Your long journey to the town of Ravengro is finally at an end, begun those many days ago when a messenger brought you a summons stating that your old friend Professor Petros Lorrimer is dead and had named you as a principal in his will. Though each of you has your own fond memories of the professor, you never expected to be named in his will. However, the news of his passing has affected you enough that each of you made arrangements to leave the task at hand, buckled on your boots, and set forth through the waning days of summer toward the small town of Ravengro.
Ravengro sits near Lake Lias in western Ustalav, in the county of Canterwall- breadbasket of the confederacy. Passing through the fields, moors and groves of this fertile land, you saw many a farmer, tradesman or merchant on your path. Few, however, had anything to say to even the warmest greeting. Even after arriving in town it took a bit of asking around to get proper directions to the Restlands- the moorland to the north set aside for the dead in Ravengro, where Professor Lorrimer will be layed to his final rest. On the road to the cemetery, you can't help but notice the looming keep or manor house standing silently south of the town. The seemingly decrepit structure squats silently atop a hill, a baleful sentinel over the small town.
The Restlands are fenced in with high stone walls with multiple paths winding through its many openings. Clustered around the large main entrance is a small group of people: an overweight older man with a thin mustache stands with a slimmer man with aquiline features and grey in his temples. Both are dressed in dark and well-tailored clothing, fanning themselves solemnly with the broad-brimmed hats favored in this region. A stocky man with a wide, friendly face and a thick mustache stands with a hand on the shoulder of a lad of about thirteen with a clear resemblance to the older man while a woman in her thirties stands near the stone wall, her arms crossed over her conservative dark dress.
Laying on several short logs is the Professor's casket- a dark polished oak box to transmit his earthly remains. Standing closest to that is a young woman dressed in dark clothing. She is trim and attractive despite the redness and puffiness around her eyes. She dabs her cheek with a handkerchief and looks to the sky with moist eyes. This must be the Professor's daughter you had heard about.
The other mourners in the party nod warily as you approach, covered with the dust of the road and with your weapons and packs still close at hand. They offer no other greeting. The young lady by the casket snaps from her reverie to watch your approach, her eyebrows rising hopefully.
Okay, feel free to introduce yourselves as you like.
The Godsmouth Cathedral- Bottoms District, Kaer Maga
It is fast approaching midnight, the appointed hour of your meeting with Cryptsmistress Valanthe Nerissia. You approach the Cathedral, a gothic structure perched on the cliff's edge above one of the gigantic faces carved into the Storval Rise. A gravel path leads into the nave from the north and south. At the north entrance, a bed of thornless black roses have been planted in the center of the path while the south is flanked by rowan trees. From within the branches you can hear the call of the whippoorwhills, waiting to guide the departed to the Boneyard.
Each of you have been contacted by the Cyptsmistress to carry out a discrete duty-
Detressa:
Spoiler:
Since being ordained, most of your duties have been caring for the... less stable clergy in the east wing off the nave and maintaining the Chapel of the Mad Prophet therein. On some nights you have also had the duty of transcribing High Priest of Fate Mahajan Sandeep's observations of the moon, which he makes from the east bell tower. But now you have heard that bodies have gone missing from the Godsmouth Ossuary below the cathedral and the Cryptsmistress has asked you to join the expedition- since you are not a custodian of the Ossuary you are above suspicion in this matter and your sister believes this is an opportunity for you to take on greater responsibility in the church while keeping an eye on the freelancers Valanthe has hired. The Cryptsmistress will be meeting the outsiders at midnight in the shrine of St. Feodric- she bid you wait there for them while she retrieves some supplies.
Kua:
Spoiler:
Warden Hammerfell, the Duskwarden's grizzled dwarven guildmaster, has asked you to assist the Pharasmin's with a disturbance in the Ossuary. As part of the deal for lending you out, you will need to map the level below the Ossuary. No Duskwardens have been allowed in prior to this and the Warden is always eager to add to their knowledge of the dungeons below Kaer Maga. The map doesn't need to be meticulous, but it should be functional. He also reassures you that the church will be paying you quite well for your time. You are to meet the Cryptsmistress at the Cathedral, in the shrine of St. Feodric.
Yang:
Spoiler:
Having spent some time working closely with the Pharasmins, you've become privy (if purely incidentally) to some of their problems. The foremost being that bodies have begun to disappear from the Ossuary. Several days ago, Crystmistress Nerissia took you aside and requested that you assist in tracking down the culprit "as a way of ensuring continued good faith between us." Since you already know about the problem and none of the priests on hand are experts on matters of the arcane, she is willing to pay for your services and your silence. She asks you to meet her and the rest of the freelancers in the Cathedral, in the shrine of St. Feodric.
Badang:
Spoiler:
Working at the Bloodbrothers puts food on the table, sure, and a good brawl is always satisfying but the Lord in Iron craves more than nonlethal combat in a tavern full of roughnecks. Gorum demands war! Carrying battle to the enemy (whoever that may be), with blade bared and a snarl on your lips! And so the last few weeks at the tavern you've been restless, enough that Tarj Halfhand pointed you to a black-robed woman sitting silently in the corner. "Work for you, boy,"said the dwarf, gesturing with a mutilated hand,"The Cryptsmistress needs some heads split and I said you're the man for it." While the Pharasmin priestess didn't explain things quite that way, she did say that she needed a strong swordarm that can keep their mouth shut for an expedition she's putting together. The Ossuary has been losing bodies of late and she can't trust her own to look into it. For some coin and a promise that you'll see some action, she's invited you to meet her and the rest of the freelancers she's gathered at midnight at the shrine of St. Feodric in the Godsmouth Cathedral.
