DM Frogfoot's Skinwalker campaign (Inactive)

Game Master Dalton the Thirsty

Kenna bows once more and turns to leave.

Next up Bloodmarked, coming today

Bloodmarked intro

September 15, two days after the full moon. The Calphiak Mountains of Varisia, in the Bloodmarked Vale, a small valley nestled between two high peaks.

Darath, you are at work in your laboratory, investigating the chemical reactions of certain potions under heat. You can decide whether your lab is under the rock of the mountain or under the night sky of the vale. It's past suppertime, but the Vale is active - most Bloodmarked prefer activity at night, particularly at dusk and dawn.

You feel a familiar tickling behind your ear that notifies you that a Message spell is incoming. "You've been summoned," the voice says in your ear. "The new matriarchal council has finished their celebrations. You're the first order of business for the leadership this month. Aren't you the special one?" You recognize the gently teasing tone of the voice belonging to your friend, Nyx - she's one of the old organizers, a former councilmember herself, who now organizes the monthly blood orgies as she is too old to participate directly. She also happens to be a powerful witch.

"I'm the busy one, at the moment." Darath's lips barely moved as he muttered his reply. He made no other conscious movement - had someone been watching from a distance, the only hint they would have gotten that he had received the message would be the twitch of his bat-ears as his body instinctively tried to locate the source of Nyx's voice. Otherwise, he continued on as if nothing had happened.

He bent down to observe one of his mixtures a bit more closely (he believed it would be reacting soon) and continued his reply. "As much as I would love to treat whatever wound or bellyache they've given themselves, I'm not really in a position to leave right now. I have several potions on the burner at the moment. Aborting the experiment would be expensive, and leaving them on could be... catastrophic." Neither outcome was strictly true. None of the potions had been particularly expensive to make, but they had taken a lot of time. He wasn't about to lose a week of preparation for something another medic in the Vale could take care of. Likewise, none of the mixtures he was creating should react that violently... but then, he hadn't been looking for a weapon when he discovered his infamous explosives either.

"If they must see me, they will have to wait... An hour, give or take. Otherwise... oh, that's interesting..." The reaction Darath was expecting started just then, and he trailed off as he studied it.

Lysira gave a nod to Durmond and one last feral grin at Ceyne. She let her actions speak for themselves. It was no secret that she aimed to be Alpha. And she would not let Ceyne forget who she would be up against the next time the games came around. She would keep a close eye indeed. She turned to leave to rejoin the reval. Now she had even more to revel about.

Darath feels Nyx giggling next to his ear - despite being a crone of a woman at 70+ years, she retained her impish sense of humor. "I'll inform the matriarchs. I hope you're wearing burn-proof clothing, in preparation for the acidic glares you'll be receiving...hehehe!"

Another mere 20 minutes go by. You're still engrossed in your works when a voice speaks to you just over your shoulder from someone you didn't know was there, startling you tremendously. "Important experiments, hhmmm?" Whirling around, you see three women standing in your lab. One of them looks peeved, her arms crossed and one eye narrowed as she regards you. The second one is glancing around at the various scientific apparatus in your lab. The third, the one who spoke to you, is grinning at the surprise she gave you.

You know all three women well, as you four run in important circles within Bloodmarked society. The peeved one, Eleanor, is a mistrustful, sarcastic werebat-kin in her early thirties, who prefers the company of women. The distracted one, Alfstanna, is the youngest of the three new matriarchs at merely twenty, but she displays intelligence that far outstrips most other tribesfolk in your experience. Her airy and distracted demeanor masks deep cunning, as you have learned from personal experience in the past. (You can tell us what that experience was.) The third, Gheyna, is a regular on the matriarchal council for her prodigious mastery of the difficult monthly blood rituals. Scars crisscross each other on her face.

Reference pic for their general appearance and dress - hairstyles in Bloodmarked culture trend toward the simpler, utilitarian styles, in both males and females.

Darath takes a moment to steady himself before replying, "Yes... unless you consider self-regenerating tissue unimportant?" his eyes scanned over the matriarchs as he spoke, though he lingered on Alfstanna. Though much of the Vale might not know it yet, she was probably the most dangerous woman on the council now... though paradoxically, the fact that he knew that made her the least dangerous to himself.

He continued once they had had a chance to digest that statement, but before they could respond. "From your lovely appearances and your... presence... in my lab, I take it you have need of me for something other than my medical skills. I can talk and monitor these at the same time, though you'll excuse me when I have to take notes." It was clearly a statement, not a question. Unless they ignited a proverbial bomb with what they needed, he had no intention of aborting this experiment, even for the matriarchs. This was not uncommon, he was well known for being difficult to shift from a task in progress, particularly when it would be inconvenient for him.

"By all means, conclude your experiments, Darath. We won't be long," Eleanor grumbles. She traces her long fingernail around the glass rim of a graduated cylinder, creating a soft musical tone that fills the lab, crescendoing and decrescendoing as she casually moves her finger.

