The Bloods of Sigil - Metatron's Bequest

[Mark Chance]

A gray, greasy rain drizzles outside the Hall of Records, running in depressed rivulets down the ornate facades of the government buildings of the Clerk's Ward, draining into the gutters, carrying flotsam into Sigil's sewers. As always, the streets of the Cage are busy. Bureaucrats, scribes, sages, and scholars with books and papers clutched tightly underarm hustle head down but eyes forward on errands unknown. Hardhead patrols look for trouble, and almost everyone else tries to not look like trouble. Humans and halflings, tieflings and aasimar, githyanki and githzerai, elves and orcs: denizens from all over the multiverse are present, and everyone pretty much leaves everyone else alone. Even the fiends are careful when in Sigil.

In the main hall of the Registry of Deeds and Testaments, which sits across the quadrangle from the City Mint, there are dozens of doors, and every door leads not only to a room but to another place. Every door in Sigil is a such a door. All that is needed is the right key, and anywhere can be reached.

Yesterday, five bloods received a package with this message: Metatron has died. Report to the Registry of Deeds and Testaments, Room Eight, by tomorrow mid-day. Gate key enclosed. Failure to appear will result in forfeiture of bequest.

Metatron: sorcerer, adventurer, busy-body, an aged human who never seems to age. Each blood had, in his own time and place, been Metatron's associate. Metatron's knowledge and skill with sorcery was widely regarded to be without parallel, at least within mortal circles. Stories, perhaps spread by Metatron himself (for he was always a shameless self-promoter), claimed that even the balors and pit fiends spoke softy around him, and that the Lich Queen herself once consulted him on matters arcane.

The time for the appointment in Room Eight of the Registry of Deeds and Testaments draws near. Soon, the bloods of Sigil make their appearances.

 

[Velmont]

The smell of melting iron is floating in the air. The sound of metal can be heard in all the building. Even in the deepest place of the building, the heat of the forges can be feel, after all, the headquater of the Doomguards is The Forge. Many of the greatest weapons have been forged between these wall. Weaponsmith, engineer, bower, creators of weapons of any kind are welcome in this hall and have a place to work. With the amount of work done, there must be some person to take care of the count, and so it is the job of the faction member Randir Urtang.

This member can only been seen once a week, and he work for one whole day, but even then, he can do more work than five men in the same week. He do a great job, but that's not the reason of why he is so respected by his fellow companions. He have written a book named Entropy in Sigil. This book tell the observation of the work of the entropy all over Sigil over a whole century, and Randir gives his conclusion on these observation. This book was a very popular one and give him some fame inside his faction.

But being respected doesn't mean being trusted. Randir have received an heritage from one of his ancestor. This heritage, it's the deamon blood which is running in his vein. Even if he have made his proof as a Doomguard, everyone know what deamon can do, and who have deamon blood is prone to do the same.

So no surprise that he was alone in his office when a Dabus entered. It is pretty rare to have the visit of one of those, creature that, as rumor told, work for the lady herself. The Dabus told nothing and simply put a small envellop on his temple than leave. Randir take the letter and detroy it... at least, that what anyone who would have witness the act would have said, but his very nature made him able to master time, and he had the time to read it and hide a small object in his pocket before he destoy the letter.

Randir stands up and take a sword who was on the wall, his precious sword, the Blade of Dust. He attach the scabbard to his belt and start to walk slowly to the exit. He looks around him. People are walking in every direction. Randir start to run, and to go faster, he runs on walls and roof top, jumping over some small halley. In less than a minute, he was arrived to the Hall fo Records. He enter the place. The guards look at him suspeciously, but they don't try to stop him. They seems to have received their order.

As he reach the hall of the Registry of Deeds and Testaments, he opens the door, holding in his hand the small object from the letter in his hand, opening the way to another place far from the Hall of Record...

 

[WhatKu]

Thanatos read the message again, and slipped the key up his sleeve.
Cant belive he died. Expected that one to live forever. Knowing him, he said the wrong thing to the wrong feind. Oh well, wonder what they want me for. Its not like I can find out what happend to him. Well, they better make it worth my while.
Putting a plain seath on his back, Thanatos slides a greatsword seemingly made out of jagged crystal into it. Reaching the Department by air, Thanatos takes his time to find the room. "Now or never I suppose." he mumbles more to the air then to himself, and steps through.

 

[Keia]

The dance of the pastel mermaid glided across the sky, and Cassius watched with rapt attention, laying on the beach on this tropical plane. ‘I hope she floats back down here soon - I’m starting to feel awfully chilly . . . wait . . . it’s warm here – look at the others on the beach sweating . . . but why am I cold, then?’ Cassius thought. Cassius looked across at his feet and wiggled his toes in the sands. ‘*OW*, what bit my toe? . . .’, Cassius thought as he lifted his now fading toe from the sand and brought it closer to his face to examine. It looked like it was bleeding . . .

Cassius awoke on the cold alley of Sigil, sparsely covered with discarded trash. His toe was still in pain, the rat that bit scampering away from its now-moving lunch. He looked on as the bleeding stopped and the wound sealed. Satisfied, Cassius stood up and reviewed his surrounding – what he could make of them, considering his bleary eyes and unsteady stance. I’m in Sigil . . . still, he thought. Though . . . where are most of my clothes . . . and my money!

“That must have been some party last night . . .” Cassius said aloud, his deep voice belying his size. He stood five foot nine and almost 170 pounds. His long black hair was tied in a fashionable tail and his violet eyes sparkled when he smiled. He padded down what remained of his clothes (a dirty white tank top shirt and pair of what could only be considered grey cargo shorts) and discovered an envelope that hadn’t been there before.

Reading the message, Cassius pocketed the key . . . Metatron, hmmm he thought. I hope I’m not too late for the meeting – if this was even meant for me. Crap, I can’t even remember if I stole this from someone else. I had to have had a great time last night! Sweeet!

Cassius made his way toward the Hall of Records, getting wet but hopefully removing some of the stench he currently emitted, when he noticed the open window four stories up on a nearby building. That’s terrible, someone’s valuable stuff could get ruined by the rain, he thought, then furtively looked around, seeing no one watching. With surprising speed Cassius ran at the building – and right up the wall and into the window.

I’m sure who’s ever home this is wouldn’t mind supplying me with some clothes in exchange for me closing their window for them, he thought as he rummaged through the owner’s clothes. Hmmm, I wonder how this fabric would feel against my body . . .

Minutes later, a cleaned and better dressed Cassius emerged from the building, glancing up at the now closed upper window. Now let’s see what this Metatron has for me . . .

 

[Hammerhead]

Tendak begins sliding his numerous throwing knives into his collar, his boots, his sleeves, and a few other places in preparation for the afternoon. He then straps his specially weighted sword, carried in an equally special scabbard, to his belt. Satisfied that he was attired appropriately, he pads quietly towards the door of his rented room, stopping for a moment to regard himself in the gilded full length mirror.

He cut a truly magnificent figure, dressed in rich blue silk, perfectly colored to bring out the gold in his immacuately styled hair and bright, friendly eyes. The blood of angels, he decides, and smiles. His appearance was often unresistable to the finest lady, as the woman snoring softly in his luxurious bed proved. Tearing himself away from the mirror's image, he puts on a finely-tailored golden cloak and walks down the creaking stairs of the inn, hoping the noise wouldn't wake Lenna.

Tendak steps into the foul rain of Sigil, wondering for a moment where such rain came from. He then shake his head nearly imperceptibly, deciding it didn't matter, and reaches back to pull on his hood. Walking through the streets with a friendly smile and a careful eye, Tendak reaches the Hall of Records.

After conversing briefly with a few clerks, Tendak learns the location of the door he seeks. He arrives in time to see another step through the portal, and Tendak follows, thinking So there's more than one of us. Interesting.

