Planescape - Dead God Rising

[Nalfeshnee]

Prologue: Cut scene

The sickle tore through flesh, eliciting a splatter of blood. The gore, resting lifelessly amongst desiccated remains of other bits of flesh, some days old; others unrecognisable, years since their final divorce from the body they once belonged to.​

The celestial screamed, her mind numb, her vehemence log gone, drained away with her blood, her strength, her faith. Long had she lived in the Great Wheel, and long had she surveyed the realms of those who dwelt within. The Lost, the faithless, the Barmy, all were in need of light, or direction, and she had been the one to provide it. Like others of her ilk, she had gone to the Red Prison, the place primers called Tarterus, to help the exiled find peace of mind, and perhaps even a ay home.​

Instead she had found a great secret and even greater pain.​

Like some fiendish cat, the tiefling licked the back of her alabaster hand, tasting the blood of her captive. She smiled – barely. Her face was not one to be sullied by pitiful gestures like smiling and frowning. There were better things for her to doing. Like questioning the celestial.​

She switched weapons, placing the scythe on the blood-splattered table, and picking up a lash. She stroked it, letting the barbed length caress her skin as she moved beneath the angel. She looked up at the figure, pleased at the pose if mock-flight she had suspended the misguided creature in. It had taken maybe five bodies to hold her down as she had stuck the chains into her back, but it had been well worth it. Tenebrous will be pleased, she thought as lashed out at the angel.​

Leather cracked against the angels flesh, creating an instantaneous line of blood that trickled without abandon onto the tiefling below, who seemed to revel in the touch of every drop.​

‘Tell me Mikaela, and I will end the pain.’​

 

[Nalfeshnee]

The Cage. Sigil. The City of Doors. It doesn’t matter what you call it berk, fact is; it’s still there, like some omnipresent power, atop the Spire and no screed’ll change that. At least not yet…​

The day is like any others in the Cage; thick air, heavy with the fumes and exhaust from the Great Foundry and leaked through Powers-know how many portals saturates the air, stinging the eyes and parching the throats of those forced to breathe it. Above you, arching almost gracefully in a great ring is the inner surface of the city, rising slowly around you, the twinkling glow of slowly-moving light boys and businesses echoing the skies of the Prime Material.​

Buildings, for the most part grey and cheerless, loom over the streets, their razor-vine covered walls and blade encrusted parapets discouraging intruders and vermin alike from moving near. Cutters move through the street, some fiendish, others celestial, most… well, neither. Most look strange in some form or way, though that’s just part of life in Sigil – normality, if one could say that. Though, appearances are not everything in the planes, and if there’s one thing a body learns in the Great Wheel, and even more so in the Cage, it’s not to judge a blood by its appearance. Angels can fall, and fiends may not be what they appear to be. On a good day, a body might see a deva and a geherilith debating around a hookah in a breezy café in the Lady’s Ward; on a bad day, misguided bashers think they actually have enough power to challenge the Lady’s Word, and things like the Faction War happen…​

Like some of the cutters around you, you and the others who accompany you are moving through the city with a purpose in mind. Life is not as kind to you as it could be, and you’ve been reduced to petty dogs bodying around the cage, doing odd jobs for whoever needs the help. Today, it’s a primer greybeard (who boorishly insists you refer to him as the Marquis Hooren – primers!) who asked for bodyguards while making his way around the Cage, compiling notes for the Queen of his realm.​

For most of the morning you’ve walked with the man through the different Wards, stopping for hours at times as he meticulously complies notes and takes sketches of what he sees. At times he’d ask you questions in the clueless tongue of Primers, along the lines of ‘So, the Concordant Opposition is directly below the city?’ Only a primer would call the Outlands the Concordant Opposition! Clueless berk.​

As the day goes by, the man makes a final stop at a tavern of his choice – the Friendly Wayfarer (a simple place, designed around the sentimentality that primers often feel for their Home Plane). Having dismissed you from his duty and paid you for your troubles (never enough jink, never enough…) he bids you farewell and makes his way upstairs, leaving you alone with your companions, halfway around the Cage from your homes.​

[sblock=OOC] describe your characters to each other. It is taken that you know each other from the business and the day you've spent together. You've likely worked together before in similar jobs[/sblock]

 

[Thanee]

