Unsung
First Post
[sblock=Rusty]The man's shirt. Something about it... You've never seen things like those on the shirt he wears, certainly none in the past few hours you've been conscious, here in this dead, gray city.
Yet something stirs at the back of your mind. Beyond that the endless golden gears of that shadowless, ever-turning void you remember, through the maze of cogs and wheels. Past them...
...to a green place. The whispers of wind and water. Shifting muscle under tawny hide. Rustling green fronds. Darting, trilling shapes in the air. A golden light in the sky that never sinks below the horizon.
Then...
Flowers. All shapes and sizes, a riot of colour and scent, almost overwhelming. How can you remember colours you never saw before...?[/sblock]
Joe's handshake is lackadaisical-- strong fingers, bad grip-- but that seems in keeping with what Picayune's seen of the man so far. However, as he shakes Picayune by the glove (the fabric of which still squirms fitfully every once in a while, as if trying to escape), he closes his eyes a moment. The lids flicker briefly, and his lips move, barely audible.
[sblock=Picayune]The air around the man seems to cloud for a moment. The light and colour of the room seems to dwindle around him. His forehead, tan for these foggy streets and already shiny with sweat, seems to gleam. For a moment, a light appears so bright as to be hard to look at. It fades, leaving only a brief, familiar afterimage.
Just before it fades away to nothing, the eye blinks, once.
When the man opens his eyes, you can tell he's looking right at you, seeing you...and when you look past him, to the woman, Shard, you realize she can see you too...[/sblock]
[sblock=Shard]Seeing the man from this odd angle, you nevertheless can see the glow on his forehead, as his third eye opens. The thought occurs to you that you, too, were once attuned to such matters, and that rather than blocking your view, the shard may have actually wedged open your Sight.
You are under the effects of the spell see invisibility for 1 hour. You may add this spell to your cleric spell list, and may cast it without expending components. Your third eye is forced open; when this happens, until your next long rest, you may cast see invisibility as if you prepared it, in addition to any other spells you prepared that day.
While the ethereal plane should be far from this place, this nevertheless allows you to see Picayune.[/sblock]
The man lets go the glove. "Joe, huh? That works. Or you can just call me Mr Wizard, recently of Oz."
He nods slowly, and turns around the table. "So I see me some Scarecrows, couple of Tin Men, maybe some Dorothies over here. Any volunteers for Cowardly Lion? No?" He grabs Picayune by the wrist, and holds the gloved hand up in the air. "Because it seems to me you're already off to a good start when it comes to pissing off the Wicked Witch."
[sblock=Liliana]The Wicked Witch? Oh, he must mean one of the Gray Ladies, the hateful hags. Awful creatures, who give all fey a bad name. Creatures with hearts of gray and souls of sorrow, served by shriveled gray men whose souls they have withered, and the terrible will o'wisps, the corpselights of the marshes that lure mortals to their doom. Those they abduct and trick, they make into their servants, and what is worse, those taken are so accursed that they forget their names, and come to serve willingly. Oh, hateful, hateful creatures, the Gray Ladies...![/sblock]
[sblock=Eurid]Oh, damn all.
The gloves. Free-floating, crisp white silk, no business being in the Hive. Of course you've seen them, once or twice every few months, around about the tenements. Everyone has. You're not sure where they come from, but they generally come bearing bad news: little white cards etched in gilt, with messages written in a shaky but learned hand. You've seen men and women run screaming from their homes, leaving the cards behind. You've seen a Xaositect march fixedly into the nearest portal with a card in their hands. A young recruit to your own faction even received one once. He left the Mortuary a day later, bought a suit of the finest clothes he could afford, and you haven't seen him since.
You've never been able to puzzle out the meaning of the messages yourself, but Hive dwellers have come to dread them. You've seen a musclebound Starved Dog Barking go out of his way to tear the gloves out of the air with a long pike. Rumour has it he was carried off by a swarm of the things a day later.[/sblock]
[sblock=Shandrizar]...Of course. A pit seems to open up in your phantom stomach, or the absent book of anatomy where your stomach might be. The white gloves. The disembodied silk gloves, the servants of that fop, that huckster, that conjurer of cheap tricks, that...entertainer.
Arthoer Crimsonson. With a certain irascible lich, a named partner of the Old Firm of Crimsonson & Crawley.
Jointly, the pair of them, two of the Golden Lords of Sigil...[/sblock]
Yet something stirs at the back of your mind. Beyond that the endless golden gears of that shadowless, ever-turning void you remember, through the maze of cogs and wheels. Past them...
