Menu
News
All News
Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
Pathfinder
Starfinder
Warhammer
2d20 System
Year Zero Engine
Industry News
Reviews
Dragon Reflections
Columns
Weekly Digests
Weekly News Digest
Freebies, Sales & Bundles
RPG Print News
RPG Crowdfunding News
Game Content
ENterplanetary DimENsions
Mythological Figures
Opinion
Worlds of Design
Peregrine's Next
RPG Evolution
Other Columns
From the Freelancing Frontline
Monster ENcyclopedia
WotC/TSR Alumni Look Back
4 Hours w/RSD (Ryan Dancey)
The Road to 3E (Jonathan Tweet)
Greenwood's Realms (Ed Greenwood)
Drawmij's TSR (Jim Ward)
Community
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Resources
Wiki
Pages
Latest activity
Media
New media
New comments
Search media
Downloads
Latest reviews
Search resources
EN Publishing
Store
EN5ider
Adventures in ZEITGEIST
Awfully Cheerful Engine
What's OLD is NEW
Judge Dredd & The Worlds Of 2000AD
War of the Burning Sky
Level Up: Advanced 5E
Events & Releases
Upcoming Events
Private Events
Featured Events
Socials!
Twitch
YouTube
Facebook (EN Publishing)
Facebook (EN World)
Twitter
Instagram
TikTok
Podcast
Features
Top 5 RPGs Compiled Charts 2004-Present
Adventure Game Industry Market Research Summary (RPGs) V1.0
Ryan Dancey: Acquiring TSR
Q&A With Gary Gygax
D&D Rules FAQs
TSR, WotC, & Paizo: A Comparative History
D&D Pronunciation Guide
Million Dollar TTRPG Kickstarters
Tabletop RPG Podcast Hall of Fame
Eric Noah's Unofficial D&D 3rd Edition News
D&D in the Mainstream
D&D & RPG History
About Morrus
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="Fiasco" data-source="post: 2840939" data-attributes="member: 15187"><p>On leaving the inn, Moxadder wasted no time in slipping away from his companions and striking out for the less reputable areas. Though Port Warlock was quite small and open, his nose for squalor and quiet desperation led him unerringly in the right direction. He found an area where the fantastic buildings gave way to cruder constructions. Slipshod and slapdash were the predominant themes, and nary a smidgeon of care lavished on either style. In such places hope was still born and poverty starved much of the goodness out of ordinary people. </p><p></p><p>He reached a dirty, rutted street where young toughs lounged purposelessly in doorways while dissolute sailors and what passed for the local lowlifes skulked its twisting length. Although Moxadder didn’t expect to find an organised guild, he was certain there would be people with links to whatever unpleasantness lurked beneath the veneer of any civilised area. Pirates who looted the entire Cursed Sea with impunity would invariably come into contact with those who were interested in reselling booty and slaves.</p><p></p><p>As he wandered down the half derelict street, he spotted a battered tavern called the Ravished Mermaid. It was a place no different to the many of its like he had frequented in Halfast. Instincts honed by ten years of survival in the blackest pits of that debauched city gave him confidence that he would spot any potential danger long before they became a threat. The fact his belly was full of good food, a fine collection of knives were concealed on his person and he wore a vest of leather stout enough to turn blows, made him all the more capable of enjoying this feeling of security. </p><p></p><p>He stepped into the tavern’s gloomy interior and ordered a cheap ale at the bar; in reality little more than a bench set at one end of the room. He selected a neglected table against the wall, near the entrance and settled himself into the atmosphere of the place. It was nice to be home.</p><p></p><p>Gerard felt far from home. The people of Port Warlock shared neither the sophistication of cities like Thessingcourt or Halfast nor the pleasing subservience of more bucolic surrounds. Instead, the populace had a penchant for giving cryptic answers to even the most simple questions, as though each were some ancient greybeard who had the wisdom of the ages at their command. Argonne’s irritating presence did not help matters. Limpet like, the woodsman had attached himself to the noble scion. Relatively small as the town was, Argonne had not felt like losing himself in it entirely, and as he’d somehow lost sight of Moxadder, he’d made do with the fop.</p><p></p><p>Doggedly, the nobleman stuck to his task as best he could. The pirates had used sorcerer’s coins that transformed the user’s appearance. As his companions had abandoned him in pursuit of their own interests, it fell to him to find those wizards who were known to sell such items. It might be that one of the spell merchants would lead them to the Blood Sails. Frustratingly, he had to be mindful of the Baron’s requirement that he not be implicated in the Hydra’s investigation. </p><p></p><p>Gerard pondered his options. He needed a pretext for seeking similar coins himself, something plausible yet unconnected with his true purpose. Argonne strayed into his line of vision, gawping at a particularly unlikely home constructed of what appeared to be blown glass. As usual, the woodsman had pulled his broad brimmed hat low over his face. Alas, the exaggeratedly broad chin and gaping mouth were still there for all to see. Gerard smiled wickedly. Perhaps he had a use for the lummox after all. “Come Argonne”, he said imperiously. “Stop impersonating a guppy and follow me. We have some sorcerer’s to visit”.