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Story Hour
A Toe in the Water: anyone want a new Eberron story hour? (updated 2006-05-25) (POLL CLOSES AT 4:30am EDT, 26 May)
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<blockquote data-quote="Redwald" data-source="post: 2829484" data-attributes="member: 12271"><p><strong>A Simple Plan</strong></p><p></p><p>After this despondent suggestion, the conversation turns to lighter matters for a while. Adric explains that the neighborhood in which he now makes his residence is known as Hareth's Folly. The buildings in the area were designed by an architect generally considered to be mad. The earliest buildings were built in styles of contemporary kingdoms and cultures. As time passed, though, they became more and more eclectic, even bizarre. Some of the most notorious examples are structures in the shapes of trees or melted candles. The party confirms that they passed two buildings of those very descriptions on their way to his abode.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel doesn't believe he's seen a changeling in its natural form before, and has a brief but polite discussion with Kas on the subject. Changelings, he is told, pursue a number of different philosophies; some change their forms opportunistically (the “Becomers”), others develop a great facility at precisely adopting a form that passes for a specific race (the “Perfectors”), and yet another group, among whom Kas numbers, prefer not to conceal their natures, despite the problems this occasionally causes them—these are the “Reality Seekers”.</p><p></p><p>In due course the tea is finished.</p><p></p><p>“Might I interest you in a game of conquest?” The scholar refers to a lengthy chess-like diversion.</p><p></p><p>Alas, no; it is time for the adventurers to return to the Ten Tier Inn.</p><p></p><p>“We're bound for Korranberg as soon as we can muster the funds for transport,” Cardea says.</p><p></p><p>“I may be able to scare up something in that department,” Teague adds with a twinkle.</p><p></p><p>“Korranberg is near,” Kamiel picks up, “and has both another statue piece and another document lot. And both may well be in the hands of this Eodard Grameci. If he's one of our rivals, he may have tipped his hand. Or,” he adds with a sigh, “we're walking into his trap.”</p><p></p><p>“I daresay there is no route before you that is without peril,” Adric avers. “I must remain in hiding, but as you can see, I am ably assisted, and I can continue to communicate with you.”</p><p></p><p>“About our communications,” Kamiel says, “we have little notion of who our rivals are, what allies they have, and where they have eyes and ears. I am concerned about our messages being intercepted, and our progress monitored by hostile parties via our own communiqués. We should contrive some sort of cipher or code to guard the content of our epistles.”</p><p></p><p>“House Orien runs a secure operation, by all accounts,” Cullen notes. “If our opponents have infiltrated them, what chance have we?”</p><p></p><p>Cardea and Teague seem more interested in leaving than waiting for a few hours while Kamiel and Adric construct a cryptographic protocol.</p><p></p><p>The scholar notes this tension, and offers a suggestion. “Developing a truly private language is a daunting task even for experts in my field,” he cautions, “but nevertheless your point is well taken. Let us make the scope of the problem manageable. How about a means of transmitting a simple status, weal or woe? This can accompany the messages we send each other, and if the message is ‘woe’, the receiving party will know to interpret the remainder of the text in a more critical light.”</p><p></p><p>Kamiel is impressed. “Yes, that would strike a balance between overhead and risk. And I must admit, if we develop anything complex, we'd both need to retain documentation as an aid for recovering the conventional meaning. Doing so would itself pose threats. If either of us is captured or our belongings ransacked, the value is lost. Or, worse, one of us could be impersonated to the other.”</p><p></p><p>“Quite so, quite so. So the task before us is to have a marker, say—a conventional expression that we can include in our future correspondence that would not itself be remarkable.”</p><p></p><p>Cardea is prepared for this challenge. “May the ancestors guard your travels.”</p><p></p><p>“Capital!” Adric claps his hands together in satisfaction. “A traditional Elven byword. Thus, when conditions are favorable, or at least no worse than to be expected, given the sorts of places you'll be going, merely sign off your messages with this saying in Elven.”</p><p></p><p>“And when they are ill, use a different language,” Kamiel says, understanding. “Draconic? I speak that tongue, and I daresay it has an intuitive overtone for the context.”</p><p></p><p>“As you say! Shall we make it thus?”</p><p></p><p>There is a mutter of assent from the fatigued adventurers.