The Gray King

[Isida Kep'Tukari]

Gentlemen, please pick a color for your speech, and put any thoughts you might have in italics. All NPCs will be in silver. OOC stuff should be in small size if you need it. I'll do all the rolling, so put any relavant modifiers in your OOC comments if you need a roll (and let me know if you want to burn action points). If you could put your name/race/class in the title of your posts, that would be spiffy.

OOC thread
Rogue's Gallery

Our Party

*Eidalac - Kurst - CN Male Human Artificer 1/Warlock 2

*stonegod - Irthos - CN Male dragonwrought desert kobold copper dragon shaman 3

*Free Xenon - Arrgha'n of the Fell Veil - N Male Halfblood Daellkyr Rogue 2/Ranger 1

*Zurai - Valerian - N Male Grey Elf Archivist 3

*Erekose13 - Maavnod Warpspire - CG Male Mutated Goliath Totemist 2

*EvolutionKB - Oliver - LN Male Human Binder 3



And now, our story begins...

The Gray King

It's like watching a vision of the past. For those that had been in Cyre before the Day of Mourning, it's like the vanished nation has returned to life again. The fine clothes, bright colors, wide sleeves, short capes, and even the ubiquitous gloves so common in that vanished nation parade the streets here on their proud Cyrian owners. For those that never had the pleasure of visiting Cyre, you've certainly heard enough about the place for this town to invoke your vague mental images.

In the two years since its birth, the place has grown amazingly. The Cyrian love of art is seen everywhere, despite the fact that this is a refugee city. Murals, statues, carvings on the buildings themselves, and even fountains all show skilled Cyrian hands. There is still a raw newness about the place, but the refugees have made an effort to rebuild a small portion of their vanished home. Some of the artwork is forcibly cheerful or beautiful, as if the artist was determined to leave behind the Mournland. Others revel in their sadness, showing weeping maidens, crying landscapes, and howling animals in unexpectedly moving ways. These artists, at least, were not afraid to embrace their present.

It is Dravgo, late spring in Breland, the second Mol of the month. Perhaps you've come to New Cyre by Orien trade caravan. Perhaps you've simply walked. But in any event, you've eventually come to a slightly out-of-the way inn called the Cloak and Dagger. A blatent name? Or one so obvious it's actually subtle? One can't be sure. The inn is two stories, stone and wood, carvings of cloaked figures peaking out unexpectedly from a shutter, the doorframe, or under the eaves.

Inside, the place is pleasantly dim, rushes on the floor giving up a scent of crushed herbs as you enter. A half-dozen tables with heavy chairs are scattered across the room, the fireplace on one wall illuminating them only slightly. The bar opposite is an immense slab of wood that must have come from a true giant of a tree. The front is carved with some elaborate scene worthy of an art gallery, something about cloaked figures in a forest...

As you enter, a middle-aged bar wench, her long brown hair streaked with gray, comes to greet you and conducts you to a back room.

"Your host will be with you soon," is all she says, but leaves platters of roast venison and plum sauce with spicebark, bowls of new vegetables tossed with peppers and oranges, crispy light bread with a tangy taste, and pitchers of refreshing rose wine with a strange, though not unpleasant, aftertaste of violets.

As each of the six men enter, you all quickly gather that whatever you have been summoned here for, it's certainly bound to be... different.

OOC: Feel free to interact a bit, introduce yourselves, describe your character and whatnot.

 

[Erekose13]

Maavnod Warpspire, Mutated Goliath Totemist

A tall heavy set figure enters the Cloak and Dagger. The tall creature has gray mottled skin, with patches that stand apart with a fierce reddish brown. The lithoderms, hard patches of rough skin, on his body tend to accent the reds with darker browns almost fading to black. His head and limbs are devoid of hair and his eyes glow a brilliant red.

As odd as his appearance is, his choice in weapons is equally interesting. Hard dark steel links match the metal used in his shield which features a demonic bat winged creature on a field of dark crimson. He carries a big heavy mace of a deep purple material though it too has many of the same iconography on it. Only his spear is seems to fit with the large man, having been carved from a huge piece of densewood.

