets, she might have pricked her already.

The orc woman was tall and broad, with deep olive skin scarred and tattooed in her tribes animal totems. Her black hair was braided with small bones, and her small black eyes glittered in her tusked face. She was clad in worn leathers most of the time, and occasionally wore spiked armor with a wicked spiked gauntlet. Her heavy figure would make it clear to those experienced in such things that she had probably been a mother more than once.

Idim Moq Qo Harr had fallen in way over her head. She had only seen buildings like this on her rare visits to the dwarven lands in the Great Rift. Now Idim had some understanding about why the locals in those places said their towns were not that large, though they'd seemed enormous at the time. 'Cage' is an apt name for this strange place with its closed surroundings and utterly horrid air. How Idim longed for a prairie again!

The Shaaryan girl still did not know how she arrived in this place, having been spirited her in her sleep. At first she thought that one of her rivals had found a way to bring her here hoping she would get killed. But after a couple days, Idim had decided that it was more likely that all Faerun had been destroyed and that this was some horrid afterlife. Since then, she's decided that she has no idea what to think. Idim will take things in stride as they come.

The Shaaryan had been spending time trying to get to know the other 'clueless' at the inn. Idim would sit oddly cross-legged on a chair in the inn as she chatted with the others. The two dwarves were a blessing to have around. Aside from her own people and a small group of centaurs, dwarves were the only other people Idim had met before. But Idim was also obviously restless. The others would see her constantly walking around carrying everything she owned, and they'd see her occasionally practicing with her rapier to ease tension as she danced with the weapon.

Idim is average in height and well-toned. Her face with her large brown eyes is framed straight black hair that hangs to the middle of her shoulder blades, except when she ties it into a pony tail with a simple leather cord. Her tanned skin announces that she is from a place that gets much sun, and her loose-fitting light tan outfit suggests that she is used to moving swiftly. Her only finery seems to be her chain shirt, rapier, bow, and the vest she wears beneath the armor. Even when simply sitting in the inn Idim has these things close to her.

The small silver scaled dragon sat perched at the top of a high backed chair with his twin frilled tail languidly swaying down below him. He was on the top of the chair back because if he'd been sitting down on the chair's seat his saurian head would barely rise above the surface of the table. It's true that the Friendly Wayfarer had other normal-sized chairs but the large-sized folk he was with had chosen a table suitable to their frames. He didn't mind; he'd been living amongst humans, dwarves and elves for most of his life and had long since gotten used to over-sized accommodations.

Vor breathed a deep sigh of relief; the past week had been surprisingly pleasant now that his mind was free of the maddening curse of the dracorage. He'd been plagued by it for the past few months and had grown ever more short-tempered and irritable since it had started back in early Hammer. The dragon had grown fearful that his bouts of violence would continue to plague his companions back home. It's true that Grunmore the dwarf could easily overpower him physically no matter how much his blood boiled; it was unfortunately the firestorm of sorcery he was capable of unleashing which posed the greatest threat to his companions. Lately fire was all the little dragon had been able to see when he closed his eyes at night. He dreamt of forests, cities and people all of them screaming as they burnt. Breathing on his dear friend Istvan in the midst of a battle had been the last straw. When he'd finally regained his senses many hours later he knew he had couldn't go on like that any longer. The divinations that Elyas had cast weeks early had revealed that the dracorage might never subside this time. He had had to leave his friends and his homeland far behind, possibly forever; it had been the only way to escape the rage.

He was starting to feel like his old self again, thank the Behemoth. The old magic portal had worked as he'd hoped and brought him here, to Sigil. The week since then had been a shock; the place was so... familiar. He'd first been afraid of leaving his homeland to come to another world, another plane of existence. Once he got here however it was surprisingly mundane really. Sure the city was built on the inside of a enormous torus two leagues across, but aside from that there was little else that was significantly different from numerous cosmopolitan cities he'd been to with his adventuring companions in years past. It had streets paved with cobblestones and tenement buildings crammed together and refuse in the gutters and shops and temples and on and on. Sure some of the residents were unusual, some reminiscent of the types of creatures he and his friends had encountered in old ruined crypts on occasion, but for the most part it was populated with humans and their kin. Just like most cities he'd been too before. Turning his head, Vor peers at a small water stained map on the wall next to the hearth; it depicted the heartlands of his homeland! Just a few weeks ago he'd been sitting a table much like this one, with people much like these in a tavern not terribly dissimilar from the one he was in now. The people here even spoke common! Amazing!

