(IC) DND 3.5 Enter Planescape

[OneCrappy DM]

The Crooked Sword

Mr. Black
You push through the Crooked Sword’s door and the stink hits first, cheap ale, wet wool, and old smoke baked into the timbers. The place leans inward, walls bowed like they’re listening. Your coin purse lies in plain sight on the bar. Jane’s handiwork makes it impossible to miss the raven coat of arms stitched in dark thread, proud and precise, the sort of heraldry she swore would one day hang from your own guardsmen’s cloaks. Here, though, it looks out of place. The culprit is already peeling it open, spilling your jink across the counter in a careless glitter. He’s trying to burn it fast buying rounds for a clutch of other cut-purses clustered close, laughing too loud, hands always moving. The bartender doesn’t slow him. In the Hive, it appears coin in motion is clean coin. Every step you take makes the room feel louder, tighter. Sound rings in your ears mugs clacking, some of your jink is already gone, traded for bad ale. Still, most of it lies there on the bar, scattered and waiting to be spent again.

Just to the side, another group sits. Two men. One nurses a glass of red wine, eyes flicking from face to face, measuring exits. The other is deep into a long-winded story, gesturing, his voice rising and falling.

Luke Cinders
The Crooked Sword grows more crowded by the minute. From his corner near the rear exit, the dwarf slows his quill. The ledger closes just enough to look casual, but his eyes lift, tracking the bar now. He’s no longer writing he’s watching. The sort of watching that counts debts, favors, and blood. Beside you, the Prime snorts into his drink. “Tried talkin’ to him already,” he mutters, spitting the words back like they taste sour. “He won’t budge unless I help him find somebody.” He shakes his head, frustration cracking through. “Problem is, runnin’ a shop in Waterdeep don’t teach you much about huntin’ a wiry bastard through this place.”

The dwarf’s gaze lingers, then shifts away just long enough to let you know you’ve been noticed.


Aril
You witness a patron running in quickly magically changing their appearance before entering the establishment, this place is run down even for the hive.

 

[Brendan Byrd]

Aril and the "peddler":

Aril smiles, and takes the trinket.
"Oï friend, mayhaps it is, and mayhaps it is not; but on this day fate smiles on you, even if the Lady does not. I have a small bit I can spare today." ((Gives the pedlar 2cp))
"May Immortal Parlartarkan uplift you."
Aril glances significantly at the spear he's carrying, and then then looks the pedlar straight in the eyes with a deadly serious look. The type that only someone who has witnessed the death of an entire city can give.
"I bid you good day, basher."

Into the beltpouch the trinket goes.
Aril is 99.9% sure it's junk, but will check it for magic at some point in the future. Who knows?

Ragpicker's Square:

Leaning against a wall for a brief rest, Aril casually observes the goings on in the square for a few minutes.
The person changing their appearance startles him a bit, but tries not to show it.
"Eh, why not?" Aril mutters in elvish, as he heads toward the door of the bar, wondering what spell was used.

 

[OneCrappy DM]

Bimble
"I am an Illithid, here there isn't an elder brain to make me part of the hive-mind. So I am much the same as I was before the transformation." The mindflayer seems to be interested enough in you and may also be reading your mind simultaneously "Well, it's doubtful that a deity could do it for a higher purpose as they are not allowed in here, nor would a rival of your parentage." The illithid looks back and forth as if someone may pick up on the psychic message and whispers it quieter by some impossibility. "The Lady of Pain" his message resonates back to its original volume. "could be capable of such a feat." One tentacle extended, pointing down the main thoroughfare where the road curved between leaning buildings and hanging signs. “If you seek guidance, a tout named Gredmark Ironfist maintains a business in a tavern called the Crooked Sword.” It lingered on the gesture, ensuring you followed its meaning. “Remain to the main road. It is the safest path available. You will recognize the place by its sign a rusted sword, bent and crooked, much like this city’s sense of mercy.” The illithid withdrew its attention, leaving behind the faint impression that Sigil itself had been listening and had decided, for now, to let the conversation pass.

 

[OneCrappy DM]

Wawaate
The orphan girl led you off the main way and into the Hive’s tangled veins, slipping through alleyways with the surety of a ranger moving through familiar wilds. She knew where to step, when to pause, when to let a pair of passing cutters drift by without ever meeting their eyes. You followed her turns by instinct alone. She didn’t waste words. Just an occasional glance over her shoulder and a muttered, “Ain’t far now,” when the alleys narrowed or the noise thickened behind you. At last, the stink of spilled ale announced the place before you saw it. She stopped at the rear of a rowdy establishment, its back wall scarred with old knife marks and newer graffiti. Laughter and shouting bled through the boards, along with the dull thud of boots on warped floor planks. This wasn’t an entrance meant for guests. It was for business.
“Wait here,” she said, already slipping away. “I’ll let the tout know you’re in.” She vanished through a side door or shadow you hadn’t noticed, leaving you alone in the narrow space between buildings. With nothing left to do but breathe, the weight you’d been carrying finally found you. Your legs trembled. Your shoulders sagged. The exhaustion you’d outrun all day came crashing in now. For a moment, you simply stood there, hand resting where the dragon feather lay tucked safely away. Still warm. Still real. Your thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the sky of your home. The image of dragons locked in battle overhead, wings tearing clouds apart, fire and frost clashing like gods at war. You swallowed. Would the temple still be there when you returned?

 

[Neurotic]

The Crooked Sword

Luke Cinders
The Crooked Sword grows more crowded by the minute. From his corner near the rear exit, the dwarf slows his quill. The ledger closes just enough to look casual, but his eyes lift, tracking the bar now. He’s no longer writing he’s watching. The sort of watching that counts debts, favors, and blood. Beside you, the Prime snorts into his drink. “Tried talkin’ to him already,” he mutters, spitting the words back like they taste sour. “He won’t budge unless I help him find somebody.” He shakes his head, frustration cracking through. “Problem is, runnin’ a shop in Waterdeep don’t teach you much about huntin’ a wiry bastard through this place.”

Luke considers the man losing the patience
"That is exactly what I said, man, everything here is a trade. How about this, you pay me, I ask to return you to your Prime, I find the missing person. It will cost a lot, though, because I have things I'd rather ask for myself. Or you could seek other trades to join...but it will not be easy if you don't have funds. And if you do, it is questionable if you can leave The Hive alive. Which would cost you again to get you to Guildhall or Clerks ward."
He turns back just in time to

The dwarf’s gaze lingers, then shifts away just long enough to let you know you’ve been noticed.

catch dwarf's gaze. He nods back.
"Now, no offense, but I was noticed. Either pay me to guide you to a safer ward, pay me to talk to the dwarf or let me be."

He doesn't expect the clueless to have enough money for the second. But he awaits the answer while following the hubbub at the bar.

For the moment, while waiting for the clueless answer, he is more interested in the money being sprayed from a fancy money pouch. He resists the urge to check for his own safely tucked pouch, no sense in letting others know where it is. He does touch his dagger, losening it up just in case.

The money won't last. He always found it weird to just show everyone that you have money. It was obviously safer if you spend it, but if it doesn't benefit you, you spend it on strangers for drinks and not for better life, then you just risked your life and limb pickpocketing someone for nothing.

He is not above slipping a gold or two to himself if something comes his way, but he will not actively go for the grabs.

Waiting for the rush to subside, he carefully makes his way to the dwarf.

OOC: Sleight of hand if something comes his way to either discreetly take it or replace it with copper and let it roll on