Gheyna glances around you at the chemicals behind. "Self-regenerating tissue, hmm? Sounds useful - but I'm sure you'll understand us when we say that we couldn't wait. New to the council positions as we are, we are immediately thrust into a...crisis situation." She sighs, walking casually around your table, her heels clicking on the stone tile floor. Obviously, she's choosing to make her heels click, as she crept up on you completely silently with her fellow matriarchs. Her hips sway as she walks -- almost all Bloodmarked enjoy unusual sexual charisma compared to the other tribes. Only the Fanglords are said to rival or surpass the Bloodmarked in beauty.

As you watch Gheyna, Alfstanna walks behind you and rests her chin on your shoulder. "It's going to be such fun, Darath, you'll see," she says, using her fluttery girl persona that fools everyone but those gathered here. Her breath brushes over your neck.

Eleanor stays where she is, leaning against one of your steel lab tables with an impatient expression on her face. She scoffs. "Hardly. First time I got my rightful place on the matriarchal council, and now we're being called away?"

Gheyna reaches the opposite end of the table from you, Darath, and leans over it, staring into your eyes and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Old Temmeruk of the Coldborn has called a Tribesmoot."

Darath, for his credit, showed no indication of attraction. That's not to say he he didn't realize what they were doing - cold blooded he most certainly was not - but one did not rise to the top of Bloodmarked society as a male without being able to separate business from pleasure. And this, no matter how the council was acting, was certainly business. So he waited, dampening his natural urges, waiting for the trio to get to the point.

And then Gheyna lit the fuse.

For several seconds, Darath continue to do nothing but look at the elder councilwoman, as if daring her to amend when she said. Then he steadily reached out his hand towards the line of burners, and turned down the heat on each. If the trio didn't take that hint, he was seriously going to question their ability to lead.

Gheyna smiles at you with one side of her mouth. "Glad to see we have your attention," she comments wryly. "Temmeruk called the Moot to discuss the 'human situation,' as he called it. Surprised that those isolationists would take the lead on something like this..."

"But then, they always were concerned with the business of the outside world as it affected their little Plateau," Eleanor continues. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "All of the tribal leaders are given the option to choose 'representatives of the common tribesman,' as is tradition, to serve as advisers on the journey."

"We all talked it out after the orgy and decided you'd be an excellent choice," Alfstanna purrs in your ear. "You're a healer, yet you've seen combat before on behalf of the tribe - during the goblin and undead incursions several moons ago." As she speaks, she plucks a beaker from the table with her long, slender fingers and hands it to you. Looking at the fluid inside, you see that it's exactly what you would have reached for yourself - one of the chemicals needs a small dose of the stuff to remain stable when it isn't being actively worked on. Alfstanna appears to have some knowledge of your work...

Gheyna continues on, regarding you curiously. "The tone of the letter we received implied that war may be on the table. Not just inter-tribal or tribal-human skirmishes or battles - actual war. We know our opinions on the matter - but we would hear yours."

Darath listened quietly as the council began to explain what was going on. His only muttered comment was directed towards Alfstanna's mention of his combat experienced, "Only because our soldiers can't seem to keep my damn tent safe for some reason." Her actions, on the other hand, caused a raised eyebrow. That definitely warranted some later thought...

Once they had finished, he remained silent for a few more moments as he carefuly added a few drops of the substance to the mix that needed it. He began voicing his thoughts as he put the beaker back down. "War is the... obvious solution. Keep them out by force and all that. The humans, however, are both populous and resourceful. As a whole, the clans are almost certainly their match... but I don't see all of us putting aside our differences for as long as such an effort would take. Not to mention the toll it would take on the lands and the population... It would work if it comes to that, but it's a poor first choice."

Darath shifts away from Alfstanna - somewhat regretfully - and begins pacing as he flips though ideas in his mind. "A purely diplomatic approach makes us appear weak, that or they end up splitting us up and then we're in an even worse position. Assassination mission... no, unlike the undead, removing the one in charge will only piss them off or, at best, just delay them for a few years. Too prone to failure as well..."

He's looking at his supply of herbs - specifically some of the more dangerous ones - when the solution comes to him. He spins to look back at Alfstanna, choosing to speak towards her since she was the most likely to understand his analogy. "Belladonna is a dangerous herb, taken straight or in high enough concentration, it can harm or even kill. But, used in small quantities, it can cause very beneficial effects - it's part of several mixtures I use as potion bases. That is... kind of what we need to do. Let them in, but do it in a very controlled manner. Be friendly - trade and all that - but make it very clear that we have no qualms about punishing them if they step outside the boundaries we set."

"How we do that... that would require a lot more thought. But that would be my suggestion as a goal."

Eleanor nods briskly. "Then we are indeed of like minds. Invest too much in either strategy and the results would be...messy. Your input will be helpful as we flesh out our stance to the Moot during the trip."

Alfstanna and Gheyna are both nodding as Eleanor speaks. Gheyna straightens and takes on werebat-kin form, when she finishes. On cue, Alfstanna and Eleanor follow suit, their ears elongating and their mouths growing slightly larger when opened, exposing predatory fangs. Their fingers also elongate and they grow a bit taller. Their hair grows in wild manes that fall down their backs, and their pupils adopt a near-uniform shade of red.