The little saurian couldn't help but laugh good naturedly. Somehow he'd expected something else, something more when he'd stepped through the old Netherese gate. This place, Sigil seemed so pedestrian in many ways. Even in this higher plane of existence tavern owners could still be counted on to water down their ale. It was endlessly amusing to see how little the outer planes differed from what he'd experienced back home. Sure there were differences, but they were mostly cosmetic. Different venue, same song and dance. Bless the Behemoth for his sense of humor.

Being both dragonwrought and dragonborn, Vorastrix blurs the line between kobolds and their true dragon kin. The small winged wyrm is covered in a reflective hide of smooth gleaming silver-white scales which warm to an iridescent golden tone along the twin saw-toothed frills at his back and along the pinions of his wings. Vorastrix's eyes glow softly in darkness and his wedge shaped head sports a short golden horn jutting from the top of his snout along with a pair of regal curved golden horns at the back of the dragonwrought's head. Although his neck and tail are slightly longer and his limbs a tad shorter than a kobold's, Vorastrix lacks a true dragon's long sinuous silhouette. Nevertheless Vorastrix seems to rejoice in his draconic heritage, preferring to crouch and walk on all fours and forgoing the use of clothing altogether except for a few key pieces of equipment. On his hips, Vorastrix wears twin leather satchels and his forearms sport a matched pair of clawed gauntlets wrought of gleaming silver.

Thrumgall walks in after a long day trying to learn the layout of the surrounding area. He walks up to the bar and gets a bottle of that "Fine whisky made by master brewer Tanar'i!" He then joins the group at the table, pours himself a shot of whiskey and leans back in his chair.

"I swear this place keeps rearranging itself every time I turn my back on it. No question it's a Cage."

This has been a tough week for Thrumgall. He spent very little time under the open sky and even less with other races. He knows he is in over his head and really wants to go home but he's too stubborn to admit it. When he found the rest of the party he was very relieved to be with others that were also "clueless" as the residents put it. He's a little worried about being with Drotha, her being an orc, but when you’re caught in a tunnel collapse you have to use what ever is available to dig yourself out.

Thrumgall is short, broad and swarthy. He has a long black beard that he spends hours each morning braiding and he keeps his hair tied back in a short ponytail. He wears a finally crafted shirt of chain that hangs down to his knees. Hooked on his belt is battleaxe and he keeps a bow that he boasts was a gift to him from the clan thane.

"So anyone else want some of this whiskey? There's more than enough and it's shame to drink alone."

Drota Stonebreaker, female orc cleric of Luthic

"Hmph," Drota says speculatively, debating how to drown her sorrows the proper orc way, with either drink or blood. However, this place was filled with dozens of powerful men, men she didn't know and couldn't reason with. To argue would cause a beating or worse. "I will, Thrumgall-dwarf. I need it in this place. Nightmarish, worse than my daughters ever dreamed of when they were little..." she says in a surprisingly deep voice, if one didn't know she was an orc. She solemnly takes a glass from the dwarf and downs it quickly, barely grimicing at the burn in her throat.

As Drota downs her drink, the inkeeper walks up to the table. The man is human, a welcome sight in this city, and his skin is dark and weathered like leather. He is old, probably older than he looks, and his eyes are warm, yet somewhat heavy, as though the weight of a lifetime of sights and experiences weigh their lids down slightly. He smiles and stands behind the bar, pouring ale from a large barrel set into the wall.

'So how you cutters finding life in the cage? Found a way of getting any jink yet? Can't wallow around in here all day,' he says with a wry grin

Drota considers for a moment if jink means something more than she thinks it does... then dismisses it for the moment. "Life is strange, and getting stranger. You know someone here who could help send me home? I am a healer and can fight, if someone will accept that as payment," Drota asks, trying not to plead.