(IC) DND 3.5 Enter Planescape

The Crooked Sword

Mr. Black
You push through the Crooked Sword’s door and the stink hits first, cheap ale, wet wool, and old smoke baked into the timbers. The place leans inward, walls bowed like they’re listening. Your coin purse lies in plain sight on the bar. Jane’s handiwork makes it impossible to miss the raven coat of arms stitched in dark thread, proud and precise, the sort of heraldry she swore would one day hang from your own guardsmen’s cloaks. Here, though, it looks out of place. The culprit is already peeling it open, spilling your jink across the counter in a careless glitter. He’s trying to burn it fast buying rounds for a clutch of other cut-purses clustered close, laughing too loud, hands always moving. The bartender doesn’t slow him. In the Hive, it appears coin in motion is clean coin. Every step you take makes the room feel louder, tighter. Sound rings in your ears mugs clacking, some of your jink is already gone, traded for bad ale. Still, most of it lies there on the bar, scattered and waiting to be spent again.

Just to the side, another group sits. Two men. One nurses a glass of red wine, eyes flicking from face to face, measuring exits. The other is deep into a long-winded story, gesturing, his voice rising and falling.

Luke Cinders
The Crooked Sword grows more crowded by the minute. From his corner near the rear exit, the dwarf slows his quill. The ledger closes just enough to look casual, but his eyes lift, tracking the bar now. He’s no longer writing he’s watching. The sort of watching that counts debts, favors, and blood. Beside you, the Prime snorts into his drink. “Tried talkin’ to him already,” he mutters, spitting the words back like they taste sour. “He won’t budge unless I help him find somebody.” He shakes his head, frustration cracking through. “Problem is, runnin’ a shop in Waterdeep don’t teach you much about huntin’ a wiry bastard through this place.”

The dwarf’s gaze lingers, then shifts away just long enough to let you know you’ve been noticed.


Aril
You witness a patron running in quickly magically changing their appearance before entering the establishment, this place is run down even for the hive.

---

Aril and the "peddler":

Aril smiles, and takes the trinket.
"Oï friend, mayhaps it is, and mayhaps it is not; but on this day fate smiles on you, even if the ^Lady does not. I have a small bit I can spare today." ((Gives the pedlar 2cp))
"May Immortal Palartarkan uplift you."
Aril glances significantly at the spear he's carrying, and then then looks the pedlar straight in the eyes with a deadly serious look. The type that only someone who has witnessed the death of an entire city can give.
"I bid you good day, basher."

Into the beltpouch the trinket goes.
Aril is 99.9% sure it's junk, but will check it for magic at some point in the future. Who knows?

Ragpicker's Square:

Leaning against a wall for a brief rest, Aril casually observes the goings on in the square for a few minutes.
The person changing their appearance startles him a bit, but tries not to show it.
"Eh, why not?" Aril mutters in elvish, as he heads toward the door of the bar, wondering what spell was used.

[Edit: added Mini-Sheet, typo.]

Bimble
"I am an Illithid, here there isn't an elder brain to make me part of the hive-mind. So I am much the same as I was before the transformation." The mindflayer seems to be interested enough in you and may also be reading your mind simultaneously "Well, it's doubtful that a deity could do it for a higher purpose as they are not allowed in here, nor would a rival of your parentage." The illithid looks back and forth as if someone may pick up on the psychic message and whispers it quieter by some impossibility. "The Lady of Pain" his message resonates back to its original volume. "could be capable of such a feat." One tentacle extended, pointing down the main thoroughfare where the road curved between leaning buildings and hanging signs. “If you seek guidance, a tout named Gredmark Ironfist maintains a business in a tavern called the Crooked Sword.” It lingered on the gesture, ensuring you followed its meaning. “Remain to the main road. It is the safest path available. You will recognize the place by its sign a rusted sword, bent and crooked, much like this city’s sense of mercy.” The illithid withdrew its attention, leaving behind the faint impression that Sigil itself had been listening and had decided, for now, to let the conversation pass.

