I'll pass on the corpse cart ride. Knowledge (Local) 17 (14+3)
What you know about Autochon:
Spoiler:
Autochon the Bellringer is the head of the most successful courier service in Sigil. His couriers are renowned for their confidentiality and speed; a heavy penalty is payed for breaking the trust of a client. You've heard that he is never seen outside of a dull grey suit of plate armor, which has left his posture bent and stooped, and the constant jangling of that suit has lead to the appellation "Bellringer". He's very sensitive about it, however, so making any snide comments would be unwise. There are many rumors about why he wears the suit; the most likely being that his face is somehow deformed or scarred.
What you know the Palace of the Jester:
Spoiler:
The Palace of the Jester is the seat of Jeremo the Natterer, "The Lady's Jester". Whereas the Lady of Pain is completely silent and enigmatic, her Jester is anything but. His power lies in the fact that the entirety of Sigil's bureaucracy is wrapped around his little finger. The Palace itself is an enormous structure; at least the size of the Great Foundry, the Guildhall and the Hive put together. It's a vast, empty, structure full of ghostly echoes of distant conversations where the rich and powerful make deals and hold offices.
On foot, Kev makes his way through the winding alleys of Sigil's backstreets. He passes corpsecarts, gangs of Xaositects (you have to hide or seek higher ground occasionally to avoid the barmy sods) and everyday working types, emptying the trash from their homes or places of employment. Picking your way through the Market Ward, the streets take on a different characteristic: they are orderly, presentable. Though the trademark Sigilian collision of various architectural styles, from classical to chaotic to the mish-mash Cager design, frought with razorvine, the buildings are well constructed. Even in the night hours of Sigil, you can recognize the towering Temple of the Abyss; an imposing menace of a structure, all black stone and silver blades with an enormous Belltower on top. In other neighbourhoods you can see the Temple of Hermes (some Olympian Power) and the Prison (as well as the ominous Tower of the Wyrm) where the Mercykillers keep some of the practioners of your trade captive.
Finally, you pick your way to a great baroque structure that fills you with a complete sense of anxiety. It's so huge, it makes the fine dwellings and offices around it seem absolutely paltry; to say nothing of a lone man such as yourself. This is definitely the Palace of the Jester, and through the great oak doors before you, you can make out the distant light of candles or torches that never quite illuminate the whole building.
The bariaur wanders for a while, whilst he thinks. Whilst his wanderings may seem random, he’s careful not to wander anywhere more dangerous than is usual for Sigil, and he keeps an eye out for trouble, and his gear close. He’s taken to bringing all his gear with him where-ever he goes lately, and more so since his place was ransacked. He’d a pretty good idea what they – whoever they were – were after, and that narrowed down the list on who he could go to for help now. No use in chant getting back to certain cutters that Thorn of Clovenwood was taking on a dangerous job … no one would ask too many questions if he disappeared going after a blood like Enoch, in place like the Hive.
He’d run into Olly at the bar the other night. Not someone he’d really consider a friend, or someone he’d go to if he was in trouble, but the little walking luggage kept his metaphorical ear to the ground, and he was as good as his word if Thorn could get him to agree not to rattle his bone box. A possibility … anyone else?
Can Thorn think of anyone else – outside the Takers – he might go to for information and/or muscle?
‘Course, it was a little hard to concentrate with all the whispering … I see it … Queen once … greed … I want it … heark, do you hear it? … undone …
He’d get used to it … and try to make a better pact next time.
Through the dark streets of the Clerk's Ward, Thorn wanders in thought. The Takers have usually employed him as muscle; even if he is pretty smart, having a strong bariaur leaning on someone is enough to make even the smallest halfling seem ten feet tall to a delinquent shopkeeper or a namer of a rival faction. Of course, this Enoch guy doesn't sound like either of those.
There's always the walking box at the library. Or there's Star, though you're not sure where she's gone, nor do you know if she would be willing to stick her neck out for you again. She's been strange lately; quiet, terse around you. You don't exactly look forward to that little talk she wants to have. Your work for the Fated has brought you into contact with a few very unsettling types: the Mercykillers. You're not sure how far you can count on them, though, or if they would be willing to let you collect what you need to collect and get it over with without a drawn-out court fiasco.
In the antipeak hours, indecision haunts your steps in the practically silent Clerk's Ward streets.
Good to see I’m not the only one fallen upon hard times. Oh well, I’ve slept in worse places, maybe this will be the job that finally kills me. One can hope.
