Neurotic
I plan on living forever. Or die trying.
Ready to be offered a deal, hopefully a good one because he's ready, Luke goes to The Crooked Sword.
|
(IC) DND 3.5 Enter Planescape
- Thread starter OneCrappy DM
- Start date
InVinoVeritas
Adventurer
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
Hero
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.
TaranTheWanderer
Legend
As he watches the two walk away, wrapped up in their own troubles, he turns the opposite direction, down the main thoroughfare, looking for a place to sleep.
OneCrappy DM
Explorer
Wawaate
You leave the dragon’s lair behind and begin the long descent toward the frozen lake below. As you pick your way down the mountain path, a flicker in the sky catches your eye a brief spark of light. Focusing on it, you realize it’s the fiery silhouette of a dragon cutting across the heavens. A moment later, a thunderous roar rolls over the peaks, not from behind you, but from above, growing louder as it rushes toward your position.
The mountain trembles beneath your feet. Another roar, deeper and colder resonates from deep within the stone itself. A sickening understanding dawns on you, two dragons are about to clash over their territory, and you are caught in the middle of their battleground. The mountainside shifts. Snow cracks. Then the world gives way.
A massive avalanche tears loose, roaring down the slope with unstoppable force. There is no dodging it, not here perched on the exposed face of the mountain. Survival is reduced to a single instinct endure. The snow slams into you with the strength of a storm. You’re swept off your feet, sliding helplessly with the churning white wave. You cling desperately to the white dragon feather you fought so hard to obtain, refusing to let it slip from your grasp as you hurtle downward.
The ruins of the ancient city below surge up to meet you far too quickly. Through the swirling frost and blinding brightness, you catch one final image: the stone façade of a once mighty edifice rising from the foothills, its shadow swallowing your vision. Then the snow crashes over you, and everything goes white. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the bone shattering impact of the ancient wall rushing up to meet you. Instead of stone, however, the avalanche delivers you into an unexpectedly soft, shallow drift more like falling into a snowbank than crashing through a ruin. For a heartbeat, you lie still, stunned.
Then the noise hits you.
Not the roar of dragons or the thunder of collapsing mountains children, laughing, whooping, cheering as if winter itself had come as a gift. Confusion needles through your thoughts. There shouldn’t be anyone here. You were nowhere near civilization… or at least, nowhere near any civilization that should still be breathing. You push yourself up, snow sliding from your arms, and stare. Buildings crowd around you, crooked towers of stone and metal, walls patched with rusted plates, balconies supported by beams that look like they were scavenged from a dozen different worlds. Narrow alleys twist away like roots burrowing through the city’s flesh. And above you… nothing. No sky. No horizon. Just the endless, smoky curve of an inner ring, arching overhead like the inside of a great iron shell.
A sudden snap behind you draws your attention. The portal a stone window of shimmering frost you seemingly crashed through. Snow swirls as the last tendrils of planar energy disappear, sealing off the world you came from. As it closes, the distant howls and clashing roars of the battling dragons fade, thinning into silence until they are nothing more than a memory pressed between your ears.
You leave the dragon’s lair behind and begin the long descent toward the frozen lake below. As you pick your way down the mountain path, a flicker in the sky catches your eye a brief spark of light. Focusing on it, you realize it’s the fiery silhouette of a dragon cutting across the heavens. A moment later, a thunderous roar rolls over the peaks, not from behind you, but from above, growing louder as it rushes toward your position.
The mountain trembles beneath your feet. Another roar, deeper and colder resonates from deep within the stone itself. A sickening understanding dawns on you, two dragons are about to clash over their territory, and you are caught in the middle of their battleground. The mountainside shifts. Snow cracks. Then the world gives way.
A massive avalanche tears loose, roaring down the slope with unstoppable force. There is no dodging it, not here perched on the exposed face of the mountain. Survival is reduced to a single instinct endure. The snow slams into you with the strength of a storm. You’re swept off your feet, sliding helplessly with the churning white wave. You cling desperately to the white dragon feather you fought so hard to obtain, refusing to let it slip from your grasp as you hurtle downward.
The ruins of the ancient city below surge up to meet you far too quickly. Through the swirling frost and blinding brightness, you catch one final image: the stone façade of a once mighty edifice rising from the foothills, its shadow swallowing your vision. Then the snow crashes over you, and everything goes white. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the bone shattering impact of the ancient wall rushing up to meet you. Instead of stone, however, the avalanche delivers you into an unexpectedly soft, shallow drift more like falling into a snowbank than crashing through a ruin. For a heartbeat, you lie still, stunned.
Then the noise hits you.
