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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: 2836228" data-attributes="member: 12271"><p><strong>The Ill-Fated Schemes of Kamiel</strong></p><p></p><p><strong>2 Eyre 998</strong></p><p></p><p>While Cullen and Teague sleep the slumber of the intoxicated, and Cardea trances, Kamiel's dreams are troubled. Disturbed not by nightmares, but by a nagging feeling that he has overlooked something.</p><p></p><p>He is back in Greenvale swinging away with a miner's pick at the foundations of the Count Fenalik manor house. Except, perversely, he is continuing to attempt to break rock when a man-sized passage into the cellars already exists to his right. His companions are standing around, waiting for him to finish. Why doesn't he just put the pick down and move through the existing entrance? He is certain there is nothing on the other side. All he needs to do is move over and step through.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel's mind grows more and more agitated, and his consciousness begins to grapple with the problem. Then it hits him—the dream is a metaphor. He's not been concerned with the manor house cellars lately. What's been nagging him has been the strange language on the Rite of Enactment scroll.</p><p></p><p>He awakens. Could it be that simple? Adric Meriko said that a <em>comprehend languages</em> spell had been attempted, and failed. That meant that the mysterious language intermixed with the old dialect of Giant on the scroll wasn't a mundane language. He and the scholar discussed the possibility of incantation or magical command words, but failed to realize the obvious experiment—<em>read magic</em>.</p><p></p><p>“Of course,” the young arcanist mutters quietly as he props himself up on one elbow. If it's not mundane language, he reasons, it <em>must</em> be magical—and he, of the group, is the only one with the power to decipher magical writings.</p><p></p><p>Moonlight illuminates the party's room at the Ten Tier Inn. Kamiel gets out of bed and quietly moves over to Cullen's pack, lying on the floor beside the halfling. Dragan, resting on the lower half of the bed, raises his head curiously, but doesn't regard Kamiel as a threat. Cullen's pack is half-open from the usual rummaging that precedes bedding down for the evening, and the scroll protrudes from it.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel can't bring himself to disturb his friend, and rationalizes that the <em>contents</em> of the copied scroll are a form of joint property, owned by the company in general. He withdraws the parchment and unrolls it quietly and carefully; Cullen's tranquil repose is undisturbed. The dog plops his head back down and smacks his lips.</p><p></p><p>Brimming with excitement over solving this mystery and eagerly anticipating the respect he'll earn from his companions, he casts the spell—a bit of old, familiar bardic magic. The text before him sparkles in his sight, and the glyphs begin to swim. Soon, the part of the scroll that is neither Common nor Giant will reshape itself to his eyes, and its meaning will instantly resolve in his mind.</p><p></p><p>Except it doesn't. Kamiel's heart sinks as he realizes the spell has failed. The magical energy within him disperses uselessly, along with his hopes.</p><p></p><p>He refurls the scroll and slips it back into Cullen's pack with dejection. His thoughts are consumed by frustration. “It <em>should</em> have worked, damn it! What kind of writing is neither magical nor non-magical? What kind of writing is so impervious to comprehension?” He has no answers for his own questions.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel shuffles the short distance back to his own bed and crawls under the blanket. If he dreams further, he has no recollection of it.</p><p></p><p>----</p><p></p><p>Dawn breaks at about six o'clock. For those attuned to the heterodyne rhythms of the multiverse, there is a sense in which it is the brightest day in years. Cardea emerges from trance and can feel the radiance of eternal daylight suffusing her. The elven paladin has an instinctual knowledge that her holy power of <em>laying on hands</em> will be ascendant. A sage of the epicycles of the cosmos would say that the plane Irian is coterminous with Eberron.</p><p></p><p>She stands, taking but a moment to enjoy the sensation, and then rouses her companions. “It is time to awaken. We are expected at the docks anon.”