 

[bkmanis]

In a small room at the mortuary Reaper sits contemplating the letter he had received yesterday. So Metatron have you finally amassed so much knowledge that you found true death? Reaper ponders to himself. And what trinket of knowledge have you left behind that I would receive this summons after so many years?

Rising from the chair Reaper pockets the letter and key, grabbing his scythe he heads out for the Registry of Deeds and Testaments. Outside he ignores the rain, it is just another illusion of this un-life, but his senses are attuned to those around him. That is one lesson Metatron taught him long ago, be they friend of foe be wary of those around you.

Arriving at the registry it doesn’t take him long to find the proper door, using the key to activate the portal Reaper steps through.

 

[Mark Chance]

And so the five bloods find themselves standing somewhere beyond Room Eight. The chamber is ordinary enough, but each knows they are in a secure location. One way in, one way out, and each only with the key. Sure, it would probably be possible to smash through the windowless, stone block walls to reach whatever plane lay beyond them.

But that whatever could be something quite inhospitable.

The aforesaid stone block walls, high and wide, supporting an arched ceiling, are covered with delightful tapestries depicting rather lewd scenes of satyrs and nymphs. Anatomical exaggeration as a recurring motif. The chamber is lit by continual flames in clear glass globes suspended by thin silver chains from the ceiling. Luxurious rugs cover most of the stone floor. The faint scent of ozone clings to the warm air, and some almost imperceptible electrical charge causes everyone's short hairs to dance.

Sitting on a very large pillow behind a stout wooden table is an ettin, but both of his heads are slumped in slumber against his enormous chest. Between the two heads is a strange creature: part starfish, part crow, part monkey: obviously a symbiote of some sort, probably from a chaotic plane. The ettin's hands gesture toward five chairs arranged before the table.

"Please. Sit," says the ettin's sleeping left head. "Thank you for being punctual. I am called Weness, and I am the late Metatron's legal representative and executor." Giant hands shuffle through a stack of papers, selecting one scroll from the many. "You are asked here today to hear the reading of Metatron's last will and testament. Please hold your questions until I am done."

The symbiote Weness cranes forward, squinting its all too human eyes, and the ettin's right head begins to speak:

"I am Metatron also known as the Sorcerer-in-Blue, resident of Sigil in the Tower Basalt in the Hive, and this is my last will and testament, revoking all previous wills...."

And so the droning goes for several minutes, one interminable sentence after another. Each of the five bloods are named in turn as beneficiaries, and then, finally:

"...do hereby bequeath to the aforementioned beneficiaries the Tower Basalt and all the moveables therein under the provision that all of the aforementioned beneficiaries move into and reside in the Tower Basalt starting no more than one week from the day of this will's reading, and further stipulating that the Tower Basalt and all the moveables therein must be maintained in their original condition for at least three months and one week from the day of this will's reading."

The ettin's hands lower the will to the table, and Weness's disturbing eyes sweep across the assembled faces.

 

[WhatKu]

"Hmmm... Sounds like a plan. My little one roomer was getting kind of boring anyway. Give me a few hours to settle things at the old place, and I am ready to go."
Thanatos turns and examines the others
Hmmmm.... who are these people? Never saw em with the crowd while I was with Metatron. Ah well, they cant be too bad. Can they?

 

[Velmont]

"Over two centuries I havn't put a feet in that tower. I was almost a clueless when I met him the first time... Why that's his last wish, but it's the least I can do. Is that all?"

 

[Mark Chance]

"Over two centuries I havn't put a feet in that tower. I was almost a clueless when I met him the first time... Why that's his last wish, but it's the least I can do. Is that all?"

Weness replies, "That is all that I am aware of. The Sorcerer-in-Blue made no provision for the division of his moveables amongst you, nor for the sale of the Tower Basalt itself should that be your unanimous wish. It is, in many ways, a curious bequest."