Not the roar of dragons or the thunder of collapsing mountains children, laughing, whooping, cheering as if winter itself had come as a gift. Confusion needles through your thoughts. There shouldn’t be anyone here. You were nowhere near civilization… or at least, nowhere near any civilization that should still be breathing. You push yourself up, snow sliding from your arms, and stare. Buildings crowd around you, crooked towers of stone and metal, walls patched with rusted plates, balconies supported by beams that look like they were scavenged from a dozen different worlds. Narrow alleys twist away like roots burrowing through the city’s flesh. And above you… nothing. No sky. No horizon. Just the endless, smoky curve of an inner ring, arching overhead like the inside of a great iron shell.
A sudden snap behind you draws your attention. The portal a stone window of shimmering frost you seemingly crashed through. Snow swirls as the last tendrils of planar energy disappear, sealing off the world you came from. As it closes, the distant howls and clashing roars of the battling dragons fade, thinning into silence until they are nothing more than a memory pressed between your ears.
InVinoVeritas
Adventurer
Wawaate rises. He stares at his gloved hands, at the feather he clutches. He thinks about the welcome he expected to receive. Of all the things he had been taught, of all the things he believe, he would never have imagined... this.
There are so many people. They look nothing like his nation. But Negafook will spread his claws farther than just one nation, so surely these are his brethren?
He carefully wraps his feather and stows it under his coat. He watches as the children play fascinated with the snow that arrived with him. Do they miss the cold that much here? Is there so little of winter's breath here? He sets his glove alight, a pale glow of magical light, ice blue, and feels that his connection is still there.
He shakes his head. At least his body will be buried under the snow. It is an acceptable fate.
But he still has his gear? It was buried with him, he supposes that makes sense.
He turns to the children weaving around him.
"Is this the Winter Court? Is this the afterlife?"
There are so many people. They look nothing like his nation. But Negafook will spread his claws farther than just one nation, so surely these are his brethren?
He carefully wraps his feather and stows it under his coat. He watches as the children play fascinated with the snow that arrived with him. Do they miss the cold that much here? Is there so little of winter's breath here? He sets his glove alight, a pale glow of magical light, ice blue, and feels that his connection is still there.
He shakes his head. At least his body will be buried under the snow. It is an acceptable fate.
But he still has his gear? It was buried with him, he supposes that makes sense.
He turns to the children weaving around him.
"Is this the Winter Court? Is this the afterlife?"
OneCrappy DM
Explorer
Mr Black
"Look Cutter," The fiend snaps slightly irritated, "before there were Tieflings I wouldn't have offered ya the chant if you tried to doughty up my cobber."
You step out onto a main thoroughfare the roads here wind along the inside curve of the impossible cylinder. The street arcs gently above and below you, the horizon folding inward on itself. As you stroll along, the pulse of the city reveals itself. Tavern light glows in the murk, rowdy shouts echoing from open doorways. Three places catch your eye in particular:
The Crooked Sword
A hovel clinging to the edge of Ragpicker’s Square, where the stink of refuse and desperation hangs thick. Its warped sign an actual bent sword nailed above the doorway creaks whenever the smog-winds shift. Drunks and down on their luck people slump against the walls, passing bottles and rumors in equal measure. From the alley, some thugs jeer “Catch a skeg at dat lemon!” one cackles, pointing at some poor soul who dared look up from his scavenging. Everywhere you glance, hollow eyes stare back, wary, hungry, measuring.
The Butcher’s Block
This tavern is a made of rusted iron plates, formed in jagged angles. The door looks like it could snap shut and cleave someone in half if they weren’t quick enough. Crimson stained gutters run beneath the windows, though whether the color is symbolic or literal is anyone’s guess. Groups of thugs linger outside, watching passersby with predatory amusement. A few crack their knuckles in unison as you approach, then snicker when you wisely keep walking.
The Black Sail Inn
Just as loud as the other two, this place vibrates with energy. Clashing with the shouts and laughter of travelers, mercenaries, and plane touched folk crowding the doorway. A massive scrap metal sign shaped like a tattered sail hangs overhead, swaying dangerously. Outside, a dozen rough looking types lounge with their gear scarred sellswords, elemental blooded wanderers, and a few creatures whose forms shift just slightly when you blink.
It looks as if, despite the appearance of the denizens, this is an underbelly similar to ones found in the Free City of Greyhawk. It comes down to a decision of which Inn best suits your needs; are you out of cards to play? needing a favor from another guild? or looking for adventure?
"Look Cutter," The fiend snaps slightly irritated, "before there were Tieflings I wouldn't have offered ya the chant if you tried to doughty up my cobber."