</p><p></p><p>With much difficulty, he wrested information on the services offered by various practitioners of the arcane arts from the local populace. It was almost as though the ordinary townsfolk compensated for their complete lack of magical ability by accumulating vast stores of obscure phrases with which to season their conversation. Eventually, after much cudgelling of both his patience and wit, Gerard learned three names that bore further scrutiny: Misomorph, a human with a reputation for being an artist as well as a wizard; Quickling, an elf who openly sold expensive transmutations; and Grisha, a dwarf who peddled cheap quackery in the markets. Massaging his temples, Gerard set about trying to cajole directions to these wizards from the obtuse natives. </p><p></p><p>The transmuter Misomorph lived in a grand villa on the hill overlooking Port Warlock. As he sat in his comfortable, well lit work room, he looked out of the broad window and admired the view. The afternoon sun gave warmth to the town, smoothing out some of its flaws and giving a unifying theme to the wilfully individualistic buildings. In the background, the Cursed Sea belied its name, gently sliding curls of water against the island’s chiselled shores. He allowed the focus of his eyes to slowly retrace the path back to his rooms, touching here, on the interesting profile of a cliff face, there on a intriguingly shadowed building. He lingered longest on his carefully ordered rock garden, with it’s tidy raked paths and subtly nuanced features. Inspired anew, Misomorph returned his attention to the modelling board. With a snap of his fingers, the square of clay in front of him became animate, the crude stuff surging and retreating as chaotic impulses rippled through its substance. </p><p></p><p>Concentrating deeply, the wizard began to impose his will on the clay, shaping it with the force of his thoughts. Just as he was about to give form to the vision he had conceived in last night’s dreams, a loud knocking broke his concentration. Muttering in frustration, Misomorph left the work table to attend to the callers. </p><p></p><p>As he strode impatiently through the long corridors of his manse, he railed at the parlous state of his finances which compelled him to truckle to the whims of the public. Muttering curses he flung open his door and glared irritably at his visitors. Sadly, his foreboding mien failed to make an impression. Of the two men who stood before him, one had his back partially turned and was leering at his gardens while chortling some mindless nonsense about ‘growing stones’. The other, an elegantly attired young man, genteelly stifled a yawn with the back of his hand before enquiring, “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Misomorph the Transmuter?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes you do”, replied the mage testily, “Please state your business quickly, I have urgent work to attend to. Also, if your man finds my rock garden too stimulating for his delicate sensibilities, I suggest you send him to wait by the road. No doubt the dust and gravel will provide him much amusement”.</p><p></p><p>The young fop seemed unperturbed by the mage’s bruskness and smoothly came to the point. “It is on behalf of this rude fellow that I have come to you. My enquiries have led me to believe that you are a wizard skilled in transformations of the body”, he flattered Misomorph with a honeyed voice. “Since all know your skill is paramount, I was wondering if you could do something for this!”. As he concluded his request the dandy propelled his brutish companion towards Misomorph with a small shove while simultaneously sweeping off its hat. </p><p></p><p>The artist gasped. Now bare headed, the lumpish features of the second man were dishearteningly revealed. The aesthetically sensitive wizard was aghast. It appeared that nature had cursed the simple yokel with every imperfection that could disfigure the human face. With horrid fascination, his attention wandered from the exaggerated chin, bent nose and disconcertingly wide set eyes (one of them cocked), to the bulging forehead and crooked, discoloured teeth. The man’s complexion was rough and a ragged beard did little to hide the strange lumps that distended the surface. A great mono-brow trailed across the forehead, thick and untamed like a long neglected hedge. Not even a blind mother could love such a face, indeed the peasant looked as if his face had been shaped by a palsied sculptor who was not only blind, but had only a vague description of a man to go on. Eventually, Misomorph managed to wrest his attention away from the cretin and turn to its companion, who had maintained an expectant silence throughout the inspection. The gentleman suavely for the bumpkin to replace his hat. </p><p></p><p>“You can see that our need is great”, said the dandy. “Do you have anything that could set to rights this cruel trick played by nature. Some magic or glamour, that might make him presentable?”