"I am Maavnod Warpspire, companion of the 20th Brelish Light Infantry formerly stationed on the western front." he says, identifying himself more with his recent companions than his further past. He sits heavily at the table setting his shield and spear on the floor beside him. He picks a choice piece of venison to dig into not noticing if anyone felt offended by his declaration of affiliation.

 

[EvolutionKB]

Oliver, Human Binder

Oliver ends up in New Cyre after joining a caravan whose travels leave them near the city. He makes the rest of his way on foot. He marvels at the art of New Cyre, he had neven been to the land before, and it was truly breathtaking. He tousles his short blonde hair. The grime of the road had built up over the last few days. Although he had gotten used to the dirt and grime that followed him in his chosen profession, that didn't mean he liked it. I'll have to get a bath before bed tonight. As he wanders the city, he can't help but let his thoughts wander to the dreams that brought him here. As he stops to get his bearings, he looks up and sees a particular inn. Cloak and Dagger? If these dreams are The Shadow Man's doing, this would look to be a suitable place. Perhaps it is a sign by Him.

Oliver walks inside, his eyes doing their best to adjust to the poor light. When he is greeted by the bar wench he smiles and nods, following the woman to the back room. He momentarily thinks of a trap set by a church, and puts his hand on his rapier. Seeing a very large gray skinned creature, not a member of the church, judging from the demon adorning his shield, relaxes him somewhat. Somebody is expecting me then. But probably not just the two of us, judging from the amount of chairs and food here. Who is our host today lady? He asks simply with a smile. As he fills his plate up with food, he once again thinks of a trap. Once he is sure nobody is watching he pulls his dagger and stabs into the underside of the wooden table, within easy reach if somebody tries something funny. Oliver helps himself to the vegetables and venison, he hasn't ate this good in years it seemed. He then nods at the creature's introduction. "I am Oliver," he says simply, not wanting to make bad blood by annoucing he is from Thrane.



Oliver, you did it again. Diplomacy +10

 

[Zurai]

Valerian, Elven Archivist

A tall, thin elf steps into the private room, following a generous distance behind the barmaid. He is wrapped from the neck down in a frayed, diaphonous shroud; what little of his skin you can see is a pale, deathly grey. His eyes, however, are a piercing light blue and take in the contents of the small room with a keen intellectual curiosity, and his thick black hair contrasts strongly with both his eyes and his skin. There is a longsword sheathed at his hip, but his bearing betrays that he has little skill in its use. Hard edges jutting beneath the shroud indicate that he is also wearing armor, although nothing terribly restrictive judging by his movements.

Having observed the room itself, his eyes flicker from one odd inhabitant to the next, never staying on one of them for long, but not shying away from meeting their own gazes.

"It appears that I am not alone in being a stranger in a strange land, then. I am Valerian, of no Line. I greet you."

So saying, he helps himself to light portions of bread and venison, as well as a glass of the rose wine, before settling into a seat with a view of both the entrance to the room and as many of the occupants as possible.




OOC: Valerian has his combat spell list prepared today; he wasn't quite sure what to expect, so he prepared for the worst.

 

[stonegod]

Irthos, dragonwrought desert kobold copper dragon shaman

In the Dream, the Progenitor Spoke. In the Dream, H/She Said Travel. And Travel Irthos did. Mostly by night, gliding from high place to high place, avoiding the ground and the softskins that feared, hated, or wanted something of it. It was a tiring journey, and long, but it was life the hardy kobold had long inured itself to.

Irthos ignored the 'art'. Irthos ignored the finery. Irthos, in general, ignored the people of whatever the place it was in now. Such things were mortal things, things of the softskins. Not the eternal. Not of the Progenitors. Here, they wasted water and life like both were plentiful. The Dark She Whispered to Irthos that they would pay for such ignorance; the Light He Said such was foolishness. Irthos listened more to She than He.

If the softskin female reacted to the odd looking creature---a little taller than a child, but obviously reptilian with its clear orange eyes and scaly cape of burnished copper---Irthos did not notice. The others at the table, Irthos did notice. It noticed the Hunter, whose kind had slain its kind for its ties to She. It noticed the Human, and the way the male attempted to be all smiles. It noticed the Elf, and how it seemed to be allergic to the air, its skin was so hidden. It noticed, but ignored. Instead, it just sat at the table. From a sack it produced a battered sack, and from it withdrew a less than succulent piece of dried meat. And it ate, ignoring the others and the food before it.

