Dungeon Master S's "Dark Sun" (Inactive)

Game Master Chris Marsh

We live in a world of fire and sand. The crimson sun scorches the life from anything that crawls or flies, begs, fights or flees, and storms of sand scour the foliage from the barren ground. Lightning strikes from the cloudless sky, and peals of thunder roll unexplained across the vast tablelands. Even the wind, dry and searing as a kiln, can kill a man with thirst.

This is a land of blood and dust, where tribes of feral elves sweep out of the salt plains to plunder lonely caravans, mysterious singing winds call men to slow suffocation in a Sea of Silt, and legions of slaves clash over a few bushels of mouldering grain. Dragon despoils entire cities, while selfish kings squander their armies raising gaudy palaces and garish tombs.

This is our home, this Athas. It is an arid and bleak place, a wasteland with a handful of austere cities clinging precariously to a few scattered oases. It is a brutal and savage land, beset by political strife and monstrous abominations, where life is grim and short.

For over a millennium, Tyr has stood.

During the past thousand years, the city has labored beneath the oppressive eye of Kalak, Tyrant of Tyr. Under the fearful shadow of his defiling magic, Tyr has festered from a small oasis settlement to a sprawling and corrupt metropolis. Renown for wealth, power, and a steady though meager production of iron, Tyr is perhaps the most decadent city state in a decadent land. Here, where human life counts less than a drop of water, a person can buy anything and suffer any fate. All but the poorest Tyrians own slaves, and nobles tend vast plantations by the lash. Indeed, slaves outnumber freemen two-to-one within the brutal city of Tyr.

As you approach the city, you pass through verdant plantation-lands where crops receive more water than the unnumbered slaves who tend them. These fortress plantations belong to the city's nobles and garner great wealth for them by providing nearly all of Tyr's food. Standing armies fiercely guard each plot of land. Once within the gates of Tyr, the throng of odd caravans, tang of exotic foods, and heady rattle of strange dialects unsettles you: Every Athasian city state follows unique laws and customs. Those unfamiliar with the ways of Tyr may run afoul of its templars or, worse yet, Kalak himself.

King Kalak, Lord Kalak, Tyrant of Tyrhe goes by many names. Defiant Tyrians mock their lord (when shielded from his psionically-enhanced senses) with the title Kalak the Diminutive, for Kalak's ancient body is horribly wizened, gaunt, emaciate, and puny. This dry husk of flesh, though, channels unimaginable power: Kalak holds Tyr in an iron grip. His mind is said to roam the city, dealing death for the slightest offense. As in most Athasian cities, the sorcerer king leaves day-to-day business to templars his faithful. On the streets, the black cassocks and imperious manners of templars set them apart from other Tyrians. These men and women wield great power, checked only when their actions might offend Kalak, a superior templar, or a noble. Tyrians generally avoid templars, who, on the slightest whim, can imprison slaves and citizens alike.

Of late, the templars of Tyr have been preoccupied, spending their careers upon Kalak's massive public works. Indeed, for the past 20 years, the templars' lives have centered on a huge stack of stone King Kalak's ziggurat. Dominating the center of the city, the square-stepped tower rises in sharp-edged splendor over the neighboring slums. Only now, after 20 years of construction, does the ziggurat near completion. For two decades, lash-striped slaves have borne massive blocks into place and mortared them together with their own blood. Now the streets and markets of Tyr ring with rumors that King Kalak has commanded his templars to finish the tower finish it before month's end. No rumors tell why dread Kalak is building the ziggurat and dark looks dissuade those who may ask.

Overview of Tyr

Beside the ziggurat stands a familiar sight a gladiatorial arena. Here Kalak holds epics of blood- sport, and on rare occasions comes himself to hear the sanguine roars of the populace. A box seat at one end of the arena allows King Kalak to view the battles, well removed from the filthy rabble. Most of the time, though, Kalak remains hidden deep within his Golden Tower.

This tower lies off the arena's other side (opposite the Ziggurat), rising from the center of Kalak's palace. Lush gardens crowd the tower's base a green paradise from which Kalak's defiler magic leeches its power. Beyond the garden lies a clutter of buildings and colonnades where only King Kalak and his six high templars may walk. Few others summoned here ever emerge again.

On the outer periphery of the sorcerer king's grounds rests the templar quarter. Templars dwell in happy seclusion from the populace, both to signify their privilege and to safeguard their lives. Greatly feared and little loved, if templars lived among the people, murder and riot would become commonplace. For their own protection, the templars draw together in pampered security. The best foods, goods, and services can be routinely had in the Templar's Quarter, but only a fool-hardy or dazzling thief would dare tread within the compound.