In unison, they make for the door. Gheyna holds it open for her two fellow matriarchs, who walk through, nod and wave goodbye respectively, and shift wholly into bat form before flying off into the night. Gheyna lingers a moment longer. "We depart in two days. A message will be delivered with the details." and with that, she is gone, another small dark shape against the stars outside.

Darath remained where he was, doing little more than giving a nod and wave in response when the matriarchs do. Then, he was left with his thoughts... and his experiment, for which he turned the burners back up as he processed what had just happened. Whether they had truly come to the same conclusion before asking him or not made little difference, it was clear it was the solution they had decided to pursue.

For now though, he had three things to do. The first was to finish his experiment, of course. The second, to start preparing for the journey; he could make a few guesses before the promised details arrived. The third was to start coming up with ideas for the journey... including how best to get himself and Alfstanna into the same bed again.

Nightskulk Introduction

Riddleport. Mid-September. The River District.

The stink and filth of Varisia's third most populous city comes through the River district. The introduction of magical wards from the city's paid-off concerned magicians kept most of the stink confined to a few inches above the water's surface, but there are many weak spots where the old character of the ancient Varisian city seeps through, like mud through a fine kerchief.

Humans, dwarves, elves, and stranger beings mingle with each other freely in this city. The racism inherent to more insular cultures around Golarion has mostly fallen away in Riddleport, to be replaced with a cynical equal-opportunity disrespect and sarcasm. The "entertainment" industry is booming, in all its many forms - vice of the flesh, of magically altered drugs, of bawdy comedians performing as preludes to hangings, and of mass involvement in blood sport. Life is cheap in Riddleport, in the River District in particular. Coin changes hands frequently here, and often, the transaction is soaked in blood.

It is here in the River District solely that the Nightskulk are officially represented out in the open - elsewhere, the tribe meets and deliberates in secret. The Nightskulk Embassy Building is surprisingly well-kept, if plain; the current administrative body of the Nightskulk tribe believes very strongly in good public relations, so as not to reinforce negative stereotyping. Covering a full city block, the building is made of dull red brick made from the clay of the delta nearby, rising three stories.

It is in front of this building that Inspector Morius Rendazi Tolár finds himself on a cold, cloudy autumn day. It's unseasonably chilly this fall in Riddleport, and the wind feels bitter and promises a colder winter to come. He bears a letter - a missive sent to him by the staff of the Administrator of the Embassy. Though the Embassy is the leader of the Nightskulk tribe in name only, its summons are still best not ignored. The Adminsitrator was a prickly wererat-kin, and could make your life unpleasant even as a guild leader's successor.

The double doors are before you up a small flight of stone steps. To your left, down the street, you can see the road stretching off down to the pier district, a subdistrict of the River District where only the sailors, pirates, and those who serve them go. To your right, off a few miles away, you can see Riddleport proper. Out here, you're truly on the outskirts of society. The implications for the only openly avowed group of Nightskulk is clear.

Mori stands before the large building, unimpressed. He looks down the lanes to his left and right seeing clearly the implications for his tribe.

This can't possibly last... I'd be far more comfortable being open about our heritage if we were in charge. One day... He lets out a wistful sigh and approaches the double doors. This had better be important. I do have business to attend to.

You open the double doors to find an enormous, stately building. Belying its exterior shabbiness, the Embassy building is quite nice to look at on the inside. Across the enormous entryway is the 15' wide desk of the Secretary to the Administrator. Ellenwe Tesra wields power almost equal to the Administrator herself when it comes to keeping order and a tight schedule ticking smoothly - she is a creature of habit, of repetition, and gears can be heard turning in her head when all else is silent - so goes her reputation, at least.

True to what you have heard, as you approach her desk, she barely looks up at you before curtly gesturing at the staircase behind her to the second level. You hear grumbling and muttered curses from the other people assembled in the entryway, awaiting acknowledgement from the Secretary, but none speak up in protest at your cutting in line.

You know the way well, having been to this building numerous times before. In fact, the last time you were here, you were being given a civic service award for tracking down a dangerous criminal. You can decide the details of this daring deed.

You stand before the plain wooden door of the nominal ruler of the Nightskulk tribes. It's closed, but made of thin wood, and you hear a quiet conversation from within.

Mori makes his way swiftly through the building smiling at his own cleverness as he recalls the reason for his last visit to these halls.

Mori reaches to open the door to the Administrator's office, but stops short on the sound of conversation within. He pauses to listen not willing to let any opportunity to glean information go to waste.

"Just make it happen, Administrator," a low, unfamiliar voice speaks quietly, you can just make it out. "Yes, yes, now leave me be," the familiar voice of the Administrator responds. "The Inspector is going to be here at any time, and I need to prepare my notes for the meeting." his voice has a nasal quality to it, and sounds peevish.

I wonder who that could be...? Mori thinks as he raises his hand to knock on the door. I could just barge in, I suppose, but I prefer when others can't be sure of what I know. No, I'll just knock. If they come out the front door, I'll see who it is; and if they don't... well, that says plenty on its own. He raps his knuckles against the door authoritatively as someone who knows they are expected.

