No Hero's Welcome - IC

A dragon.
Staring at the tokens in your hands, most of you seem to have different opinions about the significance of this portent. Or whether the "luck" of the draw is portentious at all. Nevertheless, now that everyone has received his cheap wooden sigil, the different teams come together. In one corner of the room, a particularly young member can be heard giving a quick holler of "Yay Team Griffon", but a few slaps on the back of his head silence him.
For this is no occasion for jollyness. Vagrants and vagabonds have come together in this ramshackle room in the depths of Sharn. Not out of friendship, as the occupants still fly the colors of many armies who just recently still fought each other. Mistrust is in the air, only the common cause keeps the mood from erupting into a straight-forward brawl -- barely. Yet this air of hostility should be no stranger to a veteran lately. For the people of Sharn harbor a growing distrust the the people who fought the Last War.

And this is why you've come together in the first place. To put an end to the accusations, to show that the "Last Warrior" is not to be found amongst you. The "Last Warrior"... The mere mention of this name conjures images of the blood slaughters that occured in Sharn recently. First, a craftsman and his wive were killed, then a dwarven merchant. The upper echelon of the city started caring as one of theirs was added to the list of victims. D'Eren Cannith, a low-ranking but highly connected member of the Dragonmarked house of magewrights was found dead, impaled on the spires of his luxurious residence. Lately, the ghastliest deed was done. A clockworker's shop and the attacked warehouse were found, devoid of life but covered in blood.

All scenes showed the same messege, whether it was etched in steel or written in blood: "The battle shall not be over as long as the last warrior stands".

This "battle cry" has lead the authorities as well as the humble people of Sharn to believe that a veteran is behind those crimes. In the last two weeks, resentment has grown stronger, and since the warehouse murders were commited four days ago, this has turned into violence on occasion.

So this has brought you all together here. The veterans assembled to take things into their own hands, not trusting the guards to do their job before things take an even worse turn. You've joined your comrades in arms as well as former enemies. The old General Larthney -- battle master of Cyre, still imposing even on his cruches -- came up with the idea, that you should form groups that have nothing to do with former allegiances. Chance -- and the favor of the gods -- should start you on your journey. So small wooden tokens were put into a large barrel, one for every veteran willing to search the true perpetrator of this heinous crimes.

It was done by the veterans themselves or by their children and spouses. So some of the wooden tokens you carry have rather artful depictions of the mightiest creatures of Eberron, some have just enough scratches to help you make out the form of the ancient, winged reptiles. But still you flock together.

Team Dragon. Yours is not the biggest of the groups, unless people are still missing. Already most of you start to look for traces of allegiance, whether you were grunts or officers, whether the trouble of the War is still on your shoulders or you'll find the glint in the eye of those who still long for battle. Whether they want to help their fellow veterans or are just here for the prize of the jewel-encrusted armor that some of the refugees from Cyre carried with them, loot from an unknown battlefield.

There you are, in a corner of the big room. One of general Larthneys daughters is making her way through all the teams, providing them with information and easy smiles. But she has other teams to attend to, leaving you enough time to see what comrades the hand of fate has dealt you.

OOC: So, tell the others what they see. First impressions are hard to beat. What do you think about this assemblage, what do you tell the others?

A short fellow is sitted in the bare ground, his hands touching it. His tanned sking and brown hair makes the dwarf a little hard to see in the shady room. A short sword hang under one of his arms, and a crossbow is tied to his back. The strange guy appears to be speaking in low tone, and in the language of his people. In front of him a little tokem made of oak wood, stares at him with well made draconic eyes. His robe is of a deep brown with black and grey patches.
His memories were still fresh from the war, and now this... The path of a cult of four initiate was hard indeed...

