Shoel Sweeny
First Post
OOC: Everyone. [sblock]Speech goes in color, dice rolls get sblocked and OOC questions go to the thread on the OOC forum, thoughts go in Italics. I'll be handling you guys individually or in small groups untill your characters meet up (hopefully soon).[/sblock]
Magnus, Sigils Market Ward, the Fat Candle
The mirror is silver and jade, gold and electrum, tendon and bone. On its six separate surfaces are the etched forms of serpents, jaws snapped back against their spine. The snakes mouths wedged open to the viewer as if awaiting gods own mana to drop from the skies. The rest of the terrace room of The Fat Candle radiates from the massive twelve foot by three foot mirror like a demonic symphony arranged around its conductor.
A four-post bed, barely touched since the room’s occupant appeared, lies just opposite the mirror. On left from the mirror are a small armory and training equipment the quality of which would make a Doomguard salivate, and left from there an exit into the common room and lounge of the Market Ward tavern. Drifting up from the ajar door are the hushed tones and quiet hisses of people making business better left to make in the dark. On the mirrors right and just opposite the doorway a large but hazy window displays (as usual) the thick smoke and smog unique to Sigils skyline. To the right of the window and filling out the remainder of the room is what could be mistaken as a sandbox, but is actually filled with "heavy" dust from Mithardir, ideal in the creation of floor mosaics, or of more use to the room’s current guest, binding seals.
A tiefling boy, padding his cloven-feet as gently as possible in the at best twilight main chamber of the inn taps sharply against the oak door to the room. The whelp palms a sealed vellum scroll between his hands, darting quick looks behind him as he waits for Magnus of Sigil to receive the message. Outside the tavern it's a little passed anti-peak, there's only a few sods that’d have the audacity to rustle Magnus of Sigil at such an hour. Magnus knows who the message is from before he even views the tiefer boy holding the vellum case high above his curly haired, goat horned head. Knowing Shemeska (and who could truly say to know an arcanaloth?), either this message is of immediate importance, or the fiend has taken to delight in small sadisms against her employees.
[sblock]OOC: Since you decided to go with Shemeska, I'll go ahead and post up what she's rewarded you with so far. The dust-box is more of a study tool, capable of holding the sign markings well enough that a binder doesn't need chalk or chisel to mark his seal for binding. The mirror is a Glass of Syfal, created by a power that sponsors Binders the glass grants knowledge of the vestiges Karsus, Dahlver-Nar, Ronove, Naberius, and Focalor. Routine study can yield to the binder the knowledge required to bind any of these vestiges when he has attained the proper level, special requirement, and etc. Apparently more in-depth study could grant studier leverage when binding one of the listed vestiges or even new vestige abilities, but put the binders mind in danger as he or she opens themselves to alien intellects. The armory contains various metal armor pieces and adventurer’s tools. Of special significance are a Baatorian Greensteel Jovar, three kooth's, various bronze and stonework weapons that are deceptively well crafted for their inferior raw material, and a couple shoddy crafted long swords made from Morghuth-Iron.[/sblock]
Aki and Saelya, the Prime Material
Any blood or graybeard who can with integrity call themselves such know that there are three kinds of Primes. The Clueless worlds, the worlds in the know and in the thick of it tugging at the planes with the skillful precision of a buleza attempting a genuine Celestial Bureaucracy Tea serving ceremony, and other primes too dangerous to visit on a lark and of too little worth to find out why. Saelya and Aki of the Fated and the Free League (respectively) had, along with the rest of the Primewalker search party, have the luck of finding a world which was none of these. Prophayats, an only slightly less then noteworthy world of desserts and oasis' that opened up a portal to the Cage during the Tempest of Doors, had stopped receiving and sending caravans three days ago, and both the Planar Trade Consortium and Guardians would pay dearly for information on why the silk flow had stopped.
Two full weeks of through searching had marked your entrance from the portal to be within a small but opulent abandoned village built on the outskirts of a jungle that could be no more then a couple hundred kilometers wide. After the trading village the desert spreads out as far as the eye can see. Your point of origin is in what the Primewalker erudites have discovered is Prophayats most deceptive city, the outside structure being little more then a lookout point for the underground complex that can be reached from multiple places through the world by a chain connection of portals. Both the underground and smaller aboveground features of the city are constructed of finely cut black marble and granite. Spires which rise as much as eighty feet above the courtyard (and sink an equal distance beneath the sand) are seeming carved from singular pieces of volcanic basalt and crowned with pointed domes of gold. As visually impressive as the city is the voyage has been mostly a failure, after multiple forays into the city proper you're no closer to discovering what's cut off trade to Sigil in the region. After two week on the job most of the sods from the guild are getting restless and bored as their search turns up much in the way of material goods (there's more then enough silk here to satisfy Estevan's goon Grushusk) but nothing from its criticizes. The lack of contact and inability to take real action against whatever will, malevolent or natural, worked against Prophayats' inhabitants is taking its toll on the psyche of the guild and its hirelings.