Llyra

Llyra is the only primer amongst the motley crew. The young sorceress is rather petite in appearance, standing only five and a half feet tall with a small frame and a slender and willowy figure. She has striking good looks with her long black hair, that openly falls over her shoulders, leaving a few strands to frame her fine-featured face, where mysterious purple eyes are curiously looking around. That's a little strange about her, those eyes, the color does not seem to be very common amongst primers. They look rather pretty, though. Her pale skin also has a slightly purplish hue, another oddity, but it somehow only underlines her attractiveness. Llyra is dressed loosely in comfortable black cloth, only a little form-flattering around her slim waists, with a grey-green hodded cloak wrapped around her shoulders, a broad belt around her hips and soft leather boots at her feet. She also wears an unostentatious silver headband. Other than that, she has a few pouches on her belt and carries a small backpack. You have seen her change her clothes with just a few words, obviously some kind of magic; she is not always dressed this tame, though, depending on her mood and what she wants to achieve. Llyra is outgoing and usually quite friendly, but she sometimes shows a rather hot temper as well. She seems to be quite fond of enchantments and necromantic magic, and sometimes calls a tall skeleton creature to her side to aid her in battle.

“There we are, at least he has paid us for the trouble. And I sure hope you know the way back, I still get lost in this place sometimes. Or do you have another idea, what we could do with the rest of the day?”

 

[Deuce Traveler]

Noch is a tall, skinny shadowswyft with ebony skin, eyes, and a shaved head. The humanoid is both difficult and enticing to look upon, his coloration seeming to blend in the shadows and darkness that fall on him during his passage. The visual affect as he nearly is swallowed by the black only to reappear in the dim light is stunning, even more so by the fact that he is walking as if enjoying his nervous, flitting pacing. Noch is a young man, and not one to sit still. Two blades hang from scabbards by his hips, and the hint of a mithril chain shirt can be seen underneath his black clothes. A backpack hangs loosely from his shoulders, and a crossbow and two packs of bolts can be seen hanging from it. A closed toolkit is attached to his belt and hangs next to the blade on his right hip. A pair of dark, tinted goggles hangs from his neck. Noch finds brighter light painful, and takes a few seconds to put these goggles on in case he is blinded by a world's sun. He is somewhat experienced in travelling the planes, and has a particular attraction to Sigil's Lower Ward. Noch is known for his random, nervous behavior. While sneaking he shows a greater capacity for concentration, however. In battle, he prefers finding the shadows and visiting the back of his enemies with his blades in hand. If he cannot quickly close with a target he uses his crossbow.

Noch looks at Llyra for a moment and ponders her question. Suddenly he sticks up three fingers. Then he sticks up only one and points back towards their homes and places his hands to the left side of his cheek and closes his eyes as if to sleep. "Rest," he says. Then he lifts two fingers and points towards the opposite direction. He skips like a child in a circle and says, "Old child park. Cutter park now." Then he lifts three fingers and points to the tavern and moves his hands as if raising a large mug. "Beer... ahhh..."

 

[Dire Lemming]

Kyran is of average height and build for an Aasimar, though a bit on the thin side. Like most of his race he is quite handsome with a clean-shaven face, bright blue eyes and radiant blond hair, slightly beyond shoulder length, which is tied in a braid. He has the pale, flawless skin that is common among his kind. His clothing is rather odd, a long coat of faded red covers dark leathers and leather boots two thirds up his shins and a wide brimmed hat of the same color. An odd looking whip is clasped to his belt inside the coat, and on his back he wears a multi-pocketed backpack with a finely crafted repeating crossbow hanging from it. On the finger of his left hand is a silver ring with a feather pattern along it's edges. He seems pretty friendly, not having subjected Llyra to much of the verbal abuse that is customary towards primers.

"Tis' nothing to worry about, truth is most berks don't know everything about the ground they live on. That's what Touts are for, well that and parting primers with their jink. In any case you're not half bad at finding your way around for a primer." He get's a curios look in his eyes; "What did you think of our employer?"

 

[rowport]

Nuan

As a Neraph, Nuan is an rare sight in the Cage. For neraphim to be outside Limbo is unusual, but for a neraph to be in the urban center, shoulder to shoulder amongst strangers of other planar races is unheard of. Still, Nuan bears it all with a bearing of sullen resignation.

Like most Neraphim, Nuan is a rough-hewn humanoid shape, with a thick red hide and a huge toad-like head. Unlike most, he favors monk's robes of thin white cloth over the bone spiked leather more typical of his race. He seems poorly prepared for adventure, carrying little equipment short of the oversized Longbow over his back. He is clearly an odd-duck, even by the standards of Sigil.

Responding to the lithe Llyra, Nuan replies,

“What does the way back matter? What is to be lost? Are not all places the same? Is not all of existence just echoes of the past, doomed to repeat in the future? To strive for success today is just to expect disappointment tomorrow. It has always been such since the loss of my House.

Still, if you could bear my company, a bit of companionship might be a pleasant distraction. At least you lot seem saavy enough not to mistake me for a Slaad like so many of these other berks. And, you may keep my coin, if it pleases you. Wealth will not matter when the Doomguard ends our toils.”