</p><p></p><p>Farewells are exchanged, and the party departs Adric Meriko's lonely residence and its strange neighborhood.</p><p></p><p>----</p><p></p><p>As the group is getting off a lift in the neighborhood of the Ten Tier Inn, a tall man entering the same conveyance bumps into Teague. The rogue's perturbed countenance transmogrifies into a grin as he realizes he recognizes the offender—a fellow of House Lyrandar. Not just any kinsman, at that, but an uncle. Aran d'Lyrandar is a sea captain of the House. The boisterous man insists on taking Teague and his friends to what he terms a “reputable establishment”.</p><p></p><p>The party is tired (though Teague seems to have new life about him), but not about to pass up an opportunity for gratis refreshment. The man can tell they're weary, and assures them their destination does not lie far away. More significantly, a sea-captain relative of Teague might be able to get them to Zilargo without rendering them all destitute.</p><p></p><p>Aran does in fact escort his nephew and company to a place that is no groggery or barrel house. It is the Overripe Melon, a swanky outfit that is just on the affordable side of ritzy.</p><p></p><p>Much ale is consumed on the elder d'Lyrandar's tab. The captain drinks copiously, but undeniably remains well within his limits. All of the adventurers except Cardea imbibe a bit much. Teague trades stories with his kinsman that grow steadily more indecorous until both are roaring their heads off. Cullen and Kamiel, the two musicians, feel the urge to amuse the other patrons; the former by getting up on stage with the hired musicians providing the evening's entertainment for an impromptu performance, and the latter by summoning himself a lute from out of nowhere and strumming out changes from bawdy Aundarian folk tunes liberally interspersed with highly ornamented fills. Neither of their muses are tolerated long, and both are sternly dissuaded in turn from their disruptions by the staff. Kamiel, knowing his spell is about to expire, puckishly hurls the instrument into the air. Before striking the rafters, it vanishes.</p><p></p><p>Aran seems unoffended by their exuberance, however, and after much conversation with Teague, only half-overheard by the others thanks to the general racket, extends an invitation.</p><p></p><p>“Korranberg, you say? I happen to be sailing in the morning with my crew, and we're bound for Korranport in due course. In the meantime, there's a trading vessel out in the Thunder that's long overdue. A month, in fact. And some trade through there has spotted what might just be a derelict. Might be the same ship, might not. Regardless, I'm taking my crew out there to claim what we may.”</p><p></p><p>“Isn't that piracy?” Cullen asks, incredulous.</p><p></p><p>Cardea tenses, alarmed that Cullen may have just delivered a mortal insult. But Aran d'Lyrandar tosses his head back and laughs. Kamiel knows enough of the law, and can recollect enough even while intoxicated, to explain.</p><p></p><p>“No, it's the law of the sea. Abandoned vessels in neutral waters don't belong to anyone, and whoever happens upon them can do what they will, at their own risk.”</p><p></p><p>Cullen nods.</p><p></p><p>“’Course, I guess it's an open question as to whether this derelict really <em>is</em> abandoned,” Kamiel continues. “Could be it's just out there for the pleasure of its crew. Or,” his voice lowers, barely audible above the noise of the tavern, “it might be abandoned under the law, but not uninhabited either.”</p><p></p><p>“You mean, inhabited by things that don't have or need or care about a legal claim to it,” Cullen says, catching on to Kamiel's tone. “Things that can prevent others from salvaging it. That don't need laws. Or food to stay alive, or fresh water to drink.”</p><p></p><p>“Yup.” Kamiel drains another mug of ale.</p><p></p><p>“How many crew on your vessel?” Cardea asks briskly.</p><p></p><p>“Twenty-one to twenty-eight—depends on how many show up for the voyage tomorrow!” The captain laughs. “There'll be room aplenty for you, no worries. And a spot of work, too, to earn your room and board!”</p><p></p><p>“You mean helping out the ship's crew and such? I'm not trained as a sailor, but I'm willing to learn,” Kamiel says.</p><p></p><p>The elder d'Lyrandar's only response is a crooked grin and gleaming eyes.</p><p></p><p>Cardea moves things along. “Where shall we meet you?”</p><p></p><p>“Eight o'clock at berth thirty-seven. We'll be sailing mid-morning,” the captain replies.</p><p></p><p>Given that it is approaching midnight, they all need to be up early, and the talk has turned dark thanks to Kamiel, goodbyes are exchanged. Teague's uncle rises and heads toward the bar, probably to settle the tab, and the party makes its way out the door.