...to a green place. The whispers of wind and water. Shifting muscle under tawny hide. Rustling green fronds. Darting, trilling shapes in the air. A golden light in the sky that never sinks below the horizon.
Then...
Flowers. All shapes and sizes, a riot of colour and scent, almost overwhelming. How can you remember colours you never saw before...?[/sblock]
Joe's handshake is lackadaisical-- strong fingers, bad grip-- but that seems in keeping with what Picayune's seen of the man so far. However, as he shakes Picayune by the glove (the fabric of which still squirms fitfully every once in a while, as if trying to escape), he closes his eyes a moment. The lids flicker briefly, and his lips move, barely audible.
[sblock=Picayune]The air around the man seems to cloud for a moment. The light and colour of the room seems to dwindle around him. His forehead, tan for these foggy streets and already shiny with sweat, seems to gleam. For a moment, a light appears so bright as to be hard to look at. It fades, leaving only a brief, familiar afterimage.
Just before it fades away to nothing, the eye blinks, once.
When the man opens his eyes, you can tell he's looking right at you, seeing you...and when you look past him, to the woman, Shard, you realize she can see you too...[/sblock]
[sblock=Shard]Seeing the man from this odd angle, you nevertheless can see the glow on his forehead, as his third eye opens. The thought occurs to you that you, too, were once attuned to such matters, and that rather than blocking your view, the shard may have actually wedged open your Sight.
You are under the effects of the spell see invisibility for 1 hour. You may add this spell to your cleric spell list, and may cast it without expending components. Your third eye is forced open; when this happens, until your next long rest, you may cast see invisibility as if you prepared it, in addition to any other spells you prepared that day.
While the ethereal plane should be far from this place, this nevertheless allows you to see Picayune.[/sblock]
The man lets go the glove. "Joe, huh? That works. Or you can just call me Mr Wizard, recently of Oz."
He nods slowly, and turns around the table. "So I see me some Scarecrows, couple of Tin Men, maybe some Dorothies over here. Any volunteers for Cowardly Lion? No?" He grabs Picayune by the wrist, and holds the gloved hand up in the air. "Because it seems to me you're already off to a good start when it comes to pissing off the Wicked Witch."
[sblock=Liliana]The Wicked Witch? Oh, he must mean one of the Gray Ladies, the hateful hags. Awful creatures, who give all fey a bad name. Creatures with hearts of gray and souls of sorrow, served by shriveled gray men whose souls they have withered, and the terrible will o'wisps, the corpselights of the marshes that lure mortals to their doom. Those they abduct and trick, they make into their servants, and what is worse, those taken are so accursed that they forget their names, and come to serve willingly. Oh, hateful, hateful creatures, the Gray Ladies...![/sblock]
[sblock=Eurid]Oh, damn all.
The gloves. Free-floating, crisp white silk, no business being in the Hive. Of course you've seen them, once or twice every few months, around about the tenements. Everyone has. You're not sure where they come from, but they generally come bearing bad news: little white cards etched in gilt, with messages written in a shaky but learned hand. You've seen men and women run screaming from their homes, leaving the cards behind. You've seen a Xaositect march fixedly into the nearest portal with a card in their hands. A young recruit to your own faction even received one once. He left the Mortuary a day later, bought a suit of the finest clothes he could afford, and you haven't seen him since.
You've never been able to puzzle out the meaning of the messages yourself, but Hive dwellers have come to dread them. You've seen a musclebound Starved Dog Barking go out of his way to tear the gloves out of the air with a long pike. Rumour has it he was carried off by a swarm of the things a day later.[/sblock]
[sblock=Shandrizar]...Of course. A pit seems to open up in your phantom stomach, or the absent book of anatomy where your stomach might be. The white gloves. The disembodied silk gloves, the servants of that fop, that huckster, that conjurer of cheap tricks, that...entertainer.
Arthoer Crimsonson. With a certain irascible lich, a named partner of the Old Firm of Crimsonson & Crawley.
Jointly, the pair of them, two of the Golden Lords of Sigil...[/sblock]
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Picayune blinked when the Eye revealed itself on Hawaii Joe's forehead. Right about then, the effigy realized Joe was mumbling words, like a Voo Doo witch doctor he'd seen at Marie Laveau's. That man had been three-quarters charlatan and a quarter scary real. Joe was like him. Picayune tried to listen to the words the man mumbled, tried to figure what the deuce Joe was doing. He gave it up as a bad job when the Eye appeared, though. And when Joe grabbed his wrist and held up his white-gloved hand, Picayune yanked back. 