"Come in," the Administrator's voice calls from beyond the door. When you open the door, you see only "Riddles" Ottersen himself, the elected administrator for the Nightskulk tribes, sitting behind his desk. His office is modest and lined with books on legal procedure and theory. There are two soft-cushioned leather chairs before Ottersen's desk.

Mori quickly, but nonchalantly, inspects the room as he approaches the desk. "Should I sit or will this be brief?" he asks flatly.

After a silence that extends a bit too long, in your estimation, Ottersen speaks again. "This will be brief, as I'm sure your own contacts have kept you at least as well abreast of the situation as any here in my office." his tone is dry and bitter, like old tea leaves. There's no sign of where his visitor vanished to.

"The recent spike of activity here in Riddleport has sent the tribes into a tizzy, the Coldborn in particular. They fear being 'absorbed,' they fear 'losing their independence.' Temmeruk's missive was brief but no less insulting for all that - they seem to believe that coexistence with humans is impossible." he snorts through his nose. "Fools. Now one of us has to make the trek all the way to the Storval Plateau for a Moot." his human lips curl in a sneer.

You knew all of this already. What he tells you next, though, is a surprise.

"Inspector, I'll get right to the point. The other tribes don't respect us. They call us slinking cowards behind our backs for giving up the old lands in favor of..pragmatic coexistence with the humans. So I need someone strong-willed and strong-backed who will truly represent Nightskulk interests without sacrificing everything at a diplomacy table. To that end, I will need your help."

Mori's head tilts ever so slightly—the only indication that he even heard what was said. Now this is interesting...

"And you want me to go? Well, I can't; I'm very busy as you well know. Certainly there's someone else."

I wonder how hard he'll press me...

"I do indeed well know of what you're 'ever so busy' with, my dear Moriarti." the Administrator stares at you. "You're well-regarded in the community, openly at least, but your blackmailing can be put on hold until I'm through with you." You didn't know he knew anything about your secret knowledge.

Mori's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly for only a moment before his face resumes its regular passive expression. Shrewd... or well informed.

"I assure you I have no idea what you're talking about, Administrator, but even so putting all of one's eggs in the same basket could hardly be considered wise; don't you agree?"

Someone is very concerned that I comply... but is it because they want me at the moot or because they don't want me here? Either way I can't very well refuse the Administrator now.

Mori continues without actually waiting for an answer. "Anyway, you have my attention. What exactly did you have in mind?"

Ottersen leans back in his chair and swivels it backward to look out at Riddleport through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. You have no idea how he knew - but the list of people who could've informed him is very short.

He continues. "You and I will be the sole representatives of the Nightskulk - officially. We will not be the only ones traveling to the Plateau for the Moot, but we will be the only ones the Coldborn will know about. This goes beyond your petty intrigues, Inspector. This could mean war."

He turns back to you, his expression serious. "Your role will be my eyes and ears as I'm dealing with the political side of the Moot. Keep Nightskulk interests in mind at all times - nobody else will."

Mori tilts his head slightly and smiles. "Rest assured, Administrator; I always do..." Already turning to leave, he adds, "If there's nothing else, I'll be going now."

So much to do before we leave, but first thing's first... I have a leak to fix.

Ottersen turns back to Riddleport and waves a hand dismissively, staring off at the cityscape.

Well done and thank you Mori, on to LAST BUT NOT LEAST Saipres! Intro starts first thing tomorrow morning!

Thank you, DM. One more exciting intro!

I'll be starting the final introductory chapter with the writeup that Saipres did for his recruitment application post, because it's set in the same period of time as everyone else's intro was relative to them.

“You requested an audience?” a voice boomed from inside the darkness. Saipres crouched as he stepped inside the large tent. The five leaders sat cross-legged in a semi-circle, and Saipres walked to the center of them, getting on his knees and bowing. “Yes. Brother Fanglords.” He began, sitting upright. “I am told that we have almost arrived at the Plateau, and I wanted to address you before the meeting.”

“Speak your mind.” The response could have come from any of them. Saipres took in a deep breath, wondering where he’d begin. He decided to start at the beginning. “As you know, through the past few years, our rituals of passage have been disrupted by the growing human communities.” He frowned. “Many of our own people, and those of our brethren, have left their tribes to join these cities. All of the Were-Folk now come together, for the first time in decades, to decide what must be done.”

“We have managed, for so many years, to keep a step ahead of any conflict, adjusting our routes as needed, and letting the humans pass us by as they grow. However, it has come to my attention,” he continued, “that some of you have been considering outright war with the humans.”

One of the voices spoke out, “Has the great Saipres grown weary of battle? Are you no longer the Saipres who defeated the Undead Scourge in the Red Mountains, who slaughtered the Lizardfolk of the Mushfens?” and a light laughter spread through the group, including Saipres.

“Fear not,” he chuckled. “I intend to see far more battle campaigns in my time.” His face grew grave. “The humans are not like those animals, though. They are more lik-”

“Yes, yes, we know about the humans. They are cunning and strong, yet they are no match for our power.”

