(IC) DND 3.5 Enter Planescape

[OneCrappy DM]

Luke Cinders

You make your way through the Hive ward to the crooked sword four gold coins lighter than when you started the day. The place is 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.

Entering in the the bubblers are drowning out their sorrows, some fresh primes are trying to speak to these locals to no avail, the man you are looking for has a table section in one of the corners near a back door. It's dwarf no doubt about it, Gredmark Ironfist, he has a ledger at the table he is writing in. Gredmark is glancing over the bar at what may very well be potential customers.

 

[OneCrappy DM]

Bimble

You spot a cloaked figure on the street, wrapped in deep violet robes that shimmer faintly. The figure is bending over a warped wooden door, sliding heavy iron bolts into place with the metallic scrape of someone used to warding themselves against thieves, vermin, and far worse things that stalk these alleys. The need to understand where you’ve landed pushes you forward. Roa pads beneath you with carefully. As you approach, the cloaked figure stiffens. Slowly, deliberately, it turns. The hood falls back just enough for the light to catch the pale, slick flesh beneath. Purplish gray skin stretched over an elongated, bulbous cranium. Four glistening tentacles hang from the creature’s face, writhing with subtle, hungry motion. Its eyes milky, lidless, ancient regard you without blinking.

An illithid. A mind flayer. A creature whose existence you may have only heard stories of to scare the populous.

You open your mouth to speak, but the creature responds before the words leave your lips. A voice blossoms inside your skull. Not a whisper. Not a thought. A presence that is smooth, cool, invasive, brushing against the edges of your mind.
“You have found yourself in Sigil. The city of doors, a place that is hard to leave without help.”
The sentence vibrates across your consciousness, resonant and absolute. No sound touches the air; the background noise seems to dull around you, swallowed by the psychic intrusion. The illithid tilts its head slightly, studying your reaction as though you were some curious insect that had wandered into its shadow.