This will be the "In Character" thread for the World of Orea playtest...take 1. Note that the forum demands a "prefix" so I've put it as 1e since that's the closest thing/bulk of the system...I think.
[MENTION=63746]Binder Fred[/MENTION] [MENTION=53286]Lwaxy[/MENTION]
Ok gents. Hopefully things are going well for Lwaxy and he will be joining us shortly. But I figure we can get this show on the road and add folks to as necessary.
So...off we go!
------------------------------
It is nearing the end of summer in the Freelands' city of Threeways. It is mid-morning and already the heat is oppressive in the southern ward of the city. Once a neighborhood of some decent markets and prominence, it's fallen into disrepair over the passed several decades. Now generally a low income area filled with run-down tenements, several taverns, brothels and low-class gambling halls (often within the same building) and more than a few abandoned and/or damaged buildings whose owners simply can't be bothered (or don't have the means) to repair them. This section of the city is called by the city residents, simply, "the Shanty" and, for all of Threeways' fame for "high end" debauchery and exotic thrills, it is this part of the city that has a reputation as dirty, poor, and generally unsavory.
About half way into the Shanty on Old Market Street there is an abandoned inn. It succumbed to a fire about a month ago and no one has seen hide nor hair of the owners since. The sign on the street side, still hanging askew by a single iron ring, identifies it as The Happy Harpy. The lower two floors of the structure are still sound, though doors and windows have been boarded up. The third floor sustained more damage, but can still be traversed with care. The fourth floor was entirely destroyed exposed in several places to the sky through large burned out holes in the roof.
Below, in the Harpy's old cellar, two individuals sit in the diffused light streaming in from the street-side narrow dingy window that looks out at the gutter of Old Market Street. One calls himself "No Shadow John." The other, a great muscled beast of a creature covered in thick russet colored fur, a grorn, the "beastmen" from the western Thelitian desert. He is known as "Rust Stalker", or "Russ" to his friends...of which there are two in the whole of Orea...both, by some whim of fate, happen to be named John...which is good. Easy for Russ to remember. His mind is too cluttered with other things than to worry about too many "prey-meat" at once.
The large bestial form sits in the shadows, decidedly away from the light streaming in. It whittles calmly at a discarded chair leg. The slow sculpting seems to be forming a club-like head of some creature at the end of the sturdy length of wood. There are four similar carved weapons on the floor beside it. This skill and detail of the grorn's work is impressive.
It's been three days since your little gang has had a paying "job" and everyone's getting kinda bored and antsy to get out and do something. Your current "leader", Big John, has been gone since before you awoke. You can only hope he's gone to work his contacts for something to do.
The grorn didn't know where "BJ" had gotten to. You're starting to have your doubts about the lucrative possibilities of this group you met up with two weeks ago. Still, you and Russ get along well and the three of you have been effective at small...tasks that are only miiiinorly illegal. Not that anyone cares in the Shanty, anyway. You've seen a single city guard patrol in the whole month you've been in the city.
You [John the Dead] notice the grorn's jackal-like ears twitch a moment before you yourself hear someone entering your hideout through the "secret" back door. Russ sniffs the air and since he doesn't growl or take any fighting posture, you realize not there's no need for concern.
A moment later, the tall, broad chested form of your recent "boss", Big John fills the narrow short doorway that leads into the cellar. He is black haired and bearded. The tips of his chin just beginning to be touched with the greying whiskers of a man past his prime. Dark brown eyes are set deep beneath thick black brows. This face beginning to show the wear of weather, age and years of hard living. He wears dark brown leather armor, black breeches and boots, with a dark grey hooded cloak covers most of his big shape. The pommel of his broad curved Thelitian-style dagger (though he, himself, is not Thelitian, but a Freelander), glints from its place on his left hip.
The well-muscled six foot tall man has to duck and turn sideways to enter the chamber. He tosses a small leather pouch on the table where you've sat waiting. You hear the welcomed jingle of coins within the pouch as it lands on the crude wooden table.
"Johnnie, take this. Head down to Gilly's*. Get us some bread n' cheese, ale and a side of ribs fer Russ. We gotta'nuther job tonight and I want everyone in top form. Gonna need our strength...and I'd better not hear you were at Damodil's**, neither. I expect the proper change." he gives you a glare. You can't tell really if he's joking or serious. He always looks serious.
Welcome to Orea.
