(IC) DND 3.5 Enter Planescape

[Neurotic]

Luke Cinders
It takes the better part of five hours trudging through Sigil’s wards, leaning on tavern stools, bribing touts, dodging berks, and greasing palms before you finally scrape together enough chant on the man to make sense of him. The Cage never gives up its secrets cleanly, everyone’s got a different tale, and most of them contradict each other just out of spite. Still, with enough patience and jink, the picture starts to take shape.

From all the scraps of chant you gather, the truth probably sits somewhere in the tangled middle. Not a saint, not a fiend, not a madman. Just another hustler with a philosophy, a reputation, and a knack for survival. But one thing is certain he’s got work and bodies willing to take it will find him more than ready to deal.

Ready to be offered a deal, hopefully a good one because he's ready, Luke goes to The Crooked Sword.

Spoiler: For DM

OOC: How much platinum in the bag remaining?

 

[InVinoVeritas]

Wawaate starts his journey back to the temple, ready to cross the lake again, trusting it to be better to be out in the open and exposed to the chill.

 

[Steve Gorak]

Bimble

You sweep your gaze across the forest, looking at the magical auras in view. Neither the acorn nor the amber leaf carries so much as a flicker of power, mundane, honest things despite their strange placement. The archway gives off a fixed transmutation aura. Unmistakably the strength of a permanent ironwood spell.
Even so, caution guides your hands. You pinch the acorn using the amber leaf rather than bare skin. The leaf bends softly, as though it had surrendered its place on the branch only heartbeats ago. The acorn itself is full-bodied in color and smooth.
The moment you cross the threshold, a violent bloom of conjuration crashes around you. Sound folds inward. Light stretches thin. Your vision drowns as though you’ve stepped through a spell mid-casting. When the glare dies the conjuration’s aura gutters out. Your vision steadies, you stand in a place utterly alien. Petrified tree limbs coil above you, twisted across cramped alleyways to form archways and an ossified canopy. Stone leaves, impossibly detailed, jut from the mortar of walled buildings. A bleak, heavy atmosphere settles across your shoulders, unfamiliar and thick with the taste of smoke.

Bimble recoils as he adjusts to his new surroundings. He instinctively reaches for Roa's reassuring presence and protection, and jumps on the dog. Taking it all in from his higher vantage point, he stares at the petrified trees and leaves and tries to repress a feeling of horror at the petrified trees and leaves. He looks around, tring to understand where he is.