JustinCase
the magical equivalent to the number zero
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The Mourning After (Horror) (IC)
Leatherhead
Possibly a Idiot.
Gatherhold, The Talenta Plains.
1st of Zarantyr, 998 YK. Mid Morning.
You spent all of Long Shadows on the Lightning Rail traveling to Gatherhold. A three day "celebration" at the end of each year when cultists and ne’er-do-wells take to the nights, seeking to get away with whatever they can, and when dark magics become empowered for mysterious reasons. Vassals of the Host say it's due to influence from the Shadow, other religions have their own theories, and some scholars debate that it's more of a "chicken-and-egg" situation. In the past years, you might have gone out yourselves, looking to cause mischief or perhaps stop it from coming to your door. This year was different, you had a job to do.
The ride was relatively smooth, all things considered. Only 3 people were (knowingly) pickpocketed before you left Breland. The Purified in Flamekeep didn't find any shapeshifters with their Silverburn, despite a few inquisitors insisting something was afoot. The crossing ferry over Scions Sound only resulted in 12 lost and one water-damaged bag. A sudden snow flurry in Karrnath was quickly plowed thanks to a zombie regiment. Shepherds swiftly reigned in a herd of three-horns using the conductor stones for warmth. And now you have arrived at your destination.
Stepping down from the station, the new year greets you with a bright and crisp morning on the wide-open plain. Your breath condenses against the cold, clean breeze blowing in from Lake Cyre. A stark contrast to the warm, dim, and slightly cramped accommodations afforded by your passengers' tickets.
Gatherhold is a town carved mostly into a cliff, the human sized visitors stay on the ground floor, while various halfling-sized dwellings ascend vertically. None of the wandering clans stay here for more than a season at a time, but Ghallanda staff maintains the place year round, even going so far as to build their headquarters here. Immediately to the west of the station is a Cyran Memorial, overlooking the lake and standing defiant against the Dead-Grey Mists on the other shore. To the north, just beyond the crowd of travelers and a few domesticated dinosaurs, stands the familiar marquee of a Golden Dragon Inn.
1st of Zarantyr, 998 YK. Mid Morning.
You spent all of Long Shadows on the Lightning Rail traveling to Gatherhold. A three day "celebration" at the end of each year when cultists and ne’er-do-wells take to the nights, seeking to get away with whatever they can, and when dark magics become empowered for mysterious reasons. Vassals of the Host say it's due to influence from the Shadow, other religions have their own theories, and some scholars debate that it's more of a "chicken-and-egg" situation. In the past years, you might have gone out yourselves, looking to cause mischief or perhaps stop it from coming to your door. This year was different, you had a job to do.
The ride was relatively smooth, all things considered. Only 3 people were (knowingly) pickpocketed before you left Breland. The Purified in Flamekeep didn't find any shapeshifters with their Silverburn, despite a few inquisitors insisting something was afoot. The crossing ferry over Scions Sound only resulted in 12 lost and one water-damaged bag. A sudden snow flurry in Karrnath was quickly plowed thanks to a zombie regiment. Shepherds swiftly reigned in a herd of three-horns using the conductor stones for warmth. And now you have arrived at your destination.
Stepping down from the station, the new year greets you with a bright and crisp morning on the wide-open plain. Your breath condenses against the cold, clean breeze blowing in from Lake Cyre. A stark contrast to the warm, dim, and slightly cramped accommodations afforded by your passengers' tickets.
Gatherhold is a town carved mostly into a cliff, the human sized visitors stay on the ground floor, while various halfling-sized dwellings ascend vertically. None of the wandering clans stay here for more than a season at a time, but Ghallanda staff maintains the place year round, even going so far as to build their headquarters here. Immediately to the west of the station is a Cyran Memorial, overlooking the lake and standing defiant against the Dead-Grey Mists on the other shore. To the north, just beyond the crowd of travelers and a few domesticated dinosaurs, stands the familiar marquee of a Golden Dragon Inn.
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Xian looks around at the unfamiliar surroundings after stepping several paces away. The foreboding gray mists across the lake held great mysteries. He strode over to the monument to pay his respects. Somewhere over in those mists he had lost his cousin Aeriella. She had been assigned the task of infiltrating a Cannith compound. All communication with her was lost that fateful day. No one knows if she is still alive. The House would be grateful if he returned with information on her fate.
"You look lost, Xian," says Tillington, approaching from behind. "Look, it's oay if you want some time to yourself. I'm thinking of heading to the Golden Dragon. Those dinosaurs ain't like what I'm usedta. Wanna get indoors."
If Xian wants to accompany him to the Inn, that's fine, but either way, Tillington will make his way there, taking wide berth around the dinosaurs.
If Xian wants to accompany him to the Inn, that's fine, but either way, Tillington will make his way there, taking wide berth around the dinosaurs.
"I am sorry for your loss," says Tillington with unexpected (to him) sombreness. "First round's on me."
"I hope that is true, Xian."