Wawaate
The orphan girl led you off the main way and into the Hive’s tangled veins, slipping through alleyways with the surety of a ranger moving through familiar wilds. She knew where to step, when to pause, when to let a pair of passing cutters drift by without ever meeting their eyes. You followed her turns by instinct alone. She didn’t waste words. Just an occasional glance over her shoulder and a muttered, “Ain’t far now,” when the alleys narrowed or the noise thickened behind you. At last, the stink of spilled ale announced the place before you saw it. She stopped at the rear of a rowdy establishment, its back wall scarred with old knife marks and newer graffiti. Laughter and shouting bled through the boards, along with the dull thud of boots on warped floor planks. This wasn’t an entrance meant for guests. It was for business.
“Wait here,” she said, already slipping away. “I’ll let the tout know you’re in.” She vanished through a side door or shadow you hadn’t noticed, leaving you alone in the narrow space between buildings. With nothing left to do but breathe, the weight you’d been carrying finally found you. Your legs trembled. Your shoulders sagged. The exhaustion you’d outrun all day came crashing in now. For a moment, you simply stood there, hand resting where the dragon feather lay tucked safely away. Still warm. Still real. Your thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the sky of your home. The image of dragons locked in battle overhead, wings tearing clouds apart, fire and frost clashing like gods at war. You swallowed. Would the temple still be there when you returned?

OneCrappy DM said:

The Crooked Sword

Luke Cinders
The Crooked Sword grows more crowded by the minute. From his corner near the rear exit, the dwarf slows his quill. The ledger closes just enough to look casual, but his eyes lift, tracking the bar now. He’s no longer writing he’s watching. The sort of watching that counts debts, favors, and blood. Beside you, the Prime snorts into his drink. “Tried talkin’ to him already,” he mutters, spitting the words back like they taste sour. “He won’t budge unless I help him find somebody.” He shakes his head, frustration cracking through. “Problem is, runnin’ a shop in Waterdeep don’t teach you much about huntin’ a wiry bastard through this place.”

Click to expand...

Luke considers the man losing the patience
"That is exactly what I said, man, everything here is a trade. How about this, you pay me, I ask to return you to your Prime, I find the missing person. It will cost a lot, though, because I have things I'd rather ask for myself. Or you could seek other trades to join...but it will not be easy if you don't have funds. And if you do, it is questionable if you can leave The Hive alive. Which would cost you again to get you to Guildhall or Clerks ward."
He turns back just in time to

OneCrappy DM said:

The dwarf’s gaze lingers, then shifts away just long enough to let you know you’ve been noticed.

Click to expand...

catch dwarf's gaze. He nods back.
"Now, no offense, but I was noticed. Either pay me to guide you to a safer ward, pay me to talk to the dwarf or let me be."

He doesn't expect the clueless to have enough money for the second. But he awaits the answer while following the hubbub at the bar.

For the moment, while waiting for the clueless answer, he is more interested in the money being sprayed from a fancy money pouch. He resists the urge to check for his own safely tucked pouch, no sense in letting others know where it is. He does touch his dagger, losening it up just in case.

The money won't last. He always found it weird to just show everyone that you have money. It was obviously safer if you spend it, but if it doesn't benefit you, you spend it on strangers for drinks and not for better life, then you just risked your life and limb pickpocketing someone for nothing.

He is not above slipping a gold or two to himself if something comes his way, but he will not actively go for the grabs.

Waiting for the rush to subside, he carefully makes his way to the dwarf.

OneCrappy DM said:

Bimble
"I am an Illithid, here there isn't an elder brain to make me part of the hive-mind. So I am much the same as I was before the transformation." The mindflayer seems to be interested enough in you and may also be reading your mind simultaneously "Well, it's doubtful that a deity could do it for a higher purpose as they are not allowed in here, nor would a rival of your parentage." The illithid looks back and forth as if someone may pick up on the psychic message and whispers it quieter by some impossibility. "The Lady of Pain" his message resonates back to its original volume. "could be capable of such a feat." One tentacle extended, pointing down the main thoroughfare where the road curved between leaning buildings and hanging signs. “If you seek guidance, a tout named Gredmark Ironfist maintains a business in a tavern called the Crooked Sword.” It lingered on the gesture, ensuring you followed its meaning. “Remain to the main road. It is the safest path available. You will recognize the place by its sign a rusted sword, bent and crooked, much like this city’s sense of mercy.” The illithid withdrew its attention, leaving behind the faint impression that Sigil itself had been listening and had decided, for now, to let the conversation pass.

Click to expand...