In a shady corner of the room, a figure stands reading an old book, wearing voluminous black robes. A glint of jewelry occasionally flickers as light passes over him, and his stark white hair is hard to miss. However, the figure doesn't appear to be too old, judging by his regal bearing. Long, pointed ears indicate that he is an Elf. He seems to be a little taller than the average elf, but his robes obscure his figure. Several members of the room eye him suspiciously, maybe even jealously, until they spot his face. Red eyes shine from his pale features, which is already enough to unnverve a few of the members of the room. Those that pay attention for a moment longer notice that the entire right side of his face is horribly twisted; taut, shriveled skin and drawn-back lips expose several of his teeth. Not a muscle moves on that side of his face, save for his eye, intently scanning the musty old tome. His right hand peeks out from his robes, just as dessicated and dead as his face. There is nobody standing within a few feet of him, but he doesn't seem to mind.

He shifts his shoulder slightly, and a slight fluttering is heard. A fine, sleek, black raven rests upon his shoulder. The bird settles as his master strokes his wings gently. The raven glances around the room, an unusual spark of intelligence shining in its eyes. A quick exchange of whispered words cross from elf to bird, to the surprise of the few who are paying attention. However, nobody can make out what is being said.

He gently closes the book, and examines the wooden sigil in his left hand. He gently turns it over, taking in every inch of its craftsmanship. "A dragon... a fine herald." He gently places the symbol into one of the many pockets on the inside of his robe. As he shifts the robe, a gleam escapes the large flail strapped to his side. Along with the flail, there is a bow tightly strapped to his back, apparently made out of bleached bone. Distrustful looks are sent towards him, as assumptions are made. Inquisitor? Sage? Spy? Who's to say? He notices one or two of the looks, but those sending them turn away as their eyes meet his. Novhilion Wraithblood gives a faint smile, completely desensitized to the mistrust.

"After all, who would trust a Necromancer?" he thinks to himself. A faint smile forms on the left side of his face; the right remains as stiff and frozen as before. The raven gives a faint caw.

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Lieutenant Conrad Tensen of the Fifth Cyran Infantry
[SIZE=-2]Human Warrior 1 / Cleric 1 stats[/SIZE]

[imagel]http://homepage.usask.ca/~rad764/dnd/Tensen-avatar.jpg[/imagel]

"With luck we will see tomorrow in Cyre!"



__________________________________________________

A tall man with dark hair, now starting to grey, wearing the banded mail of the Cyran infantry, walks up to an empty table, and displays his dragon token down on the table. An officer's medallion, in the shape of the crest of Cyre, fastens his long red cloak around his neck. A longsword, and a small axe hang on his belt in military issued scabbards. His heavy shield sits slung across his back.

Conrad sighs to himself. "The guard really are useless in this town." He stands quietly by the table, waiting for the rest of team dragon to come forward. His eyebrows are furrowed in thought, already trying to devise a plan to catch this "last warrior".

The dwarf rises from his spot and approches the man near the table. His steps are firm, the kind of walk a priest or a cleric has. Dubtless he takes a chair, pull it back and sit on it with a short jump. He tosses his tokem in the table, and takes his chin with his hand, examining the man next to him, rising one of his hairy eyebrow. "It seems that ye' have dephycted the case already. Ah can see determination in yer' eyes, tha's good. Kuro Gemshard is tha name."

__________________________________________________
Lieutenant Conrad Tensen of the Fifth Cyran Infantry
[SIZE=-2]Human Warrior 1 / Cleric 1 stats[/SIZE]

[imagel]http://homepage.usask.ca/~rad764/dnd/Tensen-avatar.jpg[/imagel]

"With luck we will see tomorrow in Cyre!"



__________________________________________________

Conrad sizes the dwarf up, filing details like his walk, his accent and his demeanor away for further consideration. He pulls out a chair as if to sit, but only leans slightly against it, looking the dwarf in the face he replies "If you've got time before a battle, and you need to have faith in something, at the very least let it be a good plan."

He slings the large shield off his back and takes a seat. "We are well met Kuro Gemshard. I am Lieutenant Conrad Tensen of the Fifth Cyran Infantry. Where did you serve?"

