D&D 5E [D&D 5e] Planescape - In Through the Out Door

[Unsung]

"Welcome to the Jilted Planes!" croaks a voice to your left, the moment you're across the threshold.

An old man with the look of a beggar sits by the unlit fireplace to one side of the door. His left arm is tucked in close to his chest, obviously crippled in some way, and a red bandage is wrapped over one of eyes. He prods at a seemingly empty birdcage sitting in the ashes using a burnt piece of wood.

The bulk of the inn's patrons have gathered around the back corner of the Jilted Planes, cheering on what appears to be a game of cards. A very tall, very blond barmaid deftly maneuvers through the crow, her hair tied back in tight Nordic braids, her cargo of pewter tankards balanced on what appears to be a flattened steel shield. The man behind the bar is a rakish half-elf with a rather wolfish aspect, having a lively chat with a Harmonium guardswoman, nursing a small metal cup to herself.

You easily find a free table.

 

[KirayaTiDrekan]

Rusty follows the group and sits down on the floor near the table, though it doesn't exactly sit, more like folding itself into a more compact form.

 

[Pembinasa]

Graydon had watched the events on the street in silence (for once), as he'd clearly gotten the wrong idea of things. The ghost had come along (alleyway-haunting alone was clearly too simple for a place like this) and fiddled around with the glove, the fae were doing their thing with independently animated cups- some sort of gambling, apparently?- and Graydon's head was starting to ache again and he could really go for something to moisten his throat.

Bending his head and massaging his temples, he'd managed to miss all but the departure of the clowny menace- and it looked like they were all heading to someplace out of this vile wretched yellowish air, something he was well and thoroughly interested in! Deploying a mage hand to scoop up some of the strange brownish tokens dropped, he followed with alacrity, glancing over at yet more gambling before bellying up to the bar and rapping politely on the surface. "When you've the time- something to wash out whatever's in the air around here, if you please?" Dropping the discs on the bartop, he took a moment to look at them, interested; people around here were making coins out of copper, too? He wondered where they might have come from; might as well look for some identifying marks.

OOC: Mage hand grab: 1d10= 5 Coin study: Investigation roll of 1d20+6 (minus 1 because Lower Ward air was starting to affect him)= 8 total

 

[Unsung]

Rusty, make a Perception check. Anyone at or near the table by Rusty can make it too.

[sblock=DC 8 Wisdom (Perception) check]It's not entirely obvious how the rogue modron sees or hears anything, but it...senses footsteps on the floor behind it.

Whether Rusty is aware that hard, heavy footsteps belong to the barmaid (or that she seems to have more than the usual number of feet if they do), that's anyone's guess. But as she parts the crowd with shiny metal pitcher in one hand, and her tray covered in brass-rimmed glass snifters in the other, anyone can see that she hasn't noticed the Rusty, folded on the floor in front of her.[/sblock]

 

[KirayaTiDrekan]

Perception (1d20+4=24)

Rusty unfolds itself and moves out of the way, at least somewhat cognizant of the fact that accidentally tripping the approaching barmaid would be a bad thing.

 

[Unsung]

OOC: Critical perception. I probably should have let you take Passive Perception on that, sorry.

The bartender's eyes light up-- not at the sight of coin on his counter, but seemingly at the presence of a new patron in bar. "Wait, wait. Don't tell me." He wags a finger at Graydon and beams. "...Mystaran. Right? Never forget an accent."

He turns without waiting for an answer, and starts filling one of the ubiquitous metal mugs from one of the two large casks set into the wall behind him.

Graydon inspects the coins, still sitting on the bar in front of him. Even the coins of this place are utterly alien to him. This one is either a dragon or very stately-looking kobold. That one looks like a series of perfect concentric squares but is actually an eye-numbing spiral pattern... This one has some sort of waterbird floating in a pond and a human queen on the other side... This one is a bit misshapen. The lion's face is all smushed. None of them look familiar.

But then, this one... This one is a woman's face, staring impassively with blank, sightless eyes. At him. Through him. A crown, or headdress, or curved bladelike implements surrounding that face, unfamiliar and yet... somehow...

The barman sets a mug of what he'd probably say was his finest ale in front of Graydon, and sweeps the coins off the counter. "Welcome, boy, to the Jilted Planes." He has a deep, burring voice-- resonant, jovial-- in spite of being a relatively small man. His eyes twinkle, and look too old for his face. The bright blue-and-red stripes of the billowing sleeves that come pouring out of his leather vest carry a hint of mercenary livery about them. "I am, but of course, your humble landlord. Barstle Fitzhavocke," he says, and extends his hand for Graydon to shake.

 

[Unsung]

The barmaid walks, or rather canters, up to the table.

"Oh, wonderful. More walking luggage," she says, looking at the modron on the floor. She has a very thick accent. "Just what this place needs, another box who doesn't drink. Well, at least this one can keep its bone-box shut, I'll say that for it. Well, what can I get for you all? Might as well take your orders while I'm passing."

She's very tall. Now you can see why.

Rather than a set of human legs, she has the quadruped lower body of some sort of mountain goat, like some sort of centaur. She has a short, wooly coat, the same pale yellow as her hair, and shiny white cloven hooves. She's wearing a bodice, a couple of metal torcs around her arms, and some light barding on her back-- her other back-- made up of cured leather panels with runes burnt into them, reinforced with metal strips.

"Well?" she says, after a brief silence.

 

[KirayaTiDrekan]

Rusty points at itself, "We are Rusty." It's tone has shifted just a bit. It seems to be proud of its name, now, though it still hasn't grasped its own individuality.

 

[Unsung]

The barmaid glances at Rusty, then back at the others at the table. Her eyebrows, so blond they are almost invisible, raise slightly. "Oof. I find myself agreeing with your modron. This is a thing unprecedented," she says.

 

[Unsung]

[sblock=Picayune only]There are a number of dead rats among the rafters. They look as if they've been mummified. That, and a whole lot of cobwebs. They all have the same whorl of bone sticking out of their heads, that little walnut-or-brain-shaped tumour. This city is full of death.[/sblock]