Rennet cross the threshold into the ramshackle edifice.
Rennet cautiously enters the dessicated building. There's enough rubble-strewn ground level remaining to provide easy access to the gaping sinkhole. Your guides scrabble a bit in the refuse until they start to uncover something. They're almost burrowing through the debris, quickly reaching exactly what they're looking for: a bundle of sticks. No, not sticks. Bones.
As you watch, they unravel the bundle to reveal that it is, in fact, a rope ladder made of bones. With methodical care, they take the ladder and unwind it toward the sinkhole, letting the side that isn't attached to the ground fall over the precipice.
The Collector with the whiskers goes first, adroitly climbing into the darkness below.
"Pox" as you've come to call him in your head, bows and gestures to the ladder.
It'll take a little while to get to the Lady's Ward from the Guildhall/Market Ward on foot; perhaps an hour if you go through main streets, half that if you risk the alleyways. Contrary to popular belief, there is little honor among thieves in Sigil. You can also hire a palanquin, rickshaw or a carriage, though if you have an eye toward economy and don't mind smelling like a corpse for the rest of the night, the Collectors are usually willing to let you hitch on their deaders cart for very affordable rates. However, you may have to let them pile a few deaders on you, to avoid getting an undeserved reputation for slacking and taking a not-quite competely dead passenger. Feel free to make a knowledge: local or gather information check to see what you may know about the Palace and Autochon.
Reghar believes that the strong do not whine, so he restrains his honest tongue from wagging and simply shrugs at the instruction being given him by the gith. There will be time enough later to repay the gith.
“You got a bill me can show this Esao Enoch?”
Whether or not the gith gives Reghar anything, he does the following:
Reghar then exits the Oarsman turning into the direction of the Street of Martyrs.
Reghar carelessly strides about the pathways of Sigil. People who might otherwise bump into him turn away as Reghar’s powerful smell is indeed a deadly weapon. But the demon patrons of the Oarsman who habitually breathe sulphur don’t seem to mind.
Reghar thinks that this Esao Enoch is probably a very strong fellow to be able avoid paying his tab for a very long time. Perhaps he should have taken Bron’s axe. Perhaps he will challenge him for the right to own it.
A plan seems to be forming inside Reghar’s simple and brutish mind. He smiles.
Warden, how long before I reach the Street of Martyrs from the Oarsman?
The scarred gith hands you a sheet of parchment with all manner of squiggly, spidery marks arranged in rows and columns. "Writing" they call it. Since he knows you, however, he makes a few things clear, slowly and evenly.
"All right, you putrid-smelling son of a goat: he owes a balance of 1000 gold coins. If he wants to pay you, see if you can get someone to count it for you before you bring it back in. Just to be safe, you should make sure all of them are the same; don't let him fool you with a bag full of copper with a few pieces of gold on the top. If he wants to barter with a magic item, demand that he use it first so it doesn't blow you to orc chunks before I can get what I need out of you. It may also be smart to bring someone that can tell you if the magic thing is worth the balance of his bill."
Zegonz rubs his knife-sharp chin for a moment in thought.
"And if he can't pay, either break his legs or kill him and take anything from his house or his person that looks like someone will buy it. Can't let this lot start thinking I've gone soft."
With this information soaking into this skull, Reghar Bloodseeker leaves the Oarsman for the streets of the Lower Ward. The reek of smoking-houses-makes-metal-thing-sometimes-metal-claws fill your senses, but it doesn't bother you in the slightest. There aren't any stars to orient yourself, but you recognize landmarks for your route to the Gatehouse: you've got to head east toward the Ditch to get where you need to go, then cross the Ditch to where the always-screaming-no-sense-people gather to go crazy-no-sense-house-run-bleak-corral. Street of Martyrs should not be long walk between Oarsman and crazy-no-sense-house.
,"Hey, box. Listen up. I found out some interesting news in the Bizarre today, though my idea of keeping an ear to the ground is a bit different than yours. This may not be the straight chant, but I got an idea of where to find Demogorgon's supposed Proxy if you're willing to run an errand for me."
O.L.L.I takes in the Gelugon's bedraggled appearance.
"That information would be most welcome to this unit, honored co-worker Shactal. But first, allow this unit to administer to your damaged exoskeleton and ocular apparatus."
O.L.L.I.removes several clean linen strips from his Healer's Kit and attempts to wind them around Shactal's eye wound. Unfortunaely, his innate clumsiness ends up blindfolding the surly ice devil
Shactal stands motionless while you attempt to aid him. It is a testement to his restraint that he does not act on what you can tell is a growing sense of frustration. Indicators include:
-Protracted expulsions of air, commonly known as "sighs".
-An increased activity in the antennae.
-The rhythmic drumming of his fingers upon the desk.
As you wind the gauze around his eyes, he finally speaks in a flat, controlled voice.
"Box...", he begins,"I'm going to count to three. By the time I hit the word "three", I expect that you will have removed these ridiculously mortal emblems of "comfort" from my frame, or else your limbless cubic shell will serve as the new after hours drop box. And you know how those Chaosmen LOVE to leave us odious little presents in the drop box, yes? So here goes: 1...2..."
Before he hits "three" you have the bandages once again stripped.
"That's more like it.", grunts the gelugon as his carapace slowly knits itself back together and the swelling of his eye reduces by approximately 25% through what is likely a process of regeneration.
"Now, for this information, I ask only one boon: make sure you share it with plenty of interested parties. If this is supposed to be hushed up, I want this shouted from the rooftops.."
At your raised metal finger, he quickly corrects.
"Yes, in this case you may take it literally, box. He is rumored to live within the shadow of the Gatehouse in the Hive on the Street of Martyrs. The number on the building is 22...for vaunted creatures of chaos, they certainly have no problem being predictible in their choice of apartments."
As the Ice Devil takes his seat, he finally adds.
"And if you're thinking of confronting the supposed Proxy, I would suggest getting some help. The Nine Lords know a delicious halfling child could take YOU in a straight fight."
Thorn gazes suspiciously around the bar, looking for anyone who might be the note-leaver, although he little expects to see anyone. Spot: 4+6 = 10
Assuming he does not, he quickly finishes his drink, short-changes the bar-man, and makes his getaway.
So that berk Ambereye doesn’t want me to have any help he thinks. Well, what he don’t know don’t hurt him … who do I know outside the Takers who might be able to give me the dark on this?
Pretty boring lot, for Sigil. You recognize a lot of bureaucrats and namers by face, if not moniker. You doubt a lot of them would have the guts to pull something like that, though it's not out of the question for them to do it under compulsion/coercion.
The bariaur wanders for a while, whilst he thinks. Whilst his wanderings may seem random, he’s careful not to wander anywhere more dangerous than is usual for Sigil, and he keeps an eye out for trouble, and his gear close. He’s taken to bringing all his gear with him where-ever he goes lately, and more so since his place was ransacked. He’d a pretty good idea what they – whoever they were – were after, and that narrowed down the list on who he could go to for help now. No use in chant getting back to certain cutters that Thorn of Clovenwood was taking on a dangerous job … no one would ask too many questions if he disappeared going after a blood like Enoch, in place like the Hive.
He’d run into Olly at the bar the other night. Not someone he’d really consider a friend, or someone he’d go to if he was in trouble, but the little walking luggage kept his metaphorical ear to the ground, and he was as good as his word if Thorn could get him to agree not to rattle his bone box. A possibility … anyone else?
Can Thorn think of anyone else – outside the Takers – he might go to for information and/or muscle?
‘Course, it was a little hard to concentrate with all the whispering … I see it … Queen once … greed … I want it … heark, do you hear it? … undone …
He’d get used to it … and try to make a better pact next time.
There's always mercenaries looking for work in a place like Sigil, though it would take a really, truly Clueless sod to trust them any further than they could throw them, even if they manage to throw them pretty far. You've heard rumors about a githzerai sage named Rule of Three that traffics in chant, especially in regard to the Abyss. He only accepts payment in threes and only answers in threes, though, and his answers often only serve to raise more questions. What he might consider payment is open to his chaotic whims. You could ask around after him, since he's pretty well known. Even in The Cage he's considered "eccentric" (the polite term for barmy, since it's better to show a little respect to mysterious and well-lanned bloods like this gith) and is rather infamous in certain circles.
Depending on where you party and who you know, it's possible you know 'Deris (if you hang with high society), Kev (if you don't oppose the cross-trade in any real way), Reghar (if you enjoy tattoos and brawling). Rennet may not be someone you know; not very talkative or acquisitive and kind of unlikely to put up with Thorn's more aggressive moods. It's at your discretion and your fellow players', though.
Rennet stands up dizzily and brushes himself off, still maudlin over the sound of his own voice in the dream. Must be another bad pipe experience. The question is, where am I, and have I woken out of it yet?
Following a deliberately overdramatic curtsey, Rennet checks himself over for damage or lost possessions, then places one hand palm up before himself, and another extended into the distance, indicating the men should lead on, though preferably upwind!
Days like this I wish I could still vomit.
When you slap the Collector's hand away, both retreat warily, in unison with their heads down and legs bent, ready to react. As you brush yourself off, you note that miraculously enough, your possessions are untouched to your best recollection. Likely by virtue of owning some of the most unassuming, cheap and common weapons, but nonetheless, your belongings are accounted for.
You feel a warmth spread for a moment from the back of your head and down your spine as the pox-faced miscreant chuckles sarcastically.
"Oh, yer parren, Lard Mime! Didn mean ter effend ye! Dent fall berind, eh? Only gon' shoe yer once.", he says as he begins to furtively lead you through the tangled alleys of what you are now certain is the Hive.
Through crumbling city blocks, carefully arranged by Sinkers to achieve complete disarray, through caverns of urban material and Dabus ruined tenements you follow your disgusting guides. Several times, they pause at an alleymouth or intersection, listen to the sounds of voices ahead and deliberately turn further into the labyrinthine slums. In this hidden settlement, the weary and bewildered walk lonely back to empty rooms and men scrounge through the refuse of abandoned dancehalls. Your guides take you unnoticed through neighbourhoods even the Hardheads would be smart enough not to enter.
All the while, the stench steadily gains intensity. You sometimes round a corner and take several deep breaths of (comparatively) fresh air, only to plunge headlong back into it. From your own wanderings of Sigil, you recognize the stench as that of the Lower Ward; its belching foundries hurling soot and ash into the air even as foul vapors of the Abyss and the Grey Waste steadily seep from the numerous portals to the Lower Planes, painting its citizens in broad strokes of yellow, ochre and palsied green. But there is a further undercurrent; diseased, noxious water. Your assessment is verified when you round a corner and see before you in the Sigil night the infamous Ditch, and beyond it the Gatehouse, where the Bleakers tend to the insane. Even now, you can hear their screams echoing from the asylum. Or maybe that's just the Night Bizarre in full swing.
Your new "friends" lead you toward a collapsed building, little more than a shell of a house, with a yawning pit for a floor. You hesitate at the threshold as the two Collectors turn to beckon you inside after them.
Scanning the street for a good mark one last time, Kev sighs and is about to turn and walk back to the inn that he calls home when he sees a messenger hurrying down the street towards him. He tenses and then relaxes a moment later when recognizes the man as someone best left alone. “For me?” he asks in surprise as the messenger hands him the parchment. He opens it, briefly considering telling the messenger that he’s not Arkev Tallius and that he’s delivered the wrong message but he thinks better of it, nodding in thanks to the man and regretfully fishing a silver coin out of his pocket and handing it to the messenger “Here you go mate.”
As the messenger departs Kev reads the whole letter again, keeping his face devoid of emotion ”Autochon the Bellringer? Certainly not for a personal meeting, no of course not.” he thinks as he orientates himself within the city and chooses a route that will take him to the Palace of Jesters. As he starts out his handsome features twist in a grim smile as he draws his long coat around himself and sets off into the night. “Acheron” he mutters under his breathe as he goes to the Palace of Jesters.
Any chance Kev knows what this is all about? Anything he can think of that he’s been delinquent in payment for?
The messenger pockets the jink, bows graciously and continues along his way.
Kev wracks his brain, but he can't think of a single instance where he's deliberately bilked Autochon or his couriers. Once you learned the Chant, the hierarchy was soon to follow, and the Bellringer and his boyos are high on the "Do Not Mess With" list.
Imel's Happy Tongue in the Guildhall/Market Ward is quickly becoming your new favorite restaurant. The cheeses from Arcadia are a wonderful complement to the smokey Baatoran absinthe. The atmosphere is casual, the common room is well-lit and the service is friendly and attentive (exactly what you're used to). If only everyone could do business like this.
Seated opposite you are your two contacts. You would guess them to be tieflings from their slitted eyes and the not unpleasant scaley accents on their necks. They must be twins, you've decided, for they look almost exactly alike: androgynously beautiful, with tin lips and delicate cheekbones. You have no idea if they're men, women or both, but you're intrigued enough to want to learn more. Then they spoil it all by getting down to business. They both lean in, almost simultaneously and begin to speak in gentle, sibilant tones.
"We hear that you have a knack for gaining information?", the twin on your right asks.
"We would like to engage your services on a matter we cannot attend to ourselves.", says the twin on the left.
"A well-informed individual has not been entirely forthcoming with some of the knowledge he possesses.", the right twin.
"In the interest of...educating others, we would like you to procure this individual's journal.", the left twin.
"It's mostly a philanthropic gesture.", clarifies the right twin.
"We simply believe it would be a shame to have such useful lessons hidden from those that could benefit right here in Sigil.", states the left twin.
"In exchange for fulfilling the civic duty that we propose..."
"...we will reward you most handsomely in any currency you...", the right twin trails off suggestively.
The left twin fills in the blank after a moment of anticipation.
"....desire."
"Furthermore, we can also offer future employment once you successfully complete this minor gesture.",says the right twin.
"Would you be interested in hearing the details?", asks the left twin as they both raise their glasses to their wine dark lips.
It's getting late. What passes for a sky in Sigil is dimming above you and still no sign of a mark. The Bizarre was as busy as ever, but it seems you've been given the worst terrirtory out of any Cross-Traders you can recognize. You really want to start catching some coneys on another blood's turf, but you've got just enough cautious sense to know that the consequences might be a little different from back home.
You're ready to call it a night and find a game of bones to fix and a pleasant-looking, credulous young lass to entertain when a berk starts heading your way. He strides purposefully forward, the tassles and bells on his vest moving from side-to-side. When he stops in front of you and pulls out a rolled-up piece of parchment, you realize who he is.
A courier. For the Bellringer, no less. A pigeon one pinches at their own peril.
You take the proferred parchment and open it up. In an even and unembellished script it says:
"Attn: Arkev Tallius
Regarding: Payment for undelivered message.
Message origin: The plane of Acheron
Sender's given name: Unknown
Please meet with Autochon the Bellringer in the Palace of the Jester, Lady's Ward at earliest opportunity to discuss your delinquent payment."
The maimed Githzerai stares up into your eyes as he speaks with his scarred lips. It is a testament to his strength that one such as he, so gaunt and frail with only one operable hand, can hold on to what is his in a place like this "Sigil".
Zegonz Vlaric, the owner of the Styx Oarsman, is telling you what's already written on the walls.
"I'm replacing you, you bastard Prime.", he states, flatly,"The Oarsman's gotten rougher in the last few months and even if you CAN keep the clientele in line, the collateral damage has been more than I want to foot. So I'm giving..."
He looks like he's going to wretch, even as he says the man's name.
"...Bron...your job."
The one known as Bron is a coward in your eyes. He walks with a metal skin from head to foot and every time he opens his word-hole, nonsense about "good" and "evil" and "Gods" comes spewing out. He calls himself an "adventurer". You're certain that he couldn't do your job (ever!) if he didn't have that special glowing axe of his. Two lights in the whole bar: candles by the taps and Bron's stupid axe. It messes with your night vision, gives you a headache when you stare at it for longer than a minute and you've noticed that it drives the lesser Tanar'ri away. You have to admit, though, the stupid demons can't stand the touch of it.
The frail gith continues.
"I'm keepin' you around, though, just doin' something different. Don't go thinking I LIKE you or anything ridiculous like that; someone has to do my legwork and I'm sick of running errands when I could be minding the bar. And since you have about as much personality as half a cranium rat, I'll be leaving the errands to you. Don't get all pouty on me, though: you'll still get to crack heads."
He goes through a sheaf of papers on the bar's scarred, pitted and charred countertop and finally pulls one out. Not that you could read it, but you don't need to; he's just gonna tell you.
"Esao Enoch. Rumored to be Demogorgon's Proxy. Bought a lot of drinks for a lot of fiends over the years, never paying a drop of jink because of his master's reputation. Word is, he's trying to break the Cage and I need you to collect whatever you can get off of him or his corpse before he gets out of here. Lives in the Hive, opposite the Gatehouse. Where the barmies are. Street of Martyrs. Think you can handle that, Prime?"
You're sitting with Star (half listening to whatever she's saying) at the Tear of the Barghest, having a little taste of home with a tankard of Ysgardian ale.
Lately, it seems that everything is closing in on you. Ever since you got that book, every shadow has been a hidden menace, every raised voice a threat. Someone broke into your apartment and ransacked the place and now Karlat Ambereye, your direct superior in the Fated, has given you what you consider a suicide mission. He met with you this afternoon in the Hall of Records, as terse and to-the-point as usual. You don't know if Ambereye is a clan surname or a nickname he grew out of, because his false eye is much more extravagent than his name implies. Every time you talk to him, you can't help but stare at the socket where the gem-studded porcelain globe sits and stares unmoving at you. When he got to the point, it shook you right out of your revery: he wants you to collect on some "back taxes" from a blood rumored to be none other than Demogorgon's proxy. And you've got to go out and get it yourself.
You're told that when the Prince of Demons was still holding court, nobody was ever able to get the property taxes and tariffs from one Esao Enoch, a man rumored (along with several other candidates, including a fiendish troglodyte and an intelligent four-armed gorilla) to be the two headed beast's proxy in Sigil. But Ambereye wants you to go get it, promising a large portion of the proceeds and an elevated rank in the faction.
Star finally excuses herself after remarking that maybe you could meet later to "discuss how things are going" and as she heads for the door, a small note falls out of the bag around her waist.
It reads:
"Read any books lately?" in a flowing, elegant script.
Somehow, you don't think that was a note for Star.
It is approximately four hours to antipeak, the streets around the library are lit by a total of 46 lanterns within a radius of three blocks. 75% of these are oil lights, 25% are magical and they are tinged orange or red to protect the night-vision of pedestrians, though the occasional violent and green light break up this trend. On this night, you have scribed 3 treatises on the Prime Material Plane and a common guidebook to the reproduction habits of the mephit. While shelving and re-organizing the stacks, Shactal arrives an uncharacteristic 26 minutes, 38 seconds late for duty. The Greater Baatezu of the Gelugon (slang "Ice Devil") designation appears to have been wounded in some manner of "dust up". A series of lateral cracks run along his thorax, one eye is oozing a thick, syrupy ichor and he drags his left leg.
The Baatezu turns to you and with his characteristicly menacing voice states,"Hey, box. Listen up. I found out some interesting news in the Bizarre today, though my idea of keeping an ear to the ground is a bit different than yours. This may not be the straight chant, but I got an idea of where to find Demogorgon's supposed Proxy if you're willing to run an errand for me."
This is the discussion thread for James Keegan's Planescape pbp started in Wanted: Addle-coved Berks.
I will post opening scenes/hooks for every character in time, in no particular order. They are spoilered only because I want keep character and player knowledge separate; if you want to read someone else's starting scene, go ahead, just don't bring it up in character.
You stare down a deep stone well. You are cranking the wooden handle for what seems like forever, your steady pace eliciting a constant squeak as rope is twined in increasingly thick coils. Your eyes can only see a few yards before all light is extinguished in the well's fathomless depths. The stone (or, at least, you think it's stone) walls are bone-white and just dryer than death. This well must be bottomless.
You realize that you are either dreaming or having a lotus related hallucination when you stop cranking the well, cup your hands around your mouth and...shout.
Did your voice really sound like that? It sounds so foreign, along with that ghostly feeling of moving lips and an opening jaw; like an amputee remembers a phantom limb. It's not pain that you feel, in the part of you that remembers this. It's an ingrained sorrow, a depressed longing for something that you only now realize you took for granted a long, long time ago. Like most humans would fondly pine for the simpler days of childhood.
The echo comes back, but it isn't your voice. From the depths of the well, a scratchy, rough voice returns to you.
"Is it alive?", it asks.
Amazingly, another voice chimes in; again, not your own.
"It better be, or we're in for it.", the other voice remarks.
With a groggy return to self awareness, you open your eyes. You can feel the cold cobblestones beneath you as you push yourself up into a sitting position. From the blank darkness of the sky and the very distant black band of the very opposite side of Sigil, you can tell it's a little before anti-peak. Crouching over you are two foul-smelling men with beady black eyes and long crooked noses. They where burlap robes and other cast-offs covered in nameless stains. One of them has a patchy mass of whiskers on his face, the other has acne scars and various poxes layered in a latticework over his face and weak chin.
Noticing your return to consciousness, the poxed man meets your gaze.
"With us now, are ye?", he asks,"Thought we'd be making a bit o' jink off the Dusties terday, bet it's better yer ain't penned yet. Our Master wants a word with the berk with the plate o'er 'is face an' we reckon thar'd be ye."
He extends to you a rag-clad hand topped with long, brittle fingernails.
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