</p><p></p><p>The are some groans at this, as her stirring compatriots were inebriated all too recently, but no overt complaint. Dragan hops off the bed with alacrity; he doubtlessly has some business of his own to attend to that will brook no further delay.</p><p></p><p>In about an hour, the companions have cleaned and readied themselves, and Cullen and Kamiel have prepared their spells for the day. Kamiel decides to re-memorize <em>detect magic</em>, the only spell from his new wizard repertoire he had cast the day before, but switches <em>feather fall</em> for <em>mage armor</em>, reasoning that the former is less useful on a boat than it is in Sharn, the City of Towers.</p><p></p><p>Cullen settles the party's bill at the reception kiosk, and the group emerges into the daylight, moving briskly in the direction of the wharves. Along the way, Kamiel reveals his disappointing findings of the night before. Fortunately, Cullen is not angry with him for borrowing the scroll he so laboriously copied. Kamiel finds his companions less disheartened by his failure than he was, too—perhaps they had already resigned themselves to the mystery.</p><p></p><p>The arcanist has ideas on other matters as well. “We have no idea what we're going to be up against on this derelict ship, or in Korranberg for that matter. Did anyone else find it remarkable that the three weapons Cleg had under glass in his shop happened to match up perfectly with our preferred weapons? Except for Cardea, that is. Those weapons were all very high quality and magical. Fate seems to have put quite an opportunity before us. Is it really wise to pass it by?”</p><p></p><p>“It is if we can't afford it,” Teague says.</p><p></p><p>“Well,” Kamiel counters, “we don't <em>just</em> have our individual portions of the wine sale proceeds. I think we forgot to take into account the letter of credit Cardea has, that we just came by.”</p><p></p><p>“And that,” Cardea recalls, “is for one hundred fifty gold. That plus one share from the wine remains insufficient for even one weapon. And we should regard the letter of credit as divided into four equal shares even if only one of us can carry it.”</p><p></p><p>Cullen piles on. “Cleg's price of five hundred was firm. There's no way all three of us will be able to arm ourselves even if he budges a bit.”</p><p></p><p>“Yes,” Kamiel admits, “but he's probably not working right now. It's very early. Perhaps we could just go knock over the place and leave what we think is a fair value for the weapons we need.”</p><p></p><p>Kamiel finds that their pace has suddenly halted, and four pairs of reproachful eyes are upon him. Yes, even the dog's.</p><p></p><p>"Uhm,” he stammers, looking around, feeling very much on the spot. Apparently his companions are not the only ones staring. Some passerby, several yards away, has also stopped and is looking at the group with obvious concern.</p><p></p><p>Cullen can't seem to believe his ears. “‘Knock over’? You know what that <em>means</em>, don't you?”</p><p></p><p>Kamiel coughs nervously. “Er, well, there are many, ah, expressions that have different meanings in various dialects of Common,” he blusters. “I learned this from the bards of many lands whose acquaintance I have made.” He hastily looks over at Cardea, seeking sympathy, but naturally enough finds no comfort from the scrupulous paladin. “For example,” he continues, shifting his attention to Teague, “in Thrane, ‘to knock up’ means ‘to awaken’. In Aundair, by contrast, it means—”</p><p></p><p>“Enough!” Cardea interrupts, her face a mask of reproach. It would seem she knows full well what it means in the Audairian dialect.</p><p></p><p>“Let's move on,” Teague says. He has also noticed the man observing them. “We've got a ship to catch.”</p><p></p><p>The party proceeds down the avenue, and the busybody gawker does likewise, continuing in the opposite direction.</p><p></p><p>Cardea softens after a moment and addresses Kamiel again. “We'll just have to let it go. I realize you just want to ensure that we can defend ourselves adequately. In time, we may have sufficient funds to acquire those weapons lawfully. That time is not now.”</p><p></p><p>“In our travels, we may find weapons that are better still,” Cullen adds on a cheery note.</p><p></p><p>Kamiel yields. “All right. I guess”—he pauses for a moment—“I guess I'm just a bit shaken up after seeing that...that <em>baboon</em> club Cardea to the ground the other night. She's the best protected of us all, we seem to be beset by enemies whose identities we don't even know, and our only friend is in hiding.”