Its introduction was silence.

OOC: Irthos' color is Dark Orange. He currently has the Senses aura up.

 

[FreeXenon]

Arrgha'n (Half-Daelkyr Kin-Hunter) HP:28

Arrgha'n's curiosity has been piqued by such an unusually vivid dream of a Gray Crown wreathed in a brackish black-green flames which signed an imageof the 'Cloak and Dagger Inn'. That blackish-green color was chosen by the remaining 'children' of the Project as color that shall mark our passage. The inn was easy enough to find through some dedicated searching.

We 'Progeny' loathed our Daelkyr lineage as much as we reviled our prey. Being this as it may the half-daelkr thought it would been more than worth his while to check out such portentous dreams.

His hunt has lead him from former Cyre to Breland, and now to New Cyre which just happens to be where this mysterious meeting is being held. His quarry, thus far, having eluded him. Its luck shall not last for ever and its termination being certain.

He follows the barmaid into the inner sanctum of the Cloak and Dagger to, hopefully, meet with a new benefactor. His eyes happily enjoy the darkness and shadows as he seeks the company of the meeting room.

This tall humanoid strangely bears a strong level of Hobgoblin ancestry. His skin is tanned and his eyes are deep pools of crimson and brown. The man's hair is a short bristly brown not too unlike a boar's or another porcine creature. His eyes quickly search the room and its occupants before fully entering.

"Arrgha'n." he states and he takes a position leaning against the wall near the door. Once satisfied he looks about and then slowly walks the room.

[OOC: He looks intently at each person search for Aberrations or other hidden items about their persons (Spot +7/+9). He will alos slowly walk the room looking for secret doors or other hidden compartments (Search +7).]

 

[Eidalac]

Kurst (Human, Artificer/Warlock)

To put it mildly, Kurst was nervous. All the restored splendor of New Cyre was of no comfort to him - given his situation, ever reminder of what was only made him feel increasingly more out of place, and more afraid.

On the upside, no one from the house was really going to be looking hard for him here, as it was so plainly stupid to be here, and with the refuges, it wasn't hard to slip in without drawing notice from anyone.

He was only here because, between the dreams and letters, he didn't have anywhere else to go and was running out of money.

It was just a chance he had to take.

The young man was clearly jittery when the woman showed him in. He was clearly well traveled, but not well cleaned, his red hair almost brown with dust, almost like he had tried to cover the color up. Which he had. Other than being nervous, he was tall, slender and fair skinned, and didn't look like the type that knew what hard work was.

The occupants of the room didn't do much to calm him down.

"Oh..um.. hello. I'm...p... Kurst." He managed to stutter out before taking the nearest seat. He was clearly trying to act like he wasn't bothered by the others, but wasn't doing a good job of it. And as good as the food looked, he just couldn't bring himself to touch it...

 

[Isida Kep'Tukari]

In regards to Oliver's question, the bar wench simply demures, saying he'll be here soon and it's not her place to say anything.

After about fifteen intensely awkward moments for some, with careful preparation, eating, and thorough searching (no secret compartments or doors are found), your host finally arrives. And not through the door either. He strides through the back wall, phasing through as if it were no more substantial than air. He immediately places his hands out to his sides, revealing they are free of weapons or spell components, and remains still to stave off getting stabbed for his entrance.

His dress is typically Cyran, a wide-sleeved tunic in wine red, slashed sleeves in golden yellow, a shirt of the same hue, a short cape of charcoal gray, and red gloves, with heavy embroidery over all. He is a man of average height and willowy build, dark wavy hair barely touching his shoulders, with dark eyes that he keeps downcast. The only thing that is remarkable about him is his intense stillness. You have an impression of limitless patience more suited to an elf than a human. And considering he barely seems to be approaching middle age, that's quite unusual.

"My pardons for the abrupt entrance," he says calmly. At this point, he's probably aware that some people were about to skewer him, but seems quite calm.