The dwarf smiles with a bit of sorrow "Ah would have liked that our meetin' were in another circunstances Lieutenant , but there is nothin' we can do about it right? Anyway... " then changes his position in the chair, tall chairs like that always feel so unconfortable. "Ah didn't really 'serve' in any batalion, Ah was cought in the middle o' it: Ah was just a scribe, taking accounts of battle statistics, founds, and tha' sort. But then, a dwarf arrived to the headquarters, traveler from distant lands he said, introduced himself as Rodham, master of Earth, that he was sent by the great council of the Four. No one really knew what the hell were thouse but we needed all the help we could get ye' know.
He convince some of the high rank officers that he could train some of the civilians in the use of the Earth element, and that this could be a good move to win the war. And so he did, another fellas and Ah were trained in the ways of the Earth. Ah tell ye' Ah don't regret the trainin', what Ah regret was the battle that we were on. Master and apprentices join some of the batalions in a skirmish, we used all our tricks, but they were too may, too many..." the dwarf shakes his head, sad. "Master Rodham was slain like most of us. Just me and a handfull of the other apprentices survive. After the war only Ah still stand here, the others are dead or left the city" regaining some spirit, the dwarf shows a smile and says "And tha's all about me"

A low throaty growl of frustration issues from a not quite human throat as the shifter stares down at the child-like scrawlings of a Dragon on his wooden chit.

His feral eyes gleam in the low gloom as he scans the room for a congregation of others who would soon be his brothers in this fight. A flash of Cyran heraldry on a slung shield catches his attention before his superior eyesight zeroes in on a man and dwarf; each carrying a token similar to his own.

'No sense in putting it off', he thinks to himself as he springs to his feet. His sudden movement alarms a few of those nearby and a slight smirk crosses his features in response. He had long ago gotten over the stares and mistrust but he still did enjoy the unsettling effect he had on people.

He brushed the smile away in a blink and slid agilely through the crowd toward the distant table. His focus was solely on the noble human and the ragged looking dwarf.

As he drew closer he mentally reminded himself to mind his manners and stand up tall like a human.

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<What you see>

The crowd beside the table parts to reveal a feral-looking shifter. The creature stands about 5'-8" and is lean and well muscled. Yellow eyes regard you both from a fairly beastial face surrounded by a thick coarse mane of black hair pulled back in a number of unruly dreds. A ridge of the same coarse hair runs from wrist to elbow on each of the creatures exposed forearms.

His clothing and breeches are well worn and patched but his black leather armor and gear are well maintained. A dark heavy cloak is draped over his shoulders along with a fine longbow and quiver of arrows. A short sword and dagger are belted tightly at his hips. With the exception of the bow, everything looks straight Deneith issue.

"Grrrreetings!" the creature barks as he tosses his token on the table. "I am called Barrrrrraka, former scout for the 113th Blademark division."

Rising his eyebrow the dwarf evaluated the newcomer as he did with the human. Then he rises his shoulders "Well met Barak, Ah', Kuro"

Novhilion can't help but notice the bestial figure making his way across the room. "A Shifter..." The Shifter barks out an introduction to the Human and the Dwarf at the table, with no further incident. He glances over to his raven, and begins to speak to him in the ancient language of the dragons. <An accepting bunch. Wouldn't you agree, Caron?> The raven gives a faint nod. <Yes, they are.> Novhilion observes the situation for a few more seconds, and then speaks to Caron again. <Shall we?> The raven lifts its wings, in what might pass for a shrug. Novhilion chuckles, and crosses the room.

He drifts up to the table like a ghost, and gently removes the token from his pocket. Holding it in his good hand, he gives a polite smile. "Greetings. I am known as Novhilion Wraithblood, Chief Warrant Officer and Wizard of the Sixth Breland Infantry." Caron gives a nod and a quiet caw. "And this is my companion, Caron. We would be honored if we could join you."