Saipres stiffened. “Of course they aren’t.” He sighed. “Brothers, I will go to war for you, and gladly, over and over for as long as I have breath in my lungs and power in my blood. I will drive the humans from every place of wood and stone that they have built, until they lay crying as younglings in the darkness of desert, if that is your wish. But there is something you must consider, something that I have seen in my journeys, and know in my bones.”

He took a breath before continuing. “Those that have left our people, who have joined the humans, they’ve risen in the ranks. Our children are nobles in their cities, are generals in their armies, are whispers in the ears of kings and despots. If we go to war with them, we will be going to war with ourselves.”

Saipres takes a breath before continuing. “Those that have left our people, who have joined the humans, they’ve risen in the ranks. Our children are nobles in their cities, are generals in their armies, are whispers in the ears of kings and despots. If we go to war with them, we will be going to war with ourselves.”

The leader to Saipres' left shrugs his impressive shoulders. The bald Fanglord, Strauss, is eating meat off a turkey leg, and wipes his lips before speaking. "It may not be up to us. Temmeruk's Moot always makes its decisions communally. If the Fanglords speak alone, what we want will not matter." he smiles at you, his white teeth striking against the dark ebony of his skin. "That said, we will not speak alone." he gestures with the leg at the rest of the circle. "We have conferred on the matter, and while war WOULD be a glorious bloodbath," he chuckles, "the majority of us agree that the ensuing chaos would upset the delicate balance of power here in Varisia. Thus, no doubt to the surprise of some.."

"The Fanglords will push for a...peaceful solution," another leader, Royce, cuts in, his voice carrying from the opposite end of the tent. His longsword, known as Redtongue for the red currents of color through the steel, is naked and across his lap. He clearly was upset at the matter, though not enough to challenge the decision of his peers.

Saipres turns, baring his fangs at Royce in a smile. "It is as my father always said - 'Plan for peace but prepare for war'."

He turned back to the others. "What you have said is true. At least some of the tribes will almost certainly desire battle. But I desire not to fight a war for the greedy two-faced rats, nor the troublemaking pirates of the so-called seascarred."

"I think, brothers, you are in agreement, that if we are to take up arms, it must be for the right reasons." He smiled, adding: "Though the humans do tend to look much better clad in red."

His smiled faded as he continued. "I know it is not customary, but I would like to request attendance to the Moot. In my travels and in battle, I have interacted with many from the other tribes. I may yet hold some sway over them."

Forgot to include: Reference picture for "Riddles" Ottersen of the Nightskulk

The lone female member of the Tiger's Claw - and, as it happens, the most forceful and newest personality on the council - speaks at last. Her name is Joy, which is the source of endless (private) amusement for the other tribesfolk - she has yet to be seen smiling in public. Aside from the bloody nose, this is a good reference for her appearance.

Royce, Redtongue not pictured

Strauss

"Again, we are of like minds, Saipres, for you have already been selected as the common clansman's representation for the Fanglords. As we have already observed, your recent military exploits as well as your wandering nature make you a natural choice. While the tribe ventures east along its yearly migration, traveling around the wereboar's mountains and the scaleheart lands, Strauss and Royce will depart from the main caravan with you and go to the Storval Plateau. This is a great honor for you, Saipres. You represent the common tribesmen of the Fanglords. Do not let them down." It will only be your second time going to the Plateau - you may inform us of the circumstances of your first visit, which was not part of the yearly Fanglord migration. The Fanglords rarely venture that far northeast. It should also be noted that you know Harshuk and Arren personally from this previous visit.

Now I'm embarrassed that I said "Brother Fanglords" like four times, hah.

Saipres seems a little taken aback at the mention that Royce is going with him, finding it troubling that the tribe would approve of a peaceful solution, but send one of the more blood-thirsty of their leaders. Knowing it is not his place, he says nothing on the matter, but resolves to keep an eye on him. Instead he bows deeply. "I will of course endure to portray our people as powerful and intelligent as we are. Your trust will not be misplaced." He looks up with a smile, "And do give my regards to the Scaleheart, I shall be remiss to not be spending time sparring with them this year."

I'm going to assume that you'd say "my brother and sister Fanglords" if you saw a female on the council, as you obviously would. No worries.

"Indeed we will," Joy replies flatly, displaying her customary icy behavior. Since her ascension to the Tiger's Claw, there has been a noticeable lack of humor on the ruling Fanglord council, perhaps in part due to her influence.

The Tiger's Claw has no further information for you at this time, except for when your party will depart from the caravan. You nod to Royce and Strauss respectfully as they salute you. The council-members stay behind as you step out of the tent; where you are promptly accosted by one of your childhood friend, Josun. The powerfully-built Fanglord takes more after a lion than a tiger, and his thick mane of hair is immune to the castigations of hair-brushes. Its wild appearance reflects your friend's current agitated state - he pushes against your breastplate with characteristic roughness. "Well? What did they say? Are they taking you?" he demands.

Saipres is happy to leave the tent, but still takes a moment to untense as he steps outside. He had felt the drastic change in mood since Joy had been appointed to the Tiger's Claw. Saipres was no fool, he understood her value, but he still couldn't help but wonder if maybe it wasn't the best position for her. 'So many things are changing.' He thinks with a sigh.

He barely takes two steps when Josun bee-lines for him demanding information. Saipres can't help but laugh, thinking that Josun looks like he was hit by a sorcerer's lightning bolt. He couldn't help but tease his friend by dragging out the answer. "While the tribe travels east, Strauss and Royce will be going to the Moot. And I'll be joining them."

"More than that," Saipres continues, excitedly, riding the high that comes from having convinced someone of something, "We will be attempting to maintain peace."

Josun's face breaks into a relieved smile at the news - you two had been of like minds when you were previously discussing the human situation. News of the most recent successful human adventuring guild had spread throughout the clans by now, and the topic seemed to be on everybody's lips. "That's excellent, Saipres. I hope we can convince the rest of the clans at the Moot as well as we did them." You don't miss on his use of we, and the Fanglord fighter breaks out in one of his brief, explosive laughs at your quizzical expression.

"HA! The look on your face! I didn't want to mention anything until after I knew what they wanted to tell you at the summons, but my training under Royce means that I'll be accompanying him to the Moot! Not," he quickly adds, "in the official capacity, as with you, but as a vassal. I'll strictly be there for sightseeing and training, not advice as you are. But I AM going too!" He claps you on the shoulder. "It will be good to see the Plateau. Come -" he gestures behind him to the greater caravan area. "Tell me of your first visit to the Coldborn."

Saipres breaks out into a huge grin. "Josun! That's such exciting news! Going at all is a great privilege, and I am sure that if Royce is taking you, he will value your opinion - officially or otherwise. As for me, I will be relieved to have you there, my friend. I feel as though this will be a trying time. Many of the other tribes have reasons to crave war, it may be a tense situation. Be sure to keep your wits about you, and not get too caught up with the sightseeing." He laughs.

"Ah, let's see. The very first time I met the Coldborn was for my Walkabout."* He began, walking a slow pace through the encampment with Josun. Even when the Fanglords were stopped, many of them had trouble staying still for long. They had a restlessness that seemed to never end. And simple, comfortable movements helped Saipres think back through the many years. "Don't tell anyone, but I was so young and foolish then." He started, pausing for a laugh. "I had attracted the attention of some goblins of all things, and I was barreling through the Lurkwood, completely lost, just trying to get away from this tribe that was after me. Every time I'd look over my shoulder it seemed there were more there."

"I charged through into a clearing, and ran straight into an enormous white bear. Goblins behind me, this very irritated looking bear in front, I thought for sure that was it. I was so terrified that I didn't even notice she was a Coldborn." He shook his head, with a chuckle. "I just saw this huge bear, and it was truly enormous. More than three times my size. It could have crushed me easily, but it didn't, it looked at me like it knew who I was, what I was, and when the goblins came through the trees, it roared at them so loudly that two of them fainted on the spot. The rest ran away even faster than they'd arrived." He chuckled, muttering. "Cowardly creatures."

"The Coldborn don't travel in tribes like we do, you know. She was on her own, a protector of those woods, and had been for many, many years. I couldn't stay long, since the Walkabout requires absolute solitude. But in the short time I was there, she taught me about sacrifice, about what it means to truly put the tribe first. Even if you cannot be with them." He smiled in remembrance. "So much of my life was decided at that one meeting. It was because of that that I decided to lead a contingency of troops into the Mushfens."

Saipres's eyes started to mist up, and he actually stopped walking. "I still see her cubs sometimes when we're in the area, though they're growing up fast. She died a few years back. Humans, you know. Some old hunter probably has her skin up in his house like she was some mindless, common animal." He sighs, looking into the distance. "The other tribes aren't wrong, you know. The humans are a problem for many of us. The Coldborn are the oldest of us, imagine how much history we'd lose if they were wiped out."

He shook his head.

"But!" He continued, with life coming back into his voice, and he began to walk once more. "Of course we won't allow that to happen. That's what this Moot is for. And at the end of it, we'll have a decision regarding the humans either way. I hope that we will choose peace, and I hope that they will listen. But if not, or if they refuse to listen, make no mistake..." He looked at Josun and bared his fangs in a hungry smile, "We will eat them whole."

* A Walkabout seems to me the exact thing that the Fanglords would do. They need to have a degree of self-reliance and undergo trials to validate themselves as being powerful / cunning. It also fits well with them being nomadic.

Josun - as well as the small crowd of admirers and onlookers you attracted with your story - cheer and roar at Saipres' final declaration. Tribesmembers from all over gather to speak to you and Josun about your trip for several hours. You also receive some requests for gifts to be brought back to them - Fanglords collect mementos from the places they travel through, and few have been to the Plateau.

Nice writeup, and I like the Lost reference. That's it for introductions guys!!!! I am SO PUMPED to begin the campaign proper. Let's kick it off right away, shall we?

October 13. Varisia. The Storval Plateau, home to the Coldborn.