The details of the Golden Tower and the templar quarter, however, come to you only through rumor. Any steps you tread in those high halls may well be your last. Rather, the sights and sounds and smells of Tyr that work upon you come from the massive gates, bustling markets, bawdy streets, vermin-ridden slums, crowded merchant houses, and polished noble quarters.

You enter Tyr through the caravan quarter, where strange outlanders and plodding merchant caravans clog the streets. The main avenue, called Caravan Way, winds toward Kalak's ziggurat and supports caravansaries, outfitters, beast traders, inns, merchant houses, and wine shops. The assortment of goods and services here is good, though they come at a premium price.

The caravan quarter bustles both night and day and is well patrolled; merchants pay the templars dearly for protection. The caravan quarter butts up against the noble quarter. Here, nobles keep small walled citadels, complete with slave quarters, gardens, guardhouses, and private apartments. Most of the nobles wisely contribute generous sums to the city coffers: those who do receive preferential protection from the half-giant patrols of the templars. Few nobles actually reside within the city walls, where their private armies are forbidden, preferring to pass their time on estates outside the walls.

A few townhouses lie scattered in other areas of Tyr. Some such villas were constructed by rising sons of old families while others have been relocated by Kalak, himself, to chastise particular noble houses. Whatever their origin, these islands of wealth provide prime targets to thieves and thugs.

Tradesman reside in the next lower niche in Tyrian culture. Tradesmen's districts spread across various sections of the city, home to most of the Tyrian citizenry. Tradesmen occupy the uncomfortable cusp between slaves and freemen: though bound to a particular noble house and occupation, they possess minor rights to property and protection. A street in a tradesmen's district will house the practitioners of a single craft or the craftsmen of a particular noble. These districts are Tyr's monetary badlands they hold little to steal and even less to buy or trade.

You can hardly spend a day in Tyr without passing sometime through the warrens the slum quarter, which gives Tyr much of its infamy. This vast crumbling sprawl houses the impoverished, the desperate, the outcast, and the enslaved. Many residents of the warrens work as day laborers, setting out each morning to seek work on the plantations. More desperate occupants might even sell themselves at the slave market near the dust-choked wadi. Others turn to theft or murder for hire. Those incapable of workeven illegal workbeg door-to-door. One way or another, these oppressed people glean enough food and water to live another day. What little extra they might own comes from hard labor in sweatshop shanties at night. Life in the warrens is brutal and unforgiving.

The darkest section in the warrens is the elven quarter. Treated as near-criminal outcasts by the rest of Tyr, the elves have settled their own portion of the slums, closer to the base of the ziggurat than others would find comfortable. Here they live, little bothered by templars or nobles, who consider them inconsequential vermin. Runaways, rebels, and murderers all find shelter in the narrow streets of the elven quarter. When the templars stage their rare incursions into the elven quarter, they go heavily armed, with a squad of half-giant guards at their heels.

The elven quarter gives the slum its true notoriety. Here, you can literally buy or sell anything if you have the coin or charisma to do so. Elven merchants boast that they will someday sell even the bones of your grandmother on a back street of the elven market. Indeed, they may already have.

This trading acumen both sustains and justifies the elven quarter. The canny elves bring in exotic and sometimes priceless items from the ruins in the wilderness, items prized by Tyrian nobles. Even so, a deal struck in the elven quarter is anything but sure, for thieves, muggers, renegade wizards, and swindlers abound. A 50% markdown little compensates a buyer who loses his life.

Now, armed with knowledge gleaned in an hour upon the Tyrian streets, you set out to explore the brutal city of Tyr. Of course, much of the knowledge came in rumor rather than fact.

just making a place holder, will try and get my first character up soon

Beldak stands on the street, bone armor clanking as he shifts from foot to foot. His typically bald dwarven features bear many scars, giving an onlooker the impression that he's been in many fights, but not that he often wins those fights. Still, he stands watchful.

Tyr he says with one part disgust and another part sadness.
It takes a good bit of his concentration to just ignore the rampant slavery all around him. He is absolutely abhorred by it. His childhood and most of his life has been rough to say the least, abandoned by his elf-b~#%& mother and lived on the outskirts of a poor village as the elf blood bastard . But at least he had his freedom. He started wandering out into the stony barrens more often and farther as he got older. Till soon he didn't go back. The winds led him far far away. After a time of wandering, half starved and barely hydrated he found a strange system of canyons with howling winds. On a high peak he met Ladonna, she too listened to the Winds and she took him in to teach him of the Winds as well.

Beldak hears the disgust in Graff's tone, and nods with some understanding. The journey from the last oasis had given him some insight into the half-elf. The struggle of mixed parentage seemed to always weigh upon him, he thinks to himself.

To Graff he says, "Aye, it's a city with nae much to redeem itself. I fer one will be looking to stay clear of trouble. Though soon I will need something to focus upon. It felt good to complete the trip here, but that's the past."

