A wide chasm cuts across the road about four miles further north. It extends out of sight to the west and expands into a massive canyon to the east. Here the crack in the earth is about 30 feet wide and has steep rocky sides descending into the depths below. The wooden pylons that once flanked the entrance to a wooden bridge still stand on both sides of the chasm, but the bridge itself extends out only a few feet before ending in a jagged broken edge. There does not appear to be any easy way across.
Regular posting requested. Strong characterization is the norm.
Right now, we have four characters:
Artimus, 7th Level Paladin
Montegue, 7th Level Monk
Durnast, 7th Level Wizard with Camomile, his pseudo-dragon familiar
Alia, 7th Level Ranger, with Swiftpaws, her wolf companion
We'd be up for two or three more characters. ("Slumbering Tsar" is a dangerous adventure, and a party of six or seven PCs wouldn't overpower the scenario.)
As night falls today, as with most evenings, there's a cold, foul-smeling wind blowing in from the north. Tomorrow morning, as with most mornings, there will be a warm, muggy breeze from the forests and plains to the south. It's as if the Desolation were slowly breathing, inhaling in the morning, and then blowing the stench of decay across the land once night settles in.
The stars fade in as the sky darkens, and a shooting star appears, passing the meridian zodiac between Vertilaus the Tree and Accipite the Eagle. Murmurs rise amid the more learned folk in Camp: it's a good omen for journeys and transitions. Maybe some folks will leave Camp tomorrow, finally taking the plunge into the depth of the Desolation. Most probably, people will simply talk about it more, and stare off into the deadlands of the north.
Being killed is a transition, too.
--+--+--
At the southernmost edge of the Desolation slouches a ramshackle collection of shanties and cobbled-together buildings known only as the Camp. If someone had planned to build here, originally, they would likely have set up clear streets, zones for where people ought to live, and where people ought to work leather and cure fish, and where people ought to conduct official business. If someone had thought that an actual hamlet would grow here, they would have arranged for more than one well, which now pulls water befouled with some kind of grime. If someone were to have made a conscious decision to build here, they would have brought good lumber, stone, tools for construction, plans for good architectural support.
Instead, Camp is a collection of tents and odd-shaped structures, pieced together from pieces of wood and scraps canvas pulled from wagons and scavenged from crates. More than a few buildings are made of mud, sod turves, and fieldstones.
The folk of the Camp --perhaps 300, mostly humans, orcs, and dwarves--lead an indolent existence, spending most of their time sitting around making great plans to get ahead (usually at another’s expense), but usually take only the most minimal action necessary in order to survive. Most that come here are vagrant adventurers, hopeless ne’er-do-wells, or the criminally insane, so there is very little sense of community. Last week, neighbors came together in order to thwart an invasion of a terrific swarm of skeletal rodents which came rolling out of the Desolation like a dust cloud, and they might do so again against any immediate threats to the town’s survival, though their uncooperative and chaotic attitudes would make such efforts uncomfortable at best.
The inhabitants refer to the center of the Camp as "the commons", a hand-packed dirt yard.
The main feature of the Common is a bent, old gallows, crudely constructed and leaning with age. Dangling from this by a frayed rope is a desiccated corpse, its broken neck askew and its leathery face frozen into a rictus grin beneath empty eye sockets. Occasionally crows alight to peck at it. Nailed to its breast is a sign bearing the word “Cheater”.
You've been in town for at least a day, so you've met people who've told you, “The only place to stay in the Camp is the boarding house. It’s run by the Bender Brothers, a coupla’
gnomes. They serve meals also, though you can get those at the Sip O’ Blood, too.”
Chyressa
Spoiler:
You get the feeling that the folks here are hiding something about the boarding house, or maybe about the gnomes, something that makes them uncomfortable. Do you try to press for more information?
You also find out that the "Sip of Blood" is a smoke-filled tavern, boisterous at night. A local half-orc (with the familiar green tint to his skin, rather than Dvight's bronze complexion) mentions “The Sip of Blood Tavern is run by a vampire. His name’s Lucky Bjorc and drinking other people’s blood is how he stays so lucky. I’d stay away from the sangria if I were you.” He also nods towards the Desolation to the north and mentions. "Most every night at midnight, a kind of oasis appears out there. I've never gone, myself, but I understand that there's a magic reflecting pool there, which chows you the future."
Jylan, you meet a half-orc (with normal, green orcish skin, unlike Dvight's bronze tones). He goes by the name Ulan, and he introduces himself, with some pride as one of Clantock's Furious Fourteen, one of the toughest mercenary groups around, and the best guides out into the Desolation. He takes a shine to you and says, “You can’t use gold or silver in the Camp. You’ve got to go to the moneychanger and trade it in for ‘bits’, coins made out of iron. That’s all that will spend here.”
Jylan
Spoiler:
Ulan also notes, conspiratorially, "We've got a little deal going with people who are new to Camp. We tell 'em that there's somethin' strange that happens out in the desert most nights 'round midnight. There isn't, but it's a dangerous thing, walkin' through Camp after dark. They usually get into trouble, and call for help, and we come out to their rescue for 500 gold, or iron bits, depending on whether they've traded yet.
"Save yourself that scam."