It is then almost with a certain amount of relief that an alarm is heard to rise throughout the Primewalker encampment. The sound, only a decibel less jarring then the screeching keen of a howler, warns the expedition to seek shelter from whatever danger is speeding it's way too them. Only a moment ago it was midnight on Prophayats, but the desert horizon has now lightened on its Western side. As your companions and fellow mercenaries scramble to find shelter you can feel a chill dance along your spine from just looking at the encroaching false dawn. There's little doubt in your mind as to the danger of the incoming light as the alarm trails off and you hear a sinister buzz coming from the newly illuminated air. Behind your gaping stare the towers of basalt and structures of black marble begin to shine with a reflected yellow light.
[Sblock]
OOC: Behind Aki and Saelya are the spires, underground complexes, and tents from the guild you've agreed to temporarily work for. The portal back to sigil is on the other end of the village, two kilometers due east and whose key is a knuckle bone, and sand that's been spit into three times. Your best estimates put the approaching light breaking on the city within the space of minuets.[/sblock]
Halidon and Ronthias, somewhere between the Hinterlands and the Sixth Circle of the Spire
A runner, bedecked in brown and olive green camouflage hide armor approaches your meditation grounds. You recognize the cylinder chest and buggered eyes of the Chaond immediately, but the small silver bell attached to the runners beret gives you reason enough not to doubt the humanoids intentions, wearing as he is the symbol of Autochons guild of messengers. He bows once to Ronthias and Halidon before delivering a scroll into the Zenythri's hands. Without waiting to hear reply the messenger begins climbing back down the plateau. The scroll case is marked with a half risen sun and crescent moon, the symbols of the Transcendent Order. The writing inside the scroll looks at first glance like only so many scribbles and lines.
Using a technique known only to factols of the Ciphers, you may force yourself _Not_ to concentrate on the words, allowing the present state of the writer to be shown through the marks and sifting the message through like gold from a rivers bottom. Just before teasing the meaning from the message you allow yourself time to mark the skyline. A red glow ascends from what could be called the Outlands East, painting the realms, mountains, and oceans of the Midlands a deep scarlet. In the space between thoughts, in a distance infinitely far but intimate, a heartbeat sounds. Once clear of thought the message reads in a flowing calligraphy:
Magnus, Sigils Market Ward, the Fat Candle
The mirror is silver and jade, gold and electrum, tendon and bone. On its six separate surfaces are the etched forms of serpents, jaws snapped back against their spine. The snakes mouths wedged open to the viewer as if awaiting gods own mana to drop from the skies. The rest of the terrace room of The Fat Candle radiates from the massive twelve foot by three foot mirror like a demonic symphony arranged around its conductor.
A four-post bed, barely touched since the room’s occupant appeared, lies just opposite the mirror. On left from the mirror are a small armory and training equipment the quality of which would make a Doomguard salivate, and left from there an exit into the common room and lounge of the Market Ward tavern. Drifting up from the ajar door are the hushed tones and quiet hisses of people making business better left to make in the dark. On the mirrors right and just opposite the doorway a large but hazy window displays (as usual) the thick smoke and smog unique to Sigils skyline. To the right of the window and filling out the remainder of the room is what could be mistaken as a sandbox, but is actually filled with "heavy" dust from Mithardir, ideal in the creation of floor mosaics, or of more use to the room’s current guest, binding seals.
A tiefling boy, padding his cloven-feet as gently as possible in the at best twilight main chamber of the inn taps sharply against the oak door to the room. The whelp palms a sealed vellum scroll between his hands, darting quick looks behind him as he waits for Magnus of Sigil to receive the message. Outside the tavern it's a little passed anti-peak, there's only a few sods that’d have the audacity to rustle Magnus of Sigil at such an hour. Magnus knows who the message is from before he even views the tiefer boy holding the vellum case high above his curly haired, goat horned head. Knowing Shemeska (and who could truly say to know an arcanaloth?), either this message is of immediate importance, or the fiend has taken to delight in small sadisms against her employees.