</p><p></p><p>Misomorph shook his head, “Though its hard to believe, I use my gift for… projects of a larger scope. I deal with epic landscapes, flights of fantasy that can transform a villa to a place of wonder not…” his voice trailed off as he contemplated just what might be required to set the yokel right. He felt a stab of pity for the man; to be so ugly, what a terrible fate! Enlightened as he was with artistic vision, the thought of such disfigurement was nigh intolerable. Already he could feel the inspiration that had seethed through him that morning begin to evaporate before the malformed visage of the caller. He hardened his heart and gestured that the interview was over. </p><p></p><p>“I am sorry but I do not perform, cosmetic magics”, he said, struggling to find the correct terminology. To Misomorph’s surprise, the gentleman did not seem too disturbed by the refusal while the deformed man seemed by and large bemused by the entire conversation. No doubt he was addled in mind as well as body, the mage thought as he firmly shut the door and hurried back to his studio. Mercifully, the entire visit was soon forgotten as he set anew to the task of cajoling reality to shape itself into the bravura visions in his mind.</p><p></p><p>Gerard left the villa well satisfied with their terminated interview. As he had hoped, Argonne was the perfect foil to his inquiries. The woodsman’s ugliness was so profound that their motive for seeking transformative coins was not even questioned. Confident that his method of pursuing information was sound, he sauntered back into town and made for Quickling’s abode. Despite the upheavals and frustrations of the day, he felt quite pleased with himself. He felt in command of the situation and the normally troublesome Argonne was dancing to his tune. Up until now, he had not enjoyed such pre-eminence. At the formation of the Hydra he had naturally assumed that he would be given command. This was only to be expected given his superior social standing. Indeed he had believed implicitly in his role for several days before it slowly dawned on him that the others considered him merely ‘one of the lads’. </p><p></p><p>Oh contemptible sentiment! He had fought back by giving imperious commands and treating any overly familiar behaviour with haughty contempt. Alas, this approach met with curt rebuffs at best and he was surprised at how he missed their simple camaraderie once it was withdrawn. By the time of their arrival on Sorcerer’s Isle he had rethought his strategy. Perhaps it was his fate to become a man of the people, to work closely with them and show himself as an ideal to which they could strive. If they would not recognise that leadership was his birth right, then he would use more subtle ways to bend them to his will. He could only hope that his father would not hear of this compromise of the noble Mowbray name. He turned to make sure that Argonne still trailed docilely behind him. No matter, for the moment Argonne was doing as he was told and things were definitely looking up.</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">*****</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Fiasco, post: 2840939, member: 15187"] On leaving the inn, Moxadder wasted no time in slipping away from his companions and striking out for the less reputable areas. Though Port Warlock was quite small and open, his nose for squalor and quiet desperation led him unerringly in the right direction. He found an area where the fantastic buildings gave way to cruder constructions. Slipshod and slapdash were the predominant themes, and nary a smidgeon of care lavished on either style. In such places hope was still born and poverty starved much of the goodness out of ordinary people. He reached a dirty, rutted street where young toughs lounged purposelessly in doorways while dissolute sailors and what passed for the local lowlifes skulked its twisting length. Although Moxadder didn’t expect to find an organised guild, he was certain there would be people with links to whatever unpleasantness lurked beneath the veneer of any civilised area. Pirates who looted the entire Cursed Sea with impunity would invariably come into contact with those who were interested in reselling booty and slaves. As he wandered down the half derelict street, he spotted a battered tavern called the Ravished Mermaid. It was a place no different to the many of its like he had frequented in Halfast. Instincts honed by ten years of survival in the blackest pits of that debauched city gave him confidence that he would spot any potential danger long before they became a threat. The fact his belly was full of good food, a fine collection of knives were concealed on his person and