You step out onto a main thoroughfare the roads here wind along the inside curve of the impossible cylinder. The street arcs gently above and below you, the horizon folding inward on itself. As you stroll along, the pulse of the city reveals itself. Tavern light glows in the murk, rowdy shouts echoing from open doorways. Three places catch your eye in particular:
The Crooked Sword
A hovel clinging to the edge of Ragpicker’s Square, where the stink of refuse and desperation hangs thick. Its warped sign an actual bent sword nailed above the doorway creaks whenever the smog-winds shift. Drunks and down on their luck people slump against the walls, passing bottles and rumors in equal measure. From the alley, some thugs jeer “Catch a skeg at dat lemon!” one cackles, pointing at some poor soul who dared look up from his scavenging. Everywhere you glance, hollow eyes stare back, wary, hungry, measuring.
The Butcher’s Block
This tavern is a made of rusted iron plates, formed in jagged angles. The door looks like it could snap shut and cleave someone in half if they weren’t quick enough. Crimson stained gutters run beneath the windows, though whether the color is symbolic or literal is anyone’s guess. Groups of thugs linger outside, watching passersby with predatory amusement. A few crack their knuckles in unison as you approach, then snicker when you wisely keep walking.
The Black Sail Inn
Just as loud as the other two, this place vibrates with energy. Clashing with the shouts and laughter of travelers, mercenaries, and plane touched folk crowding the doorway. A massive scrap metal sign shaped like a tattered sail hangs overhead, swaying dangerously. Outside, a dozen rough looking types lounge with their gear scarred sellswords, elemental blooded wanderers, and a few creatures whose forms shift just slightly when you blink.
It looks as if, despite the appearance of the denizens, this is an underbelly similar to ones found in the Free City of Greyhawk. It comes down to a decision of which Inn best suits your needs; are you out of cards to play? needing a favor from another guild? or looking for adventure?
OneCrappy DM
Explorer
Bimble
You search instinctively for a horizon line, some distant edge to anchor yourself but find none. There is no horizon here. You stand inside a city shaped like the hollow of a colossal cylinder, its impossible curve rising above and below you in a sweeping arc. Buildings cling to the inner walls like snails on a dew covered tree. The alley in which you landed snakes away with narrow paths that twist, buckle, and fold into sharp, jagged turns as though the city itself had grown crooked under its own contradictions. Just beyond the alley’s mouth lies a broad street. Robed attendants shuffling beneath a lacquered sedan chair carried high above the ground carry someone of importance. A city’s perpetual gloom this dim, smoke choked atmosphere that clings to every surface. The sharp scent of too many bodies packed too tightly together hits you like a slap. Roa sneezes violently at the sudden change in smell, fur bristling. You feel it too the shock of it, the weight of it. A moment ago you stood in a quiet forest grove, cool air and oak leaves underfoot. Now you’re swallowed by thick industrial breath, layered voices, and unending motion.
You search instinctively for a horizon line, some distant edge to anchor yourself but find none. There is no horizon here. You stand inside a city shaped like the hollow of a colossal cylinder, its impossible curve rising above and below you in a sweeping arc. Buildings cling to the inner walls like snails on a dew covered tree. The alley in which you landed snakes away with narrow paths that twist, buckle, and fold into sharp, jagged turns as though the city itself had grown crooked under its own contradictions. Just beyond the alley’s mouth lies a broad street. Robed attendants shuffling beneath a lacquered sedan chair carried high above the ground carry someone of importance. A city’s perpetual gloom this dim, smoke choked atmosphere that clings to every surface. The sharp scent of too many bodies packed too tightly together hits you like a slap. Roa sneezes violently at the sudden change in smell, fur bristling. You feel it too the shock of it, the weight of it. A moment ago you stood in a quiet forest grove, cool air and oak leaves underfoot. Now you’re swallowed by thick industrial breath, layered voices, and unending motion.
TaranTheWanderer
Legend
Mr. Black feels overburdened with clanking lanterns and safety ropes dangling from his pack. He's used to subtlety and he can afford to ditch some of his gear. He's circled around the streets a couple of times and has decided where he wants to go. The Black Sail Inn seems to have the biggest share of people who might have the know-how to escape this place.
For the moment, though, he watches the ragged scavengers of Ragpicker's Square who looking for things to eat and hoc. He observes from a dark corner for a bit before he picks someone. Someone desperate but not too far gone to be useful, more sheep than wolf - someone with barely a spark left - not too drunk but hungry.
He quietly approaches his mark, standing over him,
"Hey, you got a tick or two for a bit of the chant?"
He's munching on some rations. He bends down and offers the beggar a morsel.
Gather info: 1D20+5 = [13]+5 = 18
1D4 = [4] = 4
edit: just so you know what I'm doing: Mr. Black is looking for a guide for the night.
Local knowledge, common phrases, directions, who to avoid, various factions etc...He will barter food and items.
1D4 = [4] = 4
edit: just so you know what I'm doing: Mr. Black is looking for a guide for the night.
Local knowledge, common phrases, directions, who to avoid, various factions etc...He will barter food and items.
Last edited:
