(IC) DND 3.5 Enter Planescape

[OneCrappy DM]

Conversation:
The Mimir Chirps in "It's called the 'Mortuary'... it's a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider. It is the main headquarters of the Dustmen faction, who collect the city's corpses in order to either cremate them, or raise the ones they bought the rights to as an undead workforce."
The gaunt women sneaks under her breath "They take the lowest bids for corpse collectors..." looking over at Luke coming from seemingly nowhere " riiiight... I shall hopefully see the lot of you within a few ticks over some information on these disappearances... don't go jumping out the window." She signals the swordsmen to follow her and heads towards the gatehouse to delve into information on Eliath.

 

[InVinoVeritas]

Emerging from the kitchen, Wawaate adds, "Was there anything I missed?"

 

[Steve Gorak]

Bimble

Bimble winces when he hears the Mimir say raise the ones they bought the rights to as an undead workforce. He experiences physical disconfort and barely stops himself from vomiting. this is so unnatural, and plain evil! I have to remember to learn more about these dustmen!

 

[TaranTheWanderer]

Spoiler: Mr. Black (mini-sheet)

Mr. Black Perception: 0 Sense Motive: 4 Search: 6	AC: 14; FF: 13; Touch: 11	Spell Slots" 0: [X] [X] [] [] [] 1st: [X] [x] [X] []
HP: 8 Init: 1	Fort: 2 Ref: 1 Will: 2	Buffs: none

---

when the woman leaves, Mr. Black exhales,

“Well, that almost got out of hand. Let’s say we regroup and figure out what our next move is. This is much more than a missing person case.”

 

[OneCrappy DM]

The Pantry
As the bleakers drift out one by one, their hollow expressions and muttered fatalisms fading into Sigil’s streets, quiet settles over the establishment. The remaining patrons accustomed to oddities, hesitantly return to their meals, though more than a few cast wary glances toward your table. Allesha lingers nearby, her irritation barely concealed beneath a veneer of professional restraint. The tight set of her jaw and the sharp, deliberate movements as she clears a nearby table speak louder than words. Whatever just transpired has clearly tested her patience and perhaps her tolerance for the sort of chaos that seems to follow you. Still, she doesn’t interfere. You’re allowed your space to eat and confer in low tones, the clink of utensils and the murmur of conversation gradually reclaiming the room. Yet each time your eyes meet hers, she looks with a slowly shaking head in unmistakable disapproval, as if silently urging you not to bring any more of Sigil’s madness through her doors.