Harshuk is awakened from sleep by the sound of a huge thump on his door, followed by the door crashing open. Mitchi, an excitable young coldborn who prefers her ursine self as it's less awkward than her teenage human body, charges in, and transforms to human just enough to be understood clearly.

"The clans! They're arriving! All at once, it seems! I see at least 6 banners approaching! I've already informed Arren, but Hauma wants both of you to be present when Temmeruk issues his official greeting!"

The official greeting of the clans by the host clan leader is the first of many traditional meetings that take place during a Moot, and it is why the visiting clans elected to postpone their arrivals until all could arrive on the same day - every time a greeting is issued, attendance is mandatory by all visitors whether they've arrived or not. Thus, everyone wants to get the greeting out of the way at once, so they can get on with business matters. Being a very traditional leader, Temmeruk takes his role in the greeting ceremony very seriously.

Visiting tribesmen-representatives are with their chieftains at their sides, as they must be formally recognized by Temmeruk's representatives at the end of the ceremony. The tribal leaders all have their own opinions regarding the moot and the greeting ceremony specifically.

Harshuk groans and buries his face in the pillow. It's not often he has the comfort of a bed.

"Mitchi, Mitchi, what are you doing? I might've been naked!" Harshuk scolds her teasingly, though she is one of his favorites. Maybe one in ten Coldborn has her enthusiasm.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns loudly. "Besides, didn't I tell you to wake me sooner? Now get out so I can dress!"

Well, they're here. Today we take our destiny back into our hands. He puts on his finest and goes to take his place, hoping there's going to be a late breakfast after the greeting ceremony. Or perhaps more likely, a lunch.

Darath peers up and ahead, his seat on the wagon giving him a good view of the Plateau despite the Matrons' carriage being in the way. After a fortnight or so of travel, it was good to see their destination at last, especially after having had to wait just out of sight for two days while the rest of the representatives filtered in. "Now to see if we can convince the others of our plan..." he muttered to himself.

Beside him, the driver of the wagon gave no sign of having heard his words. And to be honest, Darath didn't care. The man was a Lowblood, the worker caste, notable only because he was the currently-favored servant of Gheyna. The woman driving the carriage was no different, sans being Elanor's servant instead. They were here only to serve the Matrons' physical needs and... desires... while the Matrons and Darath discussed the details of their proposal and the arguments and counter-arguments they would need.

As for Alfstanna, it turned out he had to do little to reach his goals there, as she had similar designs in mind. Between that and the fact the Matrons obviously valued his opinion... well, that put him in a very interesting position indeed. He usually kept himself divorced from the Bloodmarked politics (probably part of the reason he was here in the first place, he guessed) but it was impossible to ignore the pull he would have once the moot was over and they returned home. If nothing else, it would probably be a good idea to plan some protections, just in case...

But that was for later. Right now, he just had to worry about getting through the ceremony. Unfortunately, he'd have to pay attention for this one - not only did he have to keep up appearances, but also get faces and names. Given that he usually spent such times thinking up new experiments, it was going to be a bit irritating.

Arren had risen early and had spent an unusually long time getting ready for the day. He had made his morning routine almost ceremonial as he slowly went about the tasks one normally does, washing, putting on clothes, etc.

He strapped on his armor and shouldered his favored spear - a particularly light one of darkwood - before leaving, as some sort of gesture. He still wasn't particularly sure what sort of gesture, but that was fine.

When Mitchi bursts into his room, Arren begins shifting into his ursine form just by habit, and is fully shifted by the time Mitchi finishes speaking. His overlarge mouth getting in the way of a few of the words, he replies, "I know, Mitchi. We've all been waiting for this day. Go find Harshuk, he probably needs to actually be awoken."

As the caravan pulls into the village, Arren can be seen atop the largest nearby hillock, staring into each wagon or group of walkers with beady but piercing eyes. As the last one finishes entering the village, Arren turns with a flap of his cloak and stalks back to Temmeruk's hut, to attend him as he's required to.

Arren Icewalker, famed druid of the Coldborn clan, is the first Coldborn you see close-up. The Bloodmarked caravan's travels had taken you past Coldborn territory, but most all of their dwellings were so far from established roads that carriages favored that you saw no evidence of them. This is probably how the Coldborn prefer it.

A chill breeze carries across the barrens and kicks up the druid's cloak as the twin carriages pass by, with their accompanying retinue of a small group of Bloodmarked cultural representatives - storytellers, performance illusionists, sexual performance artists, and the lot. There is murmuring among the werebat-kin as they gaze upon Coldborn lands.

Following behind the werebatkin are the Witchwolves, the Scaleheart, and the Fanglords, with the Nightskulk bringing up the rear. Each caravan has brought along entertainment to contribute in similar manners to the Bloodmarked culturists. Though the Moot is a serious thing, a grave meeting of the leaders of the tribes, it is also used as a celebration period for some who see opportunity for trade when so many are gathered together. The Seascarred and the Ragebred are not in attendance today.

Arren watches as elected Coldborn guides approach the wagonmasters and politely guide them to a place called the Honored Quarry.