he wore a vest of leather stout enough to turn blows, made him all the more capable of enjoying this feeling of security. He stepped into the tavern’s gloomy interior and ordered a cheap ale at the bar; in reality little more than a bench set at one end of the room. He selected a neglected table against the wall, near the entrance and settled himself into the atmosphere of the place. It was nice to be home. Gerard felt far from home. The people of Port Warlock shared neither the sophistication of cities like Thessingcourt or Halfast nor the pleasing subservience of more bucolic surrounds. Instead, the populace had a penchant for giving cryptic answers to even the most simple questions, as though each were some ancient greybeard who had the wisdom of the ages at their command. Argonne’s irritating presence did not help matters. Limpet like, the woodsman had attached himself to the noble scion. Relatively small as the town was, Argonne had not felt like losing himself in it entirely, and as he’d somehow lost sight of Moxadder, he’d made do with the fop. Doggedly, the nobleman stuck to his task as best he could. The pirates had used sorcerer’s coins that transformed the user’s appearance. As his companions had abandoned him in pursuit of their own interests, it fell to him to find those wizards who were known to sell such items. It might be that one of the spell merchants would lead them to the Blood Sails. Frustratingly, he had to be mindful of the Baron’s requirement that he not be implicated in the Hydra’s investigation. Gerard pondered his options. He needed a pretext for seeking similar coins himself, something plausible yet unconnected with his true purpose. Argonne strayed into his line of vision, gawping at a particularly unlikely home constructed of what appeared to be blown glass. As usual, the woodsman had pulled his broad brimmed hat low over his face. Alas, the exaggeratedly broad chin and gaping mouth were still there for all to see. Gerard smiled wickedly. Perhaps he had a use for the lummox after all. “Come Argonne”, he said imperiously. “Stop impersonating a guppy and follow me. We have some sorcerer’s to visit”. With much difficulty, he wrested information on the services offered by various practitioners of the arcane arts from the local populace. It was almost as though the ordinary townsfolk compensated for their complete lack of magical ability by accumulating vast stores of obscure phrases with which to season their conversation. Eventually, after much cudgelling of both his patience and wit, Gerard learned three names that bore further scrutiny: Misomorph, a human with a reputation for being an artist as well as a wizard; Quickling, an elf who openly sold expensive transmutations; and Grisha, a dwarf who peddled cheap quackery in the markets. Massaging his temples, Gerard set about trying to cajole directions to these wizards from the obtuse natives. The transmuter Misomorph lived in a grand villa on the hill overlooking Port Warlock. As he sat in his comfortable, well lit work room, he looked out of the broad window and admired the view. The afternoon sun gave warmth to the town, smoothing out some of its flaws and giving a unifying theme to the wilfully individualistic buildings. In the background, the Cursed Sea belied its name, gently sliding curls of water against the island’s chiselled shores. He allowed the focus of his eyes to slowly retrace the path back to his rooms, touching here, on the interesting profile of a cliff face, there on a intriguingly shadowed building. He lingered longest on his carefully ordered rock garden, with it’s tidy raked paths and subtly nuanced features. Inspired anew, Misomorph returned his attention to the modelling board. With a snap of his fingers, the square of clay in front of him became animate, the crude stuff surging and retreating as chaotic impulses rippled through its substance. Concentrating deeply, the wizard began to impose his will on the clay, shaping it with the force of his thoughts. Just as he was about to give form to the vision he had conceived in last night’s dreams, a loud knocking broke his concentration. Muttering in frustration, Misomorph left the work table to attend to the callers. As he strode impatiently through the long corridors of his manse, he railed at the parlous state of his finances which compelled him to truckle to the whims of the public. Muttering curses he flung open his door and glared irritably at his visitors. Sadly, his foreboding mien failed to make an impression. Of the two men who stood before him, one had his back partially turned and was leering at his gardens while chortling some mindless nonsense about ‘growing stones’. The other, an elegantly attired young man, genteelly stifled a yawn with the back of his hand before enquiring, “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Misomorph the Transmuter?” “Yes you do”, replied the mage testily, “Please state your business quickly, I have urgent work to attend to. Also, if your man finds my rock garden too stimulating for his delicate sensibilities, I suggest you send him to wait by the road. No doubt the dust and gravel will provide him much amusement”. The young fop seemed unperturbed by the mage’s bruskness and smoothly came to the point. “It is on behalf of this rude fellow that I have come to you. My enquiries have led me to believe that you are a wizard skilled in transformations of the body”, he flattered Misomorph with a honeyed voice. “Since all know your skill is paramount, I was wondering if you could do something for this!”