 

[Raylis]

Small and slim at an even five feet, Jema does not strike the imposing figure some earth genasi do. She dresses simply: a leather jerkin, trousers and a green hood. A pair of bronze armbands are worn on her bicepts and a perphat hangs close to the girl's chest. Her skin is an earthy tan color, her hands and feet look like they should belong on a large burly person instead of the slender girl. Although mostly coverd by her hood her black hair can be seen peeking out around her neck, her eyes sapphire. A small bag is tied to a belt and she carries a quarterstaff using more like a walking stick than a weapon.

Jema looks between the neraphim and the the aasimar, " Just another clueless berk with no business in the cage" she whispers. She turns to Llyra " present company excluded."

 

[Nalfeshnee]

a woman, her skin pale, her hair long and not of he lustre it once had approaches the group. A waitress, you recognise her from earlier on. 'You cutters staying or leaving? if you're staying, here's what's on offer, if not... we'll be needing that table.'​

 

[Nalfeshnee]

she hands kyran a leather-bound menu, perhaps out of habit, or as a bribe to stay. whatever the reason, she turns to walk off​

Food
A Clutch.....5 cp
(A common blood's breakfast - one clutch of battered and deep fried Bonespear eggs)

Acaierai eggs….. 11 cp
(Available poached, scrambled, hard boiled)

Bloodthorn soup….. 12 cp
(Filling bisque with beef and herb garnish)

'Spear Stew.....10 sp
(Boiled bonespear joints, in a delicious blood-based broth, with or without the head.)

Howler Ribs….. 25 sp
(5 howler ribs and choice of sauce: brass spice or stygian cream)

Yeth steak….. 5 sp
(cooked from free-roaming yeth-hounds. Raw, rare, medium, well done, ‘efreet special’)

Baked Fhorge Ribs.....12 sp
(Whole rack of smoked and baked ribs, "Ashy's favorite!")

Crispy Vargouille wings….. 35 cp
(Just think of the poor sods who died to get there to us… 2 vargouille wings coated in special blend of outland herbs and spices)

Stir-fried Naga.....2 gp
(For those of you that like to live on the wild side.)

Rat….. 8 cp
(Our finest, specially bred rats available: roasted, boiled, broiled, grilled, raw)

Drink
Outlands Water…. 5 cp/pint
(The best of the rest)

Bloodthorn mead….. 9 cp/pint
(Thick and frothy)

Shadowrye ale….. 25 cp/pint
(Goes down a treat)

Sorrowdrown Wine….. 3 sp/glass
(Literally forget your sorrows from the past day)

Heartwine….. 50 gp/glass
(The Cilenei Brother’s best. Worth every penny)

 

[A'koss]

At first glance, Tyrjon appears as a dusky skinned, emerald eyed warrior likely hailing from Ysgard. Nearly six feet tall, he appears to be a lean, but strong man of some planetouched, human-like race you have trouble placing… though clearly not native to Ysgard. His warm grey skin has a slight metallic sheen when the light catches it just so and his emerald eyes give off a slight, opalescent glow when his ratty, wide-brimmed hat is drawn low. His shoulder length hair appears as though it were made of burnished black iron with several small braids half-hidden in the unkempt mass. Beneath his silver-trimmed, waist length leather coat he wears a midnight-blued, mithril chain shirt. Ornate bracers peer from beneath his sleeves, each adorned with an intricately woven and highly stylized Norse rune in matted silver and gold. His grey-blue breeches are scuffed and well-worn in and wears soft boots wrapped in the Norse style. A beautiful, bastard sword hangs at his side with a burnished midnight blue crossguard and pommel. The pattern-welded blade seems gleaming steel along the edges flowing to an almost iron grey along the spine.

Tyrjon has clearly lived in the cage for many years and at times when it is quiet, he seems to harbour some weighty burden. He’s been abrasive and condescending at times and clearly has little patience for the clueless, refusing to play the role of “tour guide”. His sharp tongue probably lands him plenty of trouble but underneath the rusty exterior there seems to be a keen mind at work and is one wise to the ways of the Cage. It has taken a while for Tyrjon to warm up to Llyra but at least the teasing seems more good natured now.


Tyrjon reflexively tests the heft of the bag of coins while his eyes peer to sky, marking what daylight remains. You can almost hear his thoughts. So this is what it’s come to…

“Well, at least this clueless had sense and jink enough to hire on bloods… even if he did make the mistake of hiring on one of his own.” Tyrjon finishes with a bemused, sideways glance cast towards Llyra. “I say Noch’s got the right idea. It’s been hours since my last tank of bub, I’m feelin’ way too sober for this time of day.”