D&D 5E [D&D 5e] Planescape - In Through the Out Door

[CanadienneBacon]

[section]The effigy tailed after the others. It didn't bother to dispel the replica Rusty, and left the illusion in place in the alley.[/section]

OOC: The minor illusion replica of Rusty should be good for 1 minute.

 

[Fenris]

Oz whistles for Liliana, she flits over and lights upon his head. Oz begins the walk and then stops and glance backs at the alley and gives her a knowing look, she giggles and the now purple dragon disappears. Oz grins as he follows Eurid singing a song about a halfling who celebrated a suspended sentence for the performing of an unnatural act with an underage female dragon of the opposite sex.

 

[Pembinasa]

Graydon shot Shard a thankful smile for her version of what was said, and followed close behind their guide- conjuring up a pair of beeswax earplugs once the faun started singing whatever raunchy ditty about halflings he had in mind; he had no reason to put up with that nonsense. This talk about a ghost made him consider, though; as soon as he gets the free time, there is going to be all kinds of magical detection going on! Whatever haunting that might be happening is probably limited to this alleyway, but he meant to play it safe anyway.

Stepping forward through the crowding group for a moment, he tapped the tailed man on the shoulder; "WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE HEADING, ANYWAY?" He probably should have taken the earplugs out first, but why should he subject himself to noise pollution just to learn something useful?

 

[Unsung]

The streets are crowded, as they so often are, at the crossing where Bleaker turned into Barmy. The cracked arches of the Shattered Temple rise above the rooftops. The smokestacks of the Great Foundry turn the overhanging smog from gray to yellow and black, shot through with momentary columns of red flame. The Ditch, the city's single largest body of water, laps out of the rusty metal grates, leaving a shiny film on the cobblestones.

Here the Hive empties into the Lower Ward, and a large contingent of Harmonium guards-- all alike, in their distinctive red armour shells-- stands ready to push back the undesirables.

To the best of his knowledge-- always assuming that the dabus's repairs hadn't rearranged the streets out of all recognition-- Eurid could think of at least three options for where to lead the party in easy walking distance. Four, if he were to count the Styx Oarsman.

...which he surely wouldn't, so never mind.

The Speckled Rat isn't far, with its cheap, watery ale and indifference freely had; a quiet place for folk who kept to themselves. And there would be Dustmen there...albeit Dustmen of the stripe to strongarm blackout-drunk down-and-outs into signing Dead Contracts that they wouldn't remember come the morning.

Nearer to the Foundry is (are?) The Jilted Planes. Lesser known, attached to a boarding house, Eurid only knew of it by reputation, and had never been there. The only reason it even occurs to him was because the landlord was said to have a fondness for fellow primes.

First to come to mind but farthest away, The White Casket is Dustman-owned, but it's all the way across the ward, a longer walk than the Gathering Dust Bar. But then that's a walk through the Lower Ward, and that had to be safer than the Hive.

 

[goatunit]

"The Jilted Planes," Eurid answers Graydon. "It's near enough a faction's kip to be safe, and friendly to primes if the rumors are true."

He leads the way on through the ward toward the towering stacks of the Foundry, keeping peery all the while for any danger.

 

[Unsung]

Mood music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9mjdRiMInM

The walk is uneventful.

An angelic-looking man in a three-piece suit walks by in bare feet, while a multicolored feathered serpent trails behind him, some fifty feet long. A shell game sits unattended on a barrel, with the painted cups occasionally shuffling themselves.

A mob of planetouched children weaves through the crowds of similarly touched adults-- a thicket of horns and tails, scales and halos, wings and claws, strange smells and free-floating odd-coloured flames, skin and hair in every colour imaginable...

...made somehow drab by the stinging fumes, the soft fall of soot that seems to permeate the air. At least it's a step up from the damp, cloying funk of the Hive...

...but there is evil here, lingering in these smoke-laden streets. The fair folk, pixies and satyrs included, notice such things at once, for the touch of iron and tang of blood are anathema to them. By a similar token, darkness and chaos are a tangible presence here, even to a mere fragment of a goddess, or a dismantled modron...

...but as for Eurid, Graydon, and Picayune, they sense nothing more than coal smoke and sulfur.

The Jilted Planes lies at the end of a quiet street not far ahead. A band of merrymakers in multicoloured rags and patches marks the corner, turning somersaults and juggling. Copper coins dot the sidewalk underneath their curly, bell-tipped shoes.

To one side, a man in a fastidious studded leather jerkin stands on a cracked soapbox, excitedly thrusting pamphlets at anyone who comes near. A shining knightly shield rests on his back, atop a cloak of shimmering blue silk. He has bright red skin and impressive horns that sweep back from his forehead, and a whiplike tail with a bony spur at the tip.

"...The gods are frauds!" the infernal cavalier proclaims, just as the party comes in earshot. "Turn your backs on them, free planars, fellow primes! The worship of the noble faithful only serves as gold in the coffers of tyrants!"

Noticing the party, he smiles. His face is young and open under the weight of his horned brow. He's far from the only being of fiendish descent on the streets around them, but he carries none of their self-consciousness. He reaches for the sheaf under his arm and peels off a half-dozen. The ink is dry but it still carries the smell of the hot presses, and whether by chance, fate, or design, he manages to single out Shard.

"May I interest you, good lady," he holds out the pamphlets, "in the truth?"

 

[Pembinasa]

For his part, after catching their eventual goal, Graydon was trying his damnest to look everywhere at once. The sights, the sounds, oh for that matter the smells, he tried to soak in all of it, with various young people and pieces architecture flickering betwen hands as if he were trying to forcibly memorize their natures. This, THIS is the kind of thing I came here to see!

Though he will spend an approving nod at the tainted broadleaf paladin's proclamations. There's at least some people around here who have their heads on straight, and thank goodness for that!

 

[goatunit]

Eurid pauses a moment to allow the others to explore these relatively safe sights and sounds. He glances up to the smog-thick sky to judge whether it's time to draw their attention to Sigil's strangest geographical quality, but decides to hold off until it can actually be seen. For those curious of the surroundings, he offers these explanations:

"Welcome to the Lower Ward; Sigil's heart of industry. The tag follows on a dragon's collection of portals to the Lower Planes, so let's all be mindful of arches and doors. That berk yonder with the fishskins is an Athar--a faction of bubby defiers who think the Powers are all screed and no authority. They call kip on the Shattered Temple of Aoskar, not far from here. Big smoke stacks over there are the Foundry, HQ of the Godsmen who reckon we're all working our way up some barmy ladder to a better future." There is a scoffing bit of humor in his tone at that.

[sblock]Translation:
Tag - Name
Dragon's Collection - a lot of something
Fishskins - paper worthy of wrapping fish at a market
Bubby - drunk
Screed - lies; propaganda
Kip - home [/sblock]

 

[Queenie]

Lili gives a shiver at the atmosphere; it's like there are pockets of evil floating around and she did not care for it. She sticks close to Oz, or briefly flies near Eurid, who obviously knew his way around.

"How long have you been here Eurid, if you do not mind me asking?"

OOC: Apologies if you haven't actually introduced your name yet, I don't have time to go back and check! But she talking to him even if she doesn't know his name and she will ask if you haven't given it.

 

[Shayuri]

Shard stares at the street prophet, eyes wide but unseeing. Behind them are...not memories exactly. Something deeper and more primal; a confused flood of jumbled senses and incomprehensible feelings.

...tall grass of the field swatting her face and shoulders as she stalked through it...

Had she been here before? Had she seen this man before?

...there in the farming village, a man standing on a makeshift platform, imploring the people to abandon the gods and the priests and the temples, to farm only for themselves. It did not make her angry. It made her happy.

The Law did not protect him now.

Like lightning, she lunged out; crossing the distance between the fields and the town center before anyone could move or react. 'Thing of dust and tears...speak to me now of the impotence of the gods...' Muscles clad in golden fur flexed, claws dug, and tore. There were screams from the gathering, and a hot spray across her face and shoulders. She roared in triumph and turned to glare balefully at the others.

A tenth she would spare. To spread the fear. To spread the faith. To seed the herd. The rest would be her meat. Her prey.

Her sacrifice.

Shard snapped out of the reverie after a moment and blinked owlishly at the man and his pamphlets. Abruptly she smiled at him; a smile full of teeth. They were not sharp teeth, but she bared them as if they were.

"I would very much like to know the truth," she said to him. "Tell me, are you a priest? You stand here, your head above the crowd...telling us what to believe, what to think, what to do. You must be a priest then, because that is what priests do. A priest of what though? Of Nogod? Tell me, will Nogod shelter you from your enemies, provide for you when you are in need, and bring you home to sup at his table when you at last fall to your many, many enemies? Tell me the truth."

She ignores the papers in his hand, staring directly into his eyes.