[sblock]OOC: Since you decided to go with Shemeska, I'll go ahead and post up what she's rewarded you with so far. The dust-box is more of a study tool, capable of holding the sign markings well enough that a binder doesn't need chalk or chisel to mark his seal for binding. The mirror is a Glass of Syfal, created by a power that sponsors Binders the glass grants knowledge of the vestiges Karsus, Dahlver-Nar, Ronove, Naberius, and Focalor. Routine study can yield to the binder the knowledge required to bind any of these vestiges when he has attained the proper level, special requirement, and etc. Apparently more in-depth study could grant studier leverage when binding one of the listed vestiges or even new vestige abilities, but put the binders mind in danger as he or she opens themselves to alien intellects. The armory contains various metal armor pieces and adventurer’s tools. Of special significance are a Baatorian Greensteel Jovar, three kooth's, various bronze and stonework weapons that are deceptively well crafted for their inferior raw material, and a couple shoddy crafted long swords made from Morghuth-Iron.[/sblock]
Aki and Saelya, the Prime Material
Any blood or graybeard who can with integrity call themselves such know that there are three kinds of Primes. The Clueless worlds, the worlds in the know and in the thick of it tugging at the planes with the skillful precision of a buleza attempting a genuine Celestial Bureaucracy Tea serving ceremony, and other primes too dangerous to visit on a lark and of too little worth to find out why. Saelya and Aki of the Fated and the Free League (respectively) had, along with the rest of the Primewalker search party, have the luck of finding a world which was none of these. Prophayats, an only slightly less then noteworthy world of desserts and oasis' that opened up a portal to the Cage during the Tempest of Doors, had stopped receiving and sending caravans three days ago, and both the Planar Trade Consortium and Guardians would pay dearly for information on why the silk flow had stopped.
Two full weeks of through searching had marked your entrance from the portal to be within a small but opulent abandoned village built on the outskirts of a jungle that could be no more then a couple hundred kilometers wide. After the trading village the desert spreads out as far as the eye can see. Your point of origin is in what the Primewalker erudites have discovered is Prophayats most deceptive city, the outside structure being little more then a lookout point for the underground complex that can be reached from multiple places through the world by a chain connection of portals. Both the underground and smaller aboveground features of the city are constructed of finely cut black marble and granite. Spires which rise as much as eighty feet above the courtyard (and sink an equal distance beneath the sand) are seeming carved from singular pieces of volcanic basalt and crowned with pointed domes of gold. As visually impressive as the city is the voyage has been mostly a failure, after multiple forays into the city proper you're no closer to discovering what's cut off trade to Sigil in the region. After two week on the job most of the sods from the guild are getting restless and bored as their search turns up much in the way of material goods (there's more then enough silk here to satisfy Estevan's goon Grushusk) but nothing from its criticizes. The lack of contact and inability to take real action against whatever will, malevolent or natural, worked against Prophayats' inhabitants is taking its toll on the psyche of the guild and its hirelings.
It is then almost with a certain amount of relief that an alarm is heard to rise throughout the Primewalker encampment. The sound, only a decibel less jarring then the screeching keen of a howler, warns the expedition to seek shelter from whatever danger is speeding it's way too them. Only a moment ago it was midnight on Prophayats, but the desert horizon has now lightened on its Western side. As your companions and fellow mercenaries scramble to find shelter you can feel a chill dance along your spine from just looking at the encroaching false dawn. There's little doubt in your mind as to the danger of the incoming light as the alarm trails off and you hear a sinister buzz coming from the newly illuminated air. Behind your gaping stare the towers of basalt and structures of black marble begin to shine with a reflected yellow light.
[Sblock]
OOC: Behind Aki and Saelya are the spires, underground complexes, and tents from the guild you've agreed to temporarily work for. The portal back to sigil is on the other end of the village, two kilometers due east and whose key is a knuckle bone, and sand that's been spit into three times. Your best estimates put the approaching light breaking on the city within the space of minuets.[/sblock]
Halidon and Ronthias, somewhere between the Hinterlands and the Sixth Circle of the Spire
A runner, bedecked in brown and olive green camouflage hide armor approaches your meditation grounds. You recognize the cylinder chest and buggered eyes of the Chaond immediately, but the small silver bell attached to the runners beret gives you reason enough not to doubt the humanoids intentions, wearing as he is the symbol of Autochons guild of messengers. He bows once to Ronthias and Halidon before delivering a scroll into the Zenythri's hands. Without waiting to hear reply the messenger begins climbing back down the plateau. The scroll case is marked with a half risen sun and crescent moon, the symbols of the Transcendent Order. The writing inside the scroll looks at first glance like only so many scribbles and lines.
Using a technique known only to factols of the Ciphers, you may force yourself _Not_ to concentrate on the words, allowing the present state of the writer to be shown through the marks and sifting the message through like gold from a rivers bottom. Just before teasing the meaning from the message you allow yourself time to mark the skyline. A red glow ascends from what could be called the Outlands East, painting the realms, mountains, and oceans of the Midlands a deep scarlet. In the space between thoughts, in a distance infinitely far but intimate, a heartbeat sounds. Once clear of thought the message reads in a flowing calligraphy:
Code:
Ronthias,
my old friend and tutor, it has been too long and it pains me to cross that gulf with only troubles and grief.
Your presence and that of your pupil is required immediately within The Great Gymnasium.
-In hope that our steps tread the dance,
~Rhys
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