</p><p></p><p>“Despair not, or we are surely lost,” Cardea counsels. “Our responsibilities are to the weal of all beings, not just to ourselves, and to uphold the laws that protect the weak from the depredations of the strong,” she asserts. “If we abandon those responsibilities, then what right have we to recover, possess, and protect the item that is our charge from those who are as depraved as Fenalik?”</p><p></p><p>Kamiel nods his head. “None. You're right, of course.” The bardic wizard doesn't completely share Cardea's esteem for regulations, but has to grant that she is essentially correct. Larceny is not qualitatively attenuated through partial compensation, except possibly in an emergency. They appear to be in no imminent danger, though Kamiel dryly thinks to himself that what threatens them may not be evident until they're all lying in shallow graves.</p><p></p><p>Teague and Cullen, both in jaunty moods, steer the conversation to lighter topics and take the lead as the party move rapidly through the canyons between the towers of Sharn, bearing steadily southwest.</p><p></p><p>----</p><p></p><p>After crossing the area above the lower wards, the adventurers come to an outdoor lift at the cliffs above the shore—over a thousand feet below.</p><p></p><p>“This part of the city,” Teague notes, “is called Precarious.”</p><p></p><p>The magical lifts are ubiquitous here. There are dozens of massive cargo lifts interspersed with smaller passenger conveyances. Though it is still early morning, the docks are a hive of activity. Most of the ships appear to be trading vessels, judging by the massive wooden crates that are winched into and out of them by heavy cranes of hardwood with iron fastenings. The cranes transfer the crates to and from big flatbed carts, each pulled by some manner of beast—teams of oxen or horses. A few are pulled by a lone dinosaur of a large herbivorous variety, probably purchased by the shipping companies from the Talenta Plains for precisely this sort of service.</p><p></p><p>The companions make their way aboard one of the passenger lifts, and Kamiel realizes that his decision not to prepare <em>feather fall</em> for the day might have been premature. As the simple wooden beam that functions as a gate is lowered into place by one of the passengers, Kamiel understands that his belief that he has no fear of heights has never been put to as severe a test. The lift is open to the air, serves travelers and dock workers who are typically in a hurry, and has no stops. It is mounted nearly flush to the cliff face. A chill morning breeze blows in off the sea and whips through his hair.</p><p></p><p>Then it drops.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Redwald, post: 2836228, member: 12271"] [b]The Ill-Fated Schemes of Kamiel[/b] [b]2 Eyre 998[/b] While Cullen and Teague sleep the slumber of the intoxicated, and Cardea trances, Kamiel's dreams are troubled. Disturbed not by nightmares, but by a nagging feeling that he has overlooked something. He is back in Greenvale swinging away with a miner's pick at the foundations of the Count Fenalik manor house. Except, perversely, he is continuing to attempt to break rock when a man-sized passage into the cellars already exists to his right. His companions are standing around, waiting for him to finish. Why doesn't he just put the pick down and move through the existing entrance? He is certain there is nothing on the other side. All he needs to do is move over and step through. Kamiel's mind grows more and more agitated, and his consciousness begins to grapple with the problem. Then it hits him—the dream is a metaphor. He's not been concerned with the manor house cellars lately. What's been nagging him has been the strange language on the Rite of Enactment scroll. He awakens. Could it be that simple? Adric Meriko said that a [i]comprehend languages[/i] spell had been attempted, and failed. That meant that the mysterious language intermixed with the old dialect of Giant on the scroll wasn't a mundane language. He and the scholar discussed the possibility of incantation or magical command words, but failed to realize the obvious experiment—[i]read magic[/i]. “Of course,” the young arcanist mutters quietly as he props himself up on one elbow. If it's not mundane language, he reasons, it [i]must[/i] be magical—and he, of the group, is the only one with the power to decipher magical writings. Moonlight illuminates the party's room at the Ten Tier Inn. Kamiel gets out of bed and quietly moves over to Cullen's pack, lying on the floor beside the halfling. Dragan, resting on the lower half of the bed, raises his head curiously, but doesn't regard Kamiel as a threat. Cullen's pack is half-open from the usual rummaging that precedes bedding down for the evening, and the scroll protrudes from it. Kamiel can't bring himself to disturb his friend, and rationalizes that the [i]contents[/i] of the copied scroll are a form of joint property, owned by the company in general. He withdraws the parchment and unrolls it quietly and carefully; Cullen's tranquil repose is undisturbed. The dog plops his head back down and smacks his lips. Brimming with excitement over solving this mystery and eagerly anticipating the respect he'll earn from his companions, he casts the spell—a bit of old, familiar bardic magic. The text before him sparkles in his sight, and the glyphs begin to swim. Soon, the part of the scroll that is neither Common nor Giant will reshape itself to his eyes, and its meaning will instantly resolve in his mind. Except it doesn't. Kamiel's heart sinks as he realizes the spell has failed. The magical energy within him disperses uselessly, along with his hopes. He refurls the scroll and slips it back into Cullen's pack with dejection. His thoughts are consumed by frustration. “It [i]should[/i] have worked, damn it! What kind of writing is neither magical nor non-magical? What kind of writing is so impervious to comprehension?” He has no answers for his own questions. Kamiel shuffles the short distance back to his own bed and crawls under the blanket. If he dreams further, he has no recollection of it. ---- Dawn breaks at about six o'clock. For those attuned to the heterodyne rhythms of the multiverse, there is a sense in which it is the brightest day in years. Cardea emerges from trance and can feel the radiance of eternal daylight suffusing her. The elven paladin has an instinctual knowledge that her holy power of [i]laying on hands[/i] will be ascendant. A sage of the epicycles of the cosmos would say that the plane Irian is coterminous with Eberron. She stands, taking but a moment to enjoy the sensation, and then rouses her companions. “It is time to awaken. We are expected at the docks anon.” The are some groans at this, as her stirring compatriots were inebriated all too recently, but no overt complaint. Dragan hops off the bed with alacrity; he doubtlessly has some business of his own to attend to that will brook no further delay. In about an hour, the companions have cleaned and readied themselves, and Cullen and Kamiel have prepared their spells for the day. Kamiel decides to re-memorize [i]detect magic[/i], the only spell from his new wizard repertoire he had cast the day before, but switches [i]feather fall[/i] for [i]mage armor[/i], reasoning that the former is less useful on a boat than it is in Sharn, the City of Towers. Cullen settles the party's bill at the reception kiosk, and the group emerges into the daylight, moving briskly in the direction of the wharves. Along the way, Kamiel reveals his disappointing findings of the night before. Fortunately, Cullen is not angry with him for borrowing the scroll he so laboriously copied. Kamiel finds his companions less disheartened by his failure than he was, too—perhaps they had already resigned themselves to the mystery. The arcanist has ideas on other matters as well. “We have no idea what we're going to be up against on this derelict ship, or in Korranberg for that matter. Did anyone else find it remarkable that the three weapons Cleg had under glass in his shop happened to match up perfectly with our preferred weapons? Except for Cardea, that is. Those weapons were all very high quality and magical. Fate seems to have put quite an opportunity before us. Is it really wise to pass it by?” “It is if we can't afford it,” Teague says. “Well,” Kamiel counters, “we don't [i]just[/i] have our individual portions of the wine sale proceeds. I think we forgot to take into account the letter of credit Cardea has, that we just came by.” “And that,” Cardea recalls, “is for one hundred fifty gold. That plus one share from the wine remains insufficient for even one weapon. And we should regard the letter of credit as divided into four equal shares even if only one of us can carry it.” Cullen piles on. “Cleg's price of five hundred was firm. There's no way all three of us will be able to arm ourselves even if he budges a bit.” “Yes,” Kamiel admits, “but he's probably not working right now. It's very early. Perhaps we could just go knock over the place and leave what we think is a fair value for the weapons we need.” Kamiel finds that their pace has suddenly halted, and four pairs of reproachful eyes are upon him. Yes, even the dog's. "Uhm,” he stammers, looking around, feeling very much on the spot. Apparently his companions are not the only ones staring. Some passerby, several yards away, has also stopped and is looking at the group with obvious concern. Cullen can't seem to believe his ears. “‘Knock over’? You know what that [i]means[/i], don't you?” Kamiel coughs nervously. “Er, well, there are many, ah, expressions that have different meanings in various dialects of Common,” he blusters. “I learned this from the bards of many lands whose acquaintance I have made.” He hastily looks over at Cardea, seeking sympathy, but naturally enough finds no comfort from the scrupulous paladin. “For example,” he continues, shifting his attention to Teague, “in Thrane, ‘to knock up’ means ‘to awaken’. In Aundair, by contrast, it means—” “Enough!” Cardea interrupts, her face a mask of reproach. It would seem she knows full well what it means in the Audairian dialect. “Let's move on,” Teague says. He has also noticed the man observing them. “We've got a ship to catch.” The party proceeds down the avenue, and the busybody gawker does likewise, continuing in the opposite direction. Cardea softens after a moment and addresses Kamiel again. “We'll just have to let it go. I realize you just want to ensure that we can defend ourselves adequately. In time, we may have sufficient funds to acquire those weapons lawfully. That time is not now.” “In our travels, we may find weapons that are better still,” Cullen adds on a cheery note. Kamiel yields. “All right. I guess”—he pauses for a moment—“I guess I'm just a bit shaken up after seeing that...that [i]baboon[/i] club Cardea to the ground the other night. She's the best protected of us all, we seem to be beset by enemies whose identities we don't even know, and our only friend is in hiding.” “Despair not, or we are surely lost,” Cardea counsels. “Our responsibilities are to the weal of all beings, not just to ourselves, and to uphold the laws that protect the weak from the depredations of the strong,” she asserts. “If we abandon those responsibilities, then what right have we to recover, possess, and protect the item that is our charge from those who are as depraved as Fenalik?” Kamiel nods his head. “None. You're right, of course.” The bardic wizard doesn't completely share Cardea's esteem for regulations, but has to grant that she is essentially correct. Larceny is not qualitatively attenuated through partial compensation, except possibly in an emergency. They appear to be in no imminent danger, though Kamiel dryly thinks to himself that what threatens them may not be evident until they're all lying in shallow graves. Teague and Cullen, both in jaunty moods, steer the conversation to lighter topics and take the lead as the party move rapidly through the canyons between the towers of Sharn, bearing steadily southwest. ---- After crossing the area above the lower wards, the adventurers come to an outdoor lift at the cliffs above the shore—over a thousand feet below. “This part of the city,” Teague notes, “is called Precarious.” The magical lifts are ubiquitous here. There are dozens of massive cargo lifts interspersed with smaller passenger conveyances. Though it is still early morning, the docks are a hive of activity. Most of the ships appear to be trading vessels, judging by the massive wooden crates that are winched into and out of them by heavy cranes of hardwood with iron fastenings. The cranes transfer the crates to and from big flatbed carts, each pulled by some manner of beast—teams of oxen or horses. A few are pulled by a lone dinosaur of a large herbivorous variety, probably purchased by the shipping companies from the Talenta Plains for precisely this sort of service. The companions make their way aboard one of the passenger lifts, and Kamiel realizes that his decision not to prepare [i]feather fall[/i] for the day might have been premature. As the simple wooden beam that functions as a gate is lowered into place by one of the passengers, Kamiel understands that his belief that he has no fear of heights has never been put to as severe a test. The lift is open to the air, serves travelers and dock workers who are typically in a hurry, and has no stops. It is mounted nearly flush to the cliff face. A chill morning breeze blows in off the sea and whips through his hair. Then it drops. [/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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