"My name is Andoran Se'barrat, and I am pleased you saw fit to come. He slowly moves to an empty seat, sits and takes a plate, filling it neatly with food and pouring himself wine, taking a few bites before speaking again.

"It can be amazing what you discover about yourself after everything you know was taken from you," he continues softly. He gazes at the east wall, as if he could see the Mournland through it, many miles distant. "Every person in this town, every soul that calls themself Cyran knows what happened in Cyre on the day of Mourning. Each one knows. An accident at Whitehearth of House Cannith's doing, an act of terrorism from one country or another, some freakish act of nature, or even the hands of the gods themselves! Do you know what I think happened?

"It doesn't matter. It honestly doesn't matter. I don't care anymore about why it happened, or how. I doubt any of you do either. Cyre as I knew it is over and done. I simply want to know how we can use what's left. And that's where you come in." He raises an ironic eyebrow at the group.

"Most of our ready money, the bulk of our people, and all our cities perished two years ago. The greatest currency of Cyre is the loyalty of its people now. Which is precisely why I'm not asking any Cyrans what I'm about to ask you.

"All of us tend to see Cyre through rose-colored glasses, and that's the one thing we cannot afford now. Cyre is a wasteland, yet new things have taken root there, and we ignore the future of Cyre at our own peril. The future of Cyre is the Mournland, and all the twisted magic and broken souls therin. If I asked a half-dozen loyal Cyran fighters or magicians to seek out the current secrets of the Mournland, they would go messily mad, if not die, trying to right the wrongs and restore their homeland. It can never be restored."

He pauses to drink and eat again, knife and fork flashing oddly in the dim light.

"I was a junior assistant minister of foreign affairs before the Day of Mourning, and I was luckily abroad that day." Reading between the lines is easy here; he was a spy, probably one with some rank. "All of my staff was with me, and we've kept in contact. They never stopped doing their jobs, and neither have I. It is clear that discovering the secrets I desire cannot be done by conventional means. So we have been searching for the unconventional. Normal magic doesn't work very well in the Mournland, so we've been searching for an alternative. We need things that will work regardless of however magic has been warped, and things that will protect people from whatever the Mournland can create.

"Several months ago, we found what we were looking for. But obtaining these things and using them called for people of... a particular mindset. Those used to looking at the strange as the normal, and not afraid to reach outside the boundaries of what most might consider 'real.' We found you all, with great difficulty, I'll add.

"I'll be blunt. We need you to obtain these items and then travel to the Mournland, explore several locations therein and report back on the conditions. And by no means can you let anyone know what you're doing. As for payment... I told you we have no great stores of money. Much of my staff is engaged in doing a great deal of mundane work just to fund our operations. However, we still have one store that has not run dry. Knowledge. Secrets. Do you seek someone's name? Information for blackmail? A long-lost relative? An old enemy? Books? Spells? Or perhaps you want information removed and not gained. A new identity? Or maybe someone silenced? This and much more we can do for you if you will do what I ask.

"What say you?"

With that, Andoran sits back and sips his wine and waits for the storm of words.

 

[FreeXenon]

Arrgha'n (Half-Daelkyr Kin-Hunter) HP:28

"If you have summoned us all here you already know what we want and you know that you can pay the price, otherwise you would be wasting all of our and your time and jeopardising the secrecy of our mission for you, right? Perhaps we can cut to the chase and get down to the real business." Arrgha'n states, longing for the location of all of his fellow hunters and then every last Daelkyr that haunts this plane and not. He absentmindedly scratches the symbiont that is on his arm as it disapproves of his desires.

 

[EvolutionKB]

Oliver, Human Binder

Oliver nods in the hobgoblin things direction. We have quite the crew here. At least I won't stand out. "He is right, you would know what we want. How you came by that information is anybody's guess. That is not an issue. What are these items you want us to find and use, and why are they so important that we use them in the Mournland?" Oliver is a little disappointed The Shadow Man is not here. Perhaps Andoran is merely one of his associates. No matter, if The Shadow Man is not here to teach me more, perhaps I can come to understand the vestigal legends more with their help. With knowledge comes power.