. As he concluded his request the dandy propelled his brutish companion towards Misomorph with a small shove while simultaneously sweeping off its hat. The artist gasped. Now bare headed, the lumpish features of the second man were dishearteningly revealed. The aesthetically sensitive wizard was aghast. It appeared that nature had cursed the simple yokel with every imperfection that could disfigure the human face. With horrid fascination, his attention wandered from the exaggerated chin, bent nose and disconcertingly wide set eyes (one of them cocked), to the bulging forehead and crooked, discoloured teeth. The man’s complexion was rough and a ragged beard did little to hide the strange lumps that distended the surface. A great mono-brow trailed across the forehead, thick and untamed like a long neglected hedge. Not even a blind mother could love such a face, indeed the peasant looked as if his face had been shaped by a palsied sculptor who was not only blind, but had only a vague description of a man to go on. Eventually, Misomorph managed to wrest his attention away from the cretin and turn to its companion, who had maintained an expectant silence throughout the inspection. The gentleman suavely for the bumpkin to replace his hat. “You can see that our need is great”, said the dandy. “Do you have anything that could set to rights this cruel trick played by nature. Some magic or glamour, that might make him presentable?” Misomorph shook his head, “Though its hard to believe, I use my gift for… projects of a larger scope. I deal with epic landscapes, flights of fantasy that can transform a villa to a place of wonder not…” his voice trailed off as he contemplated just what might be required to set the yokel right. He felt a stab of pity for the man; to be so ugly, what a terrible fate! Enlightened as he was with artistic vision, the thought of such disfigurement was nigh intolerable. Already he could feel the inspiration that had seethed through him that morning begin to evaporate before the malformed visage of the caller. He hardened his heart and gestured that the interview was over. “I am sorry but I do not perform, cosmetic magics”, he said, struggling to find the correct terminology. To Misomorph’s surprise, the gentleman did not seem too disturbed by the refusal while the deformed man seemed by and large bemused by the entire conversation. No doubt he was addled in mind as well as body, the mage thought as he firmly shut the door and hurried back to his studio. Mercifully, the entire visit was soon forgotten as he set anew to the task of cajoling reality to shape itself into the bravura visions in his mind. Gerard left the villa well satisfied with their terminated interview. As he had hoped, Argonne was the perfect foil to his inquiries. The woodsman’s ugliness was so profound that their motive for seeking transformative coins was not even questioned. Confident that his method of pursuing information was sound, he sauntered back into town and made for Quickling’s abode. Despite the upheavals and frustrations of the day, he felt quite pleased with himself. He felt in command of the situation and the normally troublesome Argonne was dancing to his tune. Up until now, he had not enjoyed such pre-eminence. At the formation of the Hydra he had naturally assumed that he would be given command. This was only to be expected given his superior social standing. Indeed he had believed implicitly in his role for several days before it slowly dawned on him that the others considered him merely ‘one of the lads’. Oh contemptible sentiment! He had fought back by giving imperious commands and treating any overly familiar behaviour with haughty contempt. Alas, this approach met with curt rebuffs at best and he was surprised at how he missed their simple camaraderie once it was withdrawn. By the time of their arrival on Sorcerer’s Isle he had rethought his strategy. Perhaps it was his fate to become a man of the people, to work closely with them and show himself as an ideal to which they could strive. If they would not recognise that leadership was his birth right, then he would use more subtle ways to bend them to his will. He could only hope that his father would not hear of this compromise of the noble Mowbray name. He turned to make sure that Argonne still trailed docilely behind him. No matter, for the moment Argonne was doing as he was told and things were definitely looking up. [CENTER]*****[/CENTER] [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)
Top