The dwarf's gaze wanders about the crowd. "Look forward with me, will ye? Let's find some of the good, aye?"

Beldak gives a final glance to Graff and the others, then waves. "I'll see ye around?"

He then fades into the crowd.
Switching my starting character.

Quorin catches up to Graff, arriving at a jog. He nods, a simple gesture that acts as sign of trust. It's so much easier when you can at least trust a few of these misfits, he thinks to himself. When nobody takes the coin purse you 'accidentally' drop, you know you've in good company. Though maybe they simply didn't see it?

His expression changes, and he takes a small step away from the half-elf.

A ragged looking elf, Quorin's straw-colored hair peeks out from his patched cloak. his eyes, a striking green, rarely open more than a slit. He holds a longbow idly, though its worn grip shows that its seen use.

Quorin has spent a great deal of his life on the fringe of society. An expert trapper, the elf is most comfortable in the wild, setting snares for various animals. He is a voracious reader, and his occasional visits into civilization allow him to wet his appetite for learning. His mother taught him some of the ways of Preservation magic, and he's come to Tyr in the hope that he might learn more.

"That dwarf is a strange one," he confides to Graff. "I'm sure he'll get whatever's coming to him."

Beldak gives a final glance to Graff and the others, then waves. "I'll see ye around?"

He then fades into the crowd.
Switching my starting character.

Graff gives him a final wave. Secretly he is a little disappointed, he rather liked the strange dwarf. He never known many dwarves but he seemed a decent fellow.

The halfelf looked over to the blonde elf who now was to be his companion. Graff really wanted to hate the elf, he tended to avoid elf packs when out in the barrens and when in town, city elves were usually worse. Nothing but nasty thieves and swindlers.
But right away Quorin got his attention. The first night together after leaving the last oasis, the elf pulled a small book out of his satchel and begin reading by a bright moon. The book talked a bit about the ecology of the stony barrens region. Graff and Quorin stayed up late talking barrens ecology and then onto may topics. He appreciated the elf's sharp intelligence. It was rare to stumble upon another with such keen wit.

[color=#800000][u]FREEDOM[/u][/color]
[color=red]A Dark Sun Adventure[/color]
[color=orange]Played as written, in 2e[/color]

We begin, as fate would have it, with a d5. What Future hath we wrought?: 1d5 ⇒ 2
___________________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________

Most things look different when one uses another perspective.

Tyr is not most things, however, as Deetz would be happy to point out to anyone who asks. So the taller peoples think it looks like a cesspool? They should try living three feet closer to the offal.

Do not have equipment yet. I am thoroughly confused by the Dark Sun maths.

The red sky above Tyr is smudged with the soot of cooking fires; the thick odor of exotic spices hangs in the still air. A dull broil radiates from the stonework walls, and people bustle hotly through the streets. As you round a corner, someone suddenly knocks you sprawling into a fruit-vendor's stall.

You look around and it was obviously the slave of a nearby noble (who is sneering at you.) It appears that he has a posse of slaves whose sole job is clearing the path.

While everyone is processing the situation, the fruit vendor begins to wail, "MY FRUIT!" The vendor is a mul, but sickly for the hybrid race. "It's robbery! It's theft! It's vandalism!"

A crowd begins to form...

Graff gets up, brushes himself off and walks away

"HELP! He's trying to get away! Someone HELP!"

------------------
Paused here until everyone checks in.

An Elf, loaded with pockets and pouches falls in step with Graff Windchaser.

You'd better run, Halfsies. Can you? Can you run?

The elfs slaps Graff on the haunch and runs ahead only to look back and motion frantically with his hands.

Move, Halfsies, MOVE!

Lorem jogs up beside Quorin and Graff. Taking a moment to dust himself off, he look out over the crowds.

Amazing! I've never been inside the city proper. It's everything I'd expected.

Was it Graff specifically that got knocked over?

It was the party as a whole. No one is prone, but the scrum made up by the seven of you upturned the fruit cart.

The mysterious elf looks to Lorem, then to Graff, then back at Lorem. He's a full Elven move away now and he swings his head, indicating let's GTFO

Lorem looks after Strangewayes' receding back, over to the cart owner, shrugs, and chases after Strangewayes.

As Strangeways, Lorem, and Graff begin to walk away, the commotion attracts a templar patrol.

There are templars between you and freedom. It wouldn't be so bad, but you catch the noble hand a small sack of of money to one of the templars.

I, Senator Verrasi, do not abide cowards amongst the rabble. Templars, deal with them!"

The templars intimidating in their black cassocks waste no time, "You seven are under arrest. Submit."

You've got a moment to decide what you're going to do. What do you do?

I cast a spell. (Invisibility, