This game is private and therefore not in recruitment. Sorry about that.
That being said, this thread is for posting your characters and doing a little starting RP, guys. We'll start the campaign proper once everyone is in here.
*throat clearing*
YOUR TALE BEGINS as the lot of you disembark from the merchant vessel that you each chartered and set foot on the sandy shores of Muhramn. You are in the city of Talonne, the former capital of Muhramn, now held by the Destherian Alliance. Each of you has answered the call of the Alliance for hearty adventurers to join their ranks, each of you with your own mission in mind as well. You all met briefly aboard the ship and you have an inclination to start an adventuring band with each other, seeing as you're all here for a common purpose. Still, you hardly know each other and there seems a nice enough tavern nearby, right on the shore by the docks.
With the cool seabreeze at your backs and the exotic port city laid out before you, you feel the stirring of a grand adventure on the horizon.
Note: in your posts please describe your characters appearance and any backstory they would have shared with complete strangers on a boat to break the ice. Then you can rp from there!
"Lovely day, isn't it?" Barbacoa says in his whimsical, sing-song voice. "Yes, Barphy, my boy, yes-sirree. I feel the promise of good times ahead, good times my boy, for us and for all the Nagaji. Times are changing for us, my boy, mark my word, or my name isn't Barbacoa Sharel. And if the name printed on my ship ticket is up to code, it still is." He trails off the end of this sentence, his pitch descending a full octave; this is, of course, how he finishes every sentence. Those within earshot of Barbacoa feel the physical sensation of accelerated aging, having lived several weeks waiting for him to finish the thought.
Barbacoa looks back toward the sea, finds little of interest in its vast bucolicity, and focuses in toward the boat where they and the other adventurers had spent so much time marinading in each other's ennui. "And for our first order of business, Barphami-llamie, my old apple orchard, my old icicle knife, let us make it a point never again to accommodate our former accommodations. It's a special kind of cold in the air when the rats use a poikilotherm as a blanket. Had I known earlier that we'd be used as bed dressings, I could have gotten a better fare and a smoother ride sharing space with the other laundry. And gotten a free bath out of the deal, as well, I reckon."
Barphami opens his mouth to speak, but Barbacoa remains oblivious, continuing the madrigal he had been chanting since that rueful day when he first learned to speak.
"Yes, I know all too well, Barpholomew, my old shingle-bat, you don't feel the cold. We can't all be so lucky, you know--[And here, Barbacoa beats Barphami over the head rhythmically with an imaginary umbrella]--And you'd do well to remember that, my little frigidaire. The first step in distributing blessings to others is to count your own."
From Barphami's slightly lower eye level, his aging guru, the guide who had tasked himself with buffaloing along this far-flung and half-baked profit scheme he called a spirit journey, looked like a giant bulbous nose behind which a few graying scale ridges protruded and bounced emphatically.
Barphami says "Um, I'm a girl."
Barbacoa, responds "What was that? What have I told you about talking back, my boy? Time was, we listened to our elders instead of interrupting them at every turn. You could learn something that way. Yes sir, my Barphamel Sauce, those days are past."
"Also", chimed in Barphami once more, "it is pronounced Bar-PAH-mi. Not barf-ami". At this point, it was clear that Barbacoa was lost in another one of his tangents, and currently not taking any visitors.
It wasn't unheard of for her name to mispronounced. A lot. Even by members of her own race. Or tribe. Or close circle. And after 27 years, she still hadn't gotten used to it. Oh well.
She was still facing the sea, unlike her elder, and lost in thought. She rather enjoyed the sea. The smell, the way the air bit gently at her scales. It was cold, and she enjoyed that. Hard to find a nice climate when you're born in a marsh and have the blood of an ice dragon. You could almost see her bloodline in her face structure as well. Sharp and pointed, like a dragon. Paler than her kin, scale ridges of white and eyes of sharp blue. Sometimes she wondered if she would sprout wings. Sometimes she thought about it seriously. Usually when Barbacoa wouldn't stop talking.
Wait, he was still talking. She winced and shook her head.