Coldborn know the spot as the favored place for speechmaking for Temmeruk. As leader, he traditionally prefers one-on-one meetings, but there are times like today where a great pronouncement is required of a leader.

Your caravans follow their guides to their appointed spots where a great amount of rock has been cleared away, leaving a clean, deep pit with paths running all along the sides for shipping. The rock below you is granite, with deep stains of red agate flowing throughout. Some call this place the Stained Quarry instead of its proper name, hearkening back to the battle held here forty years ago between the Coldborn and the human barbarians who formerly dwelt in the Storval Plateau alongside them.

All of you see each other clearly now, as long as you are outside and in the open. The wagons are brought down into the quarry's pit alongside each other facing into a large auditorium. It's almost noon.

A smile spreads across Saipres's face as he sees Arren ahead, waiting on the hillside. He elbows Josun lightly in the ribs and points, before letting out a loud roar in greeting. There isn't time to exchange more than that, though, as they're being led inside.

Looking around the Stained Quarry, Saipres's face is a mixture of pride and worry, as he wondered how the atmosphere would affect those who knew the tales. He wondered, too, what things would be like now had the Coldborn and humans not already come to violence. If the groups had managed peace, perhaps they wouldn't be forced to consider war again now. Saipres shook his head. There was no value in speculating. It was only a matter of time before he would know what challenges the next few years would bring.

When he hears the massive belly-roar erupt behind him, Arren knows it can only be one man, and whips his head around to see Saipres eagerly elbowing a young friend and pointing at him. A grin, the first he's grinned in many months, creeps across Arren's face. Already in his ursine form, he throws his head back and bellows a roar in response before turning back away and heading to Temmeruk's side.

When he arrives at the village, heads turn as he passes through to attend their Chieftain. The grin is still stuck on his face and it's the first any of them have seen on him in a very long time. When met by a quizzical look that he actually sees, from a thick-bodied Coldborn matron, he bellows into the sky, "Friends have marched into our village! What can stand against the combined might and wisdom of the skinwalker tribes?" before continuing on.

Saipres' and Arren's roars of greeting are echoed up and down the caravan of wagons going down into the Quarry by other skinwalkers excited to interact with members of other tribes that they may not have seen in months or years. The Nightskulk, also the smallest of the caravans with a party of merely 3, are the only ones who keep largely to themselves - this is notable in that the Nightskulk are actually one of, if not the most populous of the skinwalker tribes. Even Moriarti had to do some personal digging into the third member of the Nightskulk to ride with him and Riddles - discovering halfway through the journey that Riddles had brought along a nameless agent who went by the simple title of Jongleur. All you know about him, Mori, is that he served as a court bard in Riddleport for some time.

The atmosphere fills with the buzzing excitement feeling as so many people gather in one place. The feel of the auditorium could easily be one of a rock concert before the lights go down but after the audience has all been allowed inside. Skinwalkers, particularly younger ones, are roaming around between the caravans, talking excitedly with each other and exchanging greetings. You even hear a few impromptu drum circles, prayer groups, and outright songs being sung here and there.

The Coldborn players present are both aware that Temmeruk deliberately bides his time before taking the stage, allowing the tribes to get comfortable with each others' presences before beginning his formal greeting. You can see him now, down by the stage, talking to Ceyne Twoclaws, the Alpha Female of the Witchwolves. Her expression sets her apart from most of the other Skinwalkers present - she looks bitter, even angry. This is of little surprise to the two Witchwolf players present - Ceyne rarely participates in anything fun, unless it involves getting her two fighting claws dirty.

I. Moriarti observes the brouhaha with a critical eye.

"The fools," he says, "I hope they didn't draw too much attention to themselves in transit." It will be a miracle if this cacophony doesn't attract xenophobic (an ironic use of the term considering they encroach on our homelands) humans terrified that we're plotting a war against them and remove the choice of whether or not to fight from the tribes entirely... or worse get me killed.

Surveying the attendees, Mori notes appreciatively that not everyone finds this an appropriate time for festivities. I would think the female witchwolf's expression would prompt him to move this pointless exercise in pomp and circumstance along, he thinks with a bored sigh.

He continues to watch the other skinwalkers, noting the general tenor of the interactions, as he waits for the ceremony to commence. "Finally..." he mutters as Temmeruk eventually takes the stage.

Aaah, so you'll be the hardened snark of my group, eh Mori? I'll have fun with you. :)

Moriarti isn't the only one watching things with a critical eye. Darath isn't watching the crowds however, but his tent, which was in the process of being erected by a few Lowbloods he had recruited. He might be an adviser on this trip, but he was also probably one of the best medics currently at the plateau, and certainly the best Bloodmarked one. He'd bet half his blood stores that there'd be at least one injury to treat before the day was out, let alone by the time they finished.

The tent is large enough that it would be noticeable among everything else nearby, but not outrageous, and marked on the roof with whatever symbol would be appropriate - red cross or otherwise. Inside, once everything is moved in, the space will be split roughly in half: half for patients, the other for his lab equipment (or at least, what he brought with him anyway).