</p><p></p><p>The route back to the inn is not difficult to retrace, even for the tipsy. Teague, however, has considerably overindulged and requires assistance from Cardea and Kamiel to remain upright. Traveling along one passage, down a lift, and along another, they reach their lodgings in minutes. Each collapses into bed for what looks to be a last slumber for untold days on a surface that does not pitch or roll.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Redwald, post: 2829484, member: 12271"] [b]A Simple Plan[/b] After this despondent suggestion, the conversation turns to lighter matters for a while. Adric explains that the neighborhood in which he now makes his residence is known as Hareth's Folly. The buildings in the area were designed by an architect generally considered to be mad. The earliest buildings were built in styles of contemporary kingdoms and cultures. As time passed, though, they became more and more eclectic, even bizarre. Some of the most notorious examples are structures in the shapes of trees or melted candles. The party confirms that they passed two buildings of those very descriptions on their way to his abode. Kamiel doesn't believe he's seen a changeling in its natural form before, and has a brief but polite discussion with Kas on the subject. Changelings, he is told, pursue a number of different philosophies; some change their forms opportunistically (the “Becomers”), others develop a great facility at precisely adopting a form that passes for a specific race (the “Perfectors”), and yet another group, among whom Kas numbers, prefer not to conceal their natures, despite the problems this occasionally causes them—these are the “Reality Seekers”. In due course the tea is finished. “Might I interest you in a game of conquest?” The scholar refers to a lengthy chess-like diversion. Alas, no; it is time for the adventurers to return to the Ten Tier Inn. “We're bound for Korranberg as soon as we can muster the funds for transport,” Cardea says. “I may be able to scare up something in that department,” Teague adds with a twinkle. “Korranberg is near,” Kamiel picks up, “and has both another statue piece and another document lot. And both may well be in the hands of this Eodard Grameci. If he's one of our rivals, he may have tipped his hand. Or,” he adds with a sigh, “we're walking into his trap.” “I daresay there is no route before you that is without peril,” Adric avers. “I must remain in hiding, but as you can see, I am ably assisted, and I can continue to communicate with you.” “About our communications,” Kamiel says, “we have little notion of who our rivals are, what allies they have, and where they have eyes and ears. I am concerned about our messages being intercepted, and our progress monitored by hostile parties via our own communiqués. We should contrive some sort of cipher or code to guard the content of our epistles.” “House Orien runs a secure operation, by all accounts,” Cullen notes. “If our opponents have infiltrated them, what chance have we?” Cardea and Teague seem more interested in leaving than waiting for a few hours while Kamiel and Adric construct a cryptographic protocol. The scholar notes this tension, and offers a suggestion. “Developing a truly private language is a daunting task even for experts in my field,” he cautions, “but nevertheless your point is well taken. Let us make the scope of the problem manageable. How about a means of transmitting a simple status, weal or woe? This can accompany the messages we send each other, and if the message is ‘woe’, the receiving party will know to interpret the remainder of the text in a more critical light.” Kamiel is impressed. “Yes, that would strike a balance between overhead and risk. And I must admit, if we develop anything complex, we'd both need to retain documentation as an aid for recovering the conventional meaning. Doing so would itself pose threats. If either of us is captured or our belongings ransacked, the value is lost. Or, worse, one of us could be impersonated to the other.” “Quite so, quite so. So the task before us is to have a marker, say—a conventional expression that we can include in our future correspondence that would not itself be remarkable.” Cardea is prepared for this challenge. “May the ancestors guard your travels.” “Capital!” Adric claps his hands together in satisfaction. “A traditional Elven byword. Thus, when conditions are favorable, or at least no worse than to be expected, given the sorts of places you'll be going, merely sign off your messages with this saying in Elven.” “And when they are ill, use a different language,” Kamiel says, understanding. “Draconic? I speak that tongue, and I daresay it has an intuitive overtone for the context.” “As you say! Shall we make it thus?” There is a mutter of assent from the fatigued adventurers. Farewells are exchanged, and the party departs Adric Meriko's lonely residence and its strange neighborhood. ---- As the group is getting off a lift in the neighborhood of the Ten Tier Inn, a tall man