Sure enough, you hear the rumor later on that day.
Alia
Spoiler:
Clantock's Furious Fourteen are a half-orc band of cut-throats. They have no real idea how to act as guides in the Desolation, but they'll accompany employers as guards. You've heard two rumors, unconfirmed, that they run when faced with something serious like a pack of ghoul panthers.
Recently, there's been a new mercenary outfit in town, known as the Pounders. You haven't met them, and you don't know much about them, except that they're putting Clantock and his boys out of business.
The other business you should know about is Skeribar's Ranger Guides, which has expressed interest in employing you as part of the team. (Right now, there are about a half-dozen members.) As well as hiring out as guides, they seem to have some project they work on, out in the Desolation itself.
Artimus, as you checked into the boarding house, you met the proprietor, Jeblie Bender, a rough-looking gnome. He cordially pointed out “The guy in charge of the Camp is the Usurer. I’m not sure what that word means, but it sounds official. He’s also the local moneychanger and blacksmith. Some people say he doesn’t sleep but just sits around all night thinking up new ways to make money.”
Tinthariel, the only religious establishment in the Camp consists of two round mud-brick towers, connected at the base and roofed by stretched tarps, form this building. The mud walls have been stained a charcoal gray, and a large skull and scythe above a setting sun have been painted on the door in red.
Tinthariel
Spoiler:
The priest is a hobgoblin who has taken the name "Father Death". He and his acolytes worship Orcus, and you've seen his ceremonial black robes and skull mask. But he's actually a very likable, fellow.
“The Desolation is beautiful. It provides death in more ways than you can imagine: sudden death, slow, lingering death, death by sword and tooth, death by poison, the wracking death of disease, or the extended painful death from thirst. Why, ways must exist to meet death out on that ancient battlefield that haven’t even been discovered yet.
“Death is as much a part of Nature as is life. Sometimes death is necessary to create life." He pauses and reflects carefully, "Some are more vehement in this pursuit than others.”
It's early in the evening of your first or second day here --Alia being the exception--with the western sky still pale. Describe what you all are doing.
This is a thread to discuss a potential Play-by-Post campaign exploring EN World's "War of the Burning Sky" adventure path. As I read through the adventures, I'll be adding notes here regarding character design and house rules.
If you've come across this thread before I've issued an invitation, I welcome you to:
Include in your post a brief telling of one of your all-time favorite experiences in D&D.
This will be a D&D 3.5 adventure (not 4th Edition; not Pathfinder RPG.) Right now, I'm not sure if I'll be setting it in any popular campaign background.
Build your character with a 28-point buy. In addition, take an additional Feat at first level, and take a Trait from the Basic Traits from the Second Darkness Players' Guide by Paizo. The Trait may not augment any of your character's Feats.
Allowable sourcebooks for PCs:
Player's Handbook
Complete Adventurer
Complete Arcane
Complete Divine
Complete Mage
Complete Scoundrel
Complete Warrior
Heroes of Battle
Magic of Incarnum
feats from Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting.
It is likely that I will be restricting some of the material in these books.
Please introduce yourselves to one another here. It'd be great if you could provide an idea of what your character's goals are, and how you came to live in, or pass through, eastern Ursalav.
Tales are woven and then told, for all myriad reasons. When our children listen to stories, they learn lessons and grow wise. When we eat our dinners here at the Cold Comfort Inn and gather 'round the tales of dirt-caked travelers, we catch up on the weal of distant neighbors and learn to avoid their mistakes. We laugh at merry tales, grieve at the telling of heroes' passing, and wonder as words show us dragons on wing.
Hear, then, our story of a band of accidental companions, brought together through adverse fortune and a friend's plea. It is a tale of great joys, great sorrows, and great perils. It is a tale of the passing of kings, and of those greater than kings. It ends with the flash of angry red wings, in a world beyond worlds, under the careful gaze of the gods themselves. It begins here, in the self-same Cold Comfort Inn, just as the last bell of the noonday toll echoes. It is Oathday, just past mid-week, in the month of Rova, just weeks before the autumn harvests begin.
The familiar sights --local workmens chatting at their tables, a dart game between two old neighbors-- and scents of the lunchtime crowd are interrupted when Deputy Constable Winston Wygate comes clattering through the main entrance, out-of-breath and wide-eyed. He's clutching his left arm, which is broken at an awkward angle just under the elbow.
Rusty Ironpants was kind enough to give us the Deputy:
he wrote:
Winston, or "Deputy Win" to his friends, is generally good-natured and friendly. The ony people on his bad side are those engaged in illegal activities or those who would threaten Carrion Hill. He takes his job seriously and will put his life on the line to safeguard the people. He views his job with the constable’s office as half town protector and half goodwill ambassador, and the citizens he meets in his duties truly admire him for it. Deputy Win has come to understand that looking into the disapperance of strangers is not the most important part of his job, a fact that nettles him.
"A muster!" he calls. Jolem, the proprietor, comes swinging around the bar and lifts Deputy Win into an empty chair in one smooth move.
Once each of you has your character's statistics, I need from you: how your PC knows Deputy Wygate ("I don't" would be acceptable, but I'm hoping for something a little mor colorful.) and how your PC reacts to this sudden outburst.
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