"Speaking of Barph..." Ryton said, appearing onto the deck with a hand covering his mouth. As if the floor was covered in grease, he stumbled his way across the deck to the gangplank of the ship, nearly tripping over himself several times.
After a moment of silence, he finally descends onto the dock, showing a weak grimace as he sinks to the ground with a loud thud from his thick steel armor. Ryton never enjoyed admitting helplessness, but trying to hide his terrible susceptibility to sea-sickness was rather useless. His hands curled into his thin blonde hair as he cradled his green-tinted head.
"I'll never flee from an enemy. Fear is the mind killer, but by Iomedae - may she bless us - I cannot combat motion sickness, the stomach killer!" he complained aloud.
His thoughts drifted to Elgar as he gathered his bearings. The poor horse has already gone through hardship just reaching Muhramm, but in just a day or two he will have to ask his companion to travel the desert for the coming weeks. Ryton thought of the travels the two had taken before, and that they have survived far more difficult challenges. Still, while western Muhrahm is not a wasteland like its eastern counterpart, it will not be an easy adventure.
As you disembark the ship, the more perceptive among you notice a slender woman in a black hooded cape approach the tavern on the beach, the Seaside Sheik's Pride. She looks from side to side before opening the door, and you catch a glimpse of bright, beady red eyes and a long, narrow crow's beak jutting out from the darkness of the upraised hood. She vanishes into the dimly lit tavern in seconds.
"Why, if my eyes do deceive me," says Barbacoa as his attentions are snagged away from the troubles of today's world, "there is a portly, unwashed man sauntering his way into our very destination. But they do not deceive me, I'd wager--yes, mm-hmm--they most certainly do not."
Barbacoa picks up his cane, twirls the crook in his hand, and walks into the tavern, humming a jaunty tune from by-gone days.
"Why yes," he says dreamily to no one in particular, "I do find that I have quite a powerful thirst."
Having risen late, Evard d'Garess catches the tale end of that and asks To the tavern? Evard has spend the vast majority of the trip drinking, not drunk but drinking. He's a Bronze-skinned mountain of a man. Yet the scars covering his substantial musculature and the opp-putting color of his eyes that clash with his sking and hair color leave him unnatractive. He's got a somewhat alien look to him and demeanor, speaking an a monotone and as if his mind is elsewhere while sharp eyes bore into you as he stares. Even so he's a nice enough fellow, quiet but pleasant and polite, if a little formal.
He is unarmed and unarmored carrying a small bag with him He does have some sort of Glaive, but often leaves it lying around or uses it as a pole to hold his bag like a hobo. Also, anybody see that bird-beaked lady there slipping in to the local watering hole?
Eolande had been keeping quiet for the most part, not due to introversion, but instead because of a barrage of alchemical insights. Xyr most recent concoctions had been failed attempts at a potion able to instantly intoxicate the drinker. The possibilities raced endlessly through xyr mind, which was why xe refused to let the idea die.
This time, however, xe was drawn into conversation. "Are you referring to the woman cloaked in black?" xe said, finally closing xyr notebook. "I believe I did see her." Eolande wasn't exactly a troublemaker, but xe couldn't help but be drawn into the mischief of others. Curiosity took hold of xem; xe decided to fly a bit ahead of the group, leaving a faint glittering trail in xyr wake.
The young fairy almost darts out of the party's sight before the rest of you notice and follow xem toward the seedy tavern. A large sign rests crooked along the top of the doorpost - "The Seaside Sheik's Pride" it says, with a cartoonish picture of a wealthy Muhramnian nobleman downing a pint of ale, one hand on the cutlass at his side. His leg is knocked as if he is leaning on a crate or barrel, but whoever designed the sign forgot to actually paint the object onto it, so the sheik is leaning on nothing but the letter E.
As you open the door to the tavern you are assaulted by a blast of exotic music played on lyres, castanets, and drums. most of the bar is extremely poorly lit - pitch black on the near end, but gradually growing brighter closer to the small-ish stage on the far side of the room which is lit with a circle of torches. On the stage is a large, volumptuous, and incredibly beautiful Lizardwoman performing a wild and seductive folk dance, flanked by three scantily clad Human male backup dancers. She sings as well in her native tongue - her voice is deep and brassy but oozes with sexuality.
The cloaked figure you saw earlier must have vanished into the crowd of onlookers because she is nowhere to be seen now. Instead, a young Human barmaid with curly black hair approaches your group and waves you inside. "Welcome to the Seaside Sheik's Pride, where we serve exotic rums," the barmaid moves her left hand over to her right cheek, "And a little skin on the side." She looks over your band with a wry grin. "Ay, two men, two lizards, and a fairy? Don't you all look like a ragtag bunch. What can I get you?" the barmaid japes.
"Ah, the ol' Sheik's Pride. Reminds me of the good old days. Remember those days, my boy? No, 'course ya don't, I'm Barping up the wrong tree, as they say, mmyes. 'Course I was never at this Sheik's Pride, no sir, it was the one in Roenna if I recall, unaffiliated mind you, just a wonderfully welcome coincidence. Old Fashioned, no orange, and make it snappy, sweetie," he says without particularly acknowledging the barmaid, "My particular skill set obliges me to commune with the spirits from time too time. Mmyes."
Barbacoa sits down at a table. "Get any louder in here, I'm likely to undertake a quest to find the exit. Head feels like ten cents. These hooligans seem to think drinking is a social activity."
Try as Barphami could, she could not shut out her elder, even with the raucous noise coming from the tavern. She brought her hands to her face and ran them down, groaning. "By Ghameti, I cannot take anymore of this. I can't. Just can't. I've made the entire voyage sober and it ends now."
She walked to bar, leaving her party behind, and caught the attention of the barkeep. "I will have two pints of the strongest libation you have. Now."
Well, I shall be happy with whatever the house ail is, miss. Evard requests, as he looks around the bar for the bird-beaked individual he had seen earlier, as he is one to take onte of those that try to hide.
"Well, I suppose I'll just bring you all a round of our special, then," the barmaid says, watching Barphami rudely push past the crowd. The barmaid slinks off to the mixer to ask what in the Abyss an Old Fashioned is.
The four of you take a seat at a table toward the corner and began to look over the crowd. Nothing out of the ordinary catches your eyes from here, just a lot of tacky corsair-themed decorations and rowdy drunkards who despite any racial differences can't get enough of the sexy lizard woman performer.
Barphami, however, finds herself sitting at the bar next to a beaked woman in a dark green hooded cape, who is looking over an old, worn map of Muhramn. The map is dotted with various colors and notes, scrawled in a bizarre chicken-scratch of a language you can't understand.
Barphami notices the old crow looking over the map but does not pay it much attention as she desperately needs that drink. Her mind starts to wander, and she starts to wonder what it all says. It looks like scratches, but maybe some deep contemplation will gain a little understanding.
Surprisingly, though the letters are much more angular and archaic-looking, Barphami realizes that this language, the language of the Tengu, is based on the same alphabet as her native Stygian. With this flash of insight, Barphami is able to read the notes on the map clearly - the map records detailed information on the locations of major Orc encampments and fortresses in the area around Talonne. A map of this strategic value would be worth quite a bit to any intrepid Destherian adventuring party.
The robed woman notices Barphami scanning the map over her shoulder, and quickly stashes the map away in her bag, crinkling the edges in her haste. She looks up and lets out a small squawk before catching herself and throwing a taloned claw over her beak. "Do... do you mind stranger?" the Tengu woman says, her beady yellow eyes darting around the room to see if anyone but Barphami is looking at her. Unfortunately, a gang of inebriated human men over by the stage are staring them own, and one of them stands up and begins to walk toward the bar. The Tengu woman seems to sink into her hood and disappear as the man grabs her shoulder.
"Excuse me, luvs. I couldn't help but hear the sounds of a soon-to-be-stuffed pheasant coming from over here. Is everything alright?" the man says with a glower.
Evard places a hand on Barphami's shoulder. I see that you have made new friends already, Barphami. Did I hear you mention pheasant? I am rather partial to pheasant, but I do not smell any, which is odd, is it not? Edvard asks the drunk looking at the hand grabbing the tengu, his off color eyes unblinking, his voice lacking human inflection.
Action's moving to the gameplay page - post there from now on!