Uwais:
Spoiler:
So far Kaer Maga has yet to disappoint. Though Waya grows restless at times in the vast enclosed sections known as the Ring, there are very few that deign to insult you or consider whether they can bring you back for a reward. Everyone minds their own business here and your new friends in the Freemen have done a lot to help you and Waya get settled in. It's from them that you hear of an opportunity for work: Cryptsmistress Nerissia has put out a call for able souls looking to earn some coin. It's also an opportunity to help the Freemen rise in the church's esteem. When you spoke to that tall, forbidding woman in black robes, she told you that she is assembling a team of "outside help" to look into some disturbances in the Ossuary. The pay is good, so long as you can keep quiet about the job. The team is meeting at midnight in the Cathedral, at the shrine of St. Feodric.
Sister Mara:
Spoiler:
It was only a week ago that the message spell from Cryptsmistress Valanthe Nerissia reached you; she explained in as few words as possible that bodies have gone missing from the Godsmouth Ossuary in Kaer Maga and Brother Vadim of the chapel to Saerenrae recommended you for your unique abilities and hatred of the undead. After a long and winding hike up the Halflight Path, guided by taciturn Duskwardens you found yourself in the infamous City of Strangers. From what you've heard there is an entire District, "Ankar-Te" where zombies and skeletons and their masters are free to roam the streets... and that's only the beginning. As foul as some of the practices may be in this chaotic city, it is also free and open with peoples of every race and nationality bumping shoulders and living side by side (or often one atop the other). Regardless, the Bright Lady's work must be done and at midnight in the Godsmouth Cathedral's shrine to St. Feodric you will find out just what that work will entail.
You enter beneath one of the large iron candelabras lighting the nave. Running east to west is a plush purple carpet layed between row after row of wooden pews. At the far western end is a dais holding the altar and a great hourglass as tall as a man, filled with red sand. Above that is a rose window depicting Pharasma's aspects: Reaper, Midwife and Prophet. On the eastern side are two open doors leading to small shrines flanking a set of double doors Detressa, these double doors lead to the cells for your order. Any of the grey-robed acolytes in the nave can direct you to the shrine to St. Feodric, which is the southernmost shrine.
The shrine is a long rectangle, lit with candles. At the north end is an open prayer book on a lectern while to the south stands a stone statue of a stern looking man holding a mace before him, a bed of black roses growing around the statue's base. The Cryptsmistress has not arrived yet- perhaps you are a bit early.
On the second Wildday of Tanot, the small riverside village of Trela celebrates the Carnival of Flowers with games during the day and feasting, song and dance in the evening under Belsameth's moon. The boats running up and down the river that divides New Venir and Lageni have ceased travel for the day to join the festivities: danger and doom are regular hazards on the merchants' long road and any opportunity for merriment is quickly snatched up like a fallen silver coin. The eaves of the modest houses are decked with garlands filling the air with a sweet fragrance to complement the laughter of children and the gentle singing of a handsome half-elf who strolls the town with his harp. Sailors, townsfolk and river guards converse and joke while local young men and women exchange bouquets in an elaborate homespun courtship ritual. Even the silhouette of the Blood Steppes to the north, with all the danger and tragedy it represents, cannot dampen the spirit of the Carnival.
Each of you has found your way here on this feast day with your own purposes in mind and while future plans and events may press you heavily every other day of the year, today is a celebration of the recently arrived summer and the promise of rest and recreation is difficult to pass up.
It's about two hours before noon and townsfolk are lining up around the periphery of the village where a track has been layed out; a line of men and women are stretching at a line drawn in the dust with chalk. The town square has been cleared as well and some of the burly Riverguard are piling up padded armor and elderwood rods under the supervision of a handsome young man in the black robes of a Belsamite.
If you want to join the footrace, you had better hurry...
Okay, wide open: let me know what you guys are up to.
Zareby Grenache
It's a sight almost like a carnival, or a city in miniature. Small homes of modest construction sit at the base of a hill with a multitude of tents sticken around them without any real rhyme or reason and lording over the entire chaotic mess, silhouetted against the Inner Sea, is what must be Lady Vestang's country house. Even from a distance it's a fine old house, though you've certainly seen finer in Oppara and other ports. A large stone wall separates the villa from the rest of the hamlet around it and from the beaten track you can see that there is a courtyard within, full of perfectly arranged trees and bushes: a welcome change from the monotony of the southern Taldor scrubland. The house behind is a stately two-story structure with just about anything a rich person might want: a balcony, big columns and of course lots of windows with brand new panes of glass.
It's a welcome sight after your long trip south. You've been jostled in the back of carts, driven off the road like cattle by passing upper-crust types and too rarely welcomed to a trader or beast-tamer's campfire to trade gossip and pass the evening hours. Just from what you've seen on the trip, this should be some sort of shindig.
It all began in the back room of a gambling den in Oppara. Lady luck was kind for a short run and the bloke you were betting against hadn't realized that his fortunes had deserted him. Finally, just when you thought he was ready to call it quits, he throws a letter on the table. It's got a seal, nice paper, looks like a party invitation addressed to some woman named Viviana Albercroft. Didn't seem like it was worth a stake, but then he told you all about this party and how much some folk might be willing to pay for such a thing. It sounded like a good time, anyhow, so you let him play for it. Shortly after you won the last hand, you found a fence for the invite and used the money to pay for your passage south.
So here you are, standing outside the Lady's hamlet with the dust of the road on your boots and most of your winnings dried up. Various porters and teamsters run left and right as harried servants pitch big, luxurious tents for their masters. Camels pull carts covered in tarps smelling of all kinds of exotic animals. You see a permanent structure called The Dancing Tabi (likely an inn by the look of it) and a big tent nearby with a sign outside painted to resemble a mask. A guard near the town gate look over the crush of incoming party-goers with tired disinterest. He's the only one you can see.
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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