entering the same conveyance bumps into Teague. The rogue's perturbed countenance transmogrifies into a grin as he realizes he recognizes the offender—a fellow of House Lyrandar. Not just any kinsman, at that, but an uncle. Aran d'Lyrandar is a sea captain of the House. The boisterous man insists on taking Teague and his friends to what he terms a “reputable establishment”. The party is tired (though Teague seems to have new life about him), but not about to pass up an opportunity for gratis refreshment. The man can tell they're weary, and assures them their destination does not lie far away. More significantly, a sea-captain relative of Teague might be able to get them to Zilargo without rendering them all destitute. Aran does in fact escort his nephew and company to a place that is no groggery or barrel house. It is the Overripe Melon, a swanky outfit that is just on the affordable side of ritzy. Much ale is consumed on the elder d'Lyrandar's tab. The captain drinks copiously, but undeniably remains well within his limits. All of the adventurers except Cardea imbibe a bit much. Teague trades stories with his kinsman that grow steadily more indecorous until both are roaring their heads off. Cullen and Kamiel, the two musicians, feel the urge to amuse the other patrons; the former by getting up on stage with the hired musicians providing the evening's entertainment for an impromptu performance, and the latter by summoning himself a lute from out of nowhere and strumming out changes from bawdy Aundarian folk tunes liberally interspersed with highly ornamented fills. Neither of their muses are tolerated long, and both are sternly dissuaded in turn from their disruptions by the staff. Kamiel, knowing his spell is about to expire, puckishly hurls the instrument into the air. Before striking the rafters, it vanishes. Aran seems unoffended by their exuberance, however, and after much conversation with Teague, only half-overheard by the others thanks to the general racket, extends an invitation. “Korranberg, you say? I happen to be sailing in the morning with my crew, and we're bound for Korranport in due course. In the meantime, there's a trading vessel out in the Thunder that's long overdue. A month, in fact. And some trade through there has spotted what might just be a derelict. Might be the same ship, might not. Regardless, I'm taking my crew out there to claim what we may.” “Isn't that piracy?” Cullen asks, incredulous. Cardea tenses, alarmed that Cullen may have just delivered a mortal insult. But Aran d'Lyrandar tosses his head back and laughs. Kamiel knows enough of the law, and can recollect enough even while intoxicated, to explain. “No, it's the law of the sea. Abandoned vessels in neutral waters don't belong to anyone, and whoever happens upon them can do what they will, at their own risk.” Cullen nods. “’Course, I guess it's an open question as to whether this derelict really [i]is[/i] abandoned,” Kamiel continues. “Could be it's just out there for the pleasure of its crew. Or,” his voice lowers, barely audible above the noise of the tavern, “it might be abandoned under the law, but not uninhabited either.” “You mean, inhabited by things that don't have or need or care about a legal claim to it,” Cullen says, catching on to Kamiel's tone. “Things that can prevent others from salvaging it. That don't need laws. Or food to stay alive, or fresh water to drink.” “Yup.” Kamiel drains another mug of ale. “How many crew on your vessel?” Cardea asks briskly. “Twenty-one to twenty-eight—depends on how many show up for the voyage tomorrow!” The captain laughs. “There'll be room aplenty for you, no worries. And a spot of work, too, to earn your room and board!” “You mean helping out the ship's crew and such? I'm not trained as a sailor, but I'm willing to learn,” Kamiel says. The elder d'Lyrandar's only response is a crooked grin and gleaming eyes. Cardea moves things along. “Where shall we meet you?” “Eight o'clock at berth thirty-seven. We'll be sailing mid-morning,” the captain replies. Given that it is approaching midnight, they all need to be up early, and the talk has turned dark thanks to Kamiel, goodbyes are exchanged. Teague's uncle rises and heads toward the bar, probably to settle the tab, and the party makes its way out the door. The route back to the inn is not difficult to retrace, even for the tipsy. Teague, however, has considerably overindulged and requires assistance from Cardea and Kamiel to remain upright. Traveling along one passage, down a lift, and along another, they reach their lodgings in minutes. Each collapses into bed for what looks to be a last slumber for untold days on a surface that does not pitch or roll. [/QUOTE]
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A Toe in the Water: anyone want a new Eberron story hour? (updated 2006-05-25) (POLL CLOSES AT 4:30am EDT, 26 May)
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