Bimble

Bimble is genuinely grateful, and was curious about the Illithid and wanted to continue talking to him or it. But he had good manners, and knew that the conversation was over, aso he tiped his hat, said "thank you for your kindness ser", and went on his way towards to find this person called Gredmark Ironfist. He tried to remain inconspicuous, but did notice a few glances as he was riding his dog on the main road.

---

Mr. Black staggers into the bar, bumping into someone and mumbles some expletive that is carried away in the raucous room(1) and pushes his way through the throng of people to the bar, next to the man and his new-found fortune. His momentum takes him heavily into the bar, spilling someone’s drink on his right side, drawing people’s attention away from the money,

“Watch it, Berk!”

While he is staring down the man whose lap is now wet with cheap beer, his other, left hand slips under the illusion and swipes back his pouch with as many loose coins as he can grab.

Brendan Byrd said:

Ragpicker's Square:

Leaning against a wall for a brief rest, Aril casually observes the goings on in the square for a few minutes.
The person changing their appearance startles him a bit, but tries not to show it.
"Eh, why not?" Aril mutters in elvish, as he heads toward the door of the bar, wondering what spell was used.

Click to expand...

---

Just for clarity, Aril enters the tavern.
(Also, testing the mini-sheet )

OneCrappy DM said:

With nothing left to do but breathe, the weight you’d been carrying finally found you. Your legs trembled. Your shoulders sagged. The exhaustion you’d outrun all day came crashing in now. For a moment, you simply stood there, hand resting where the dragon feather lay tucked safely away. Still warm. Still real. Your thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the sky of your home. The image of dragons locked in battle overhead, wings tearing clouds apart, fire and frost clashing like gods at war. You swallowed. Would the temple still be there when you returned?

Click to expand...

Wawaate considered his fate. It was clear that he would not make it back to the temple in time to complete the initiation--if the temple still existed by the time he returned. He had been flung far past everything he had ever known by the avalanche...

It wasn't a dragon that sent him here, it was the avalanche. It was Negafook.

No, clearly, this was the path chosen for him. He still was connected to the winter, he still could harness its power. And here, wherever here was, seemed to have no winter... and the children played in the snow when he arrived.

He did not know exactly why, not yet, but Wawaate knew he was needed here. Winter was needed here. Or perhaps someone who knows how to survive the winter. He will stay. He will accept his fate.

The Crooked Sword

Mr. Black
Your distraction is seemingly flawless in execution, applying new found lingo to aid in the swiping of the coin purse. You continue the concentration on your spell knowing that when it is interacted with there is a chance that the item will be found to be an illusion, the crowd seems to be growing in the tavern yet there still are some empty seats around the table section. One table in particular has a placard wedge that says "The Ironfist tout". Tout which you had learned to mean portal guide, someone who could possibly take you back to Jane.


Luke Cinders
The Faerunian merchant implores you for help, "If you could help the dwarf on my behest..." He pauses thinking of what he has to offer "when I return to Waterdeep I could have the wizard Blackstaff create for you a wondorous item of some fashion. I deal with him to sell wares, he is a great magician some say rival to Elminster!". The offer seems desperate and clearly his last card, accepting this task probably will be on word alone. Your eyes track the coin pouch on the bar, while it is in clear sight nobody dares to touch it. Some local shoves into one of the attended guards of the sack of coin "Watch It, Berk!" yet the pouch remained untouched. It seems that the coins will remain untouched, you head cautiously over to the dwarf on business of your own or that of the merchant it isn't clear to anyone but yourself at the moment. A small child of nine entered through the back door had begun whispering into the ear of the dwarf, sharing some form of dark no doubt.

Aril
A Dazzler, no doubt there was a spellslinger entering the bar. You say to yourself "Eh, why not?" entering in to the Crooked Sword. There is quite a commotion but your eyes naturally remained on the Dazzler making their way to the bar, you notice once more a spell gesture this time able to identify it as a casting of silent image. Where or what the illusion is you are unsure of, all you see is the spellslinger stumbling into someone "Watch It, Berk!" as interesting as this all is that is not why you are here. Scanning around one last time you discover the placard wedge on a table "The Ironfist Tout", a dwarf sits at the chair back to the only visible rear exit. A small street orphan of nine whispering in his ear some form of dark no doubt.