[MENTION=63746]Binder Fred[/MENTION] [MENTION=53286]Lwaxy[/MENTION]
Ok gents. Hopefully things are going well for Lwaxy and he will be joining us shortly. But I figure we can get this show on the road and add folks to as necessary.
So...off we go!
------------------------------
It is nearing the end of summer in the Freelands' city of Threeways. It is mid-morning and already the heat is oppressive in the southern ward of the city. Once a neighborhood of some decent markets and prominence, it's fallen into disrepair over the passed several decades. Now generally a low income area filled with run-down tenements, several taverns, brothels and low-class gambling halls (often within the same building) and more than a few abandoned and/or damaged buildings whose owners simply can't be bothered (or don't have the means) to repair them. This section of the city is called by the city residents, simply, "the Shanty" and, for all of Threeways' fame for "high end" debauchery and exotic thrills, it is this part of the city that has a reputation as dirty, poor, and generally unsavory.
About half way into the Shanty on Old Market Street there is an abandoned inn. It succumbed to a fire about a month ago and no one has seen hide nor hair of the owners since. The sign on the street side, still hanging askew by a single iron ring, identifies it as The Happy Harpy. The lower two floors of the structure are still sound, though doors and windows have been boarded up. The third floor sustained more damage, but can still be traversed with care. The fourth floor was entirely destroyed exposed in several places to the sky through large burned out holes in the roof.
Below, in the Harpy's old cellar, two individuals sit in the diffused light streaming in from the street-side narrow dingy window that looks out at the gutter of Old Market Street. One calls himself "No Shadow John." The other, a great muscled beast of a creature covered in thick russet colored fur, a grorn, the "beastmen" from the western Thelitian desert. He is known as "Rust Stalker", or "Russ" to his friends...of which there are two in the whole of Orea...both, by some whim of fate, happen to be named John...which is good. Easy for Russ to remember. His mind is too cluttered with other things than to worry about too many "prey-meat" at once.
The large bestial form sits in the shadows, decidedly away from the light streaming in. It whittles calmly at a discarded chair leg. The slow sculpting seems to be forming a club-like head of some creature at the end of the sturdy length of wood. There are four similar carved weapons on the floor beside it. This skill and detail of the grorn's work is impressive.
It's been three days since your little gang has had a paying "job" and everyone's getting kinda bored and antsy to get out and do something. Your current "leader", Big John, has been gone since before you awoke. You can only hope he's gone to work his contacts for something to do.
The grorn didn't know where "BJ" had gotten to. You're starting to have your doubts about the lucrative possibilities of this group you met up with two weeks ago. Still, you and Russ get along well and the three of you have been effective at small...tasks that are only miiiinorly illegal. Not that anyone cares in the Shanty, anyway. You've seen a single city guard patrol in the whole month you've been in the city.
You [John the Dead] notice the grorn's jackal-like ears twitch a moment before you yourself hear someone entering your hideout through the "secret" back door. Russ sniffs the air and since he doesn't growl or take any fighting posture, you realize not there's no need for concern.
A moment later, the tall, broad chested form of your recent "boss", Big John fills the narrow short doorway that leads into the cellar. He is black haired and bearded. The tips of his chin just beginning to be touched with the greying whiskers of a man past his prime. Dark brown eyes are set deep beneath thick black brows. This face beginning to show the wear of weather, age and years of hard living. He wears dark brown leather armor, black breeches and boots, with a dark grey hooded cloak covers most of his big shape. The pommel of his broad curved Thelitian-style dagger (though he, himself, is not Thelitian, but a Freelander), glints from its place on his left hip.
The well-muscled six foot tall man has to duck and turn sideways to enter the chamber. He tosses a small leather pouch on the table where you've sat waiting. You hear the welcomed jingle of coins within the pouch as it lands on the crude wooden table.
"Johnnie, take this. Head down to Gilly's*. Get us some bread n' cheese, ale and a side of ribs fer Russ. We gotta'nuther job tonight and I want everyone in top form. Gonna need our strength...and I'd better not hear you were at Damodil's**, neither. I expect the proper change." he gives you a glare. You can't tell really if he's joking or serious. He always looks serious.
Welcome to Orea.
). 
He'll almost compulsively double down on any vaguely reasonnable bet where the opposition ante's up, until he's in way over his head and it becomes win or die (or, run away with the loot!, of course: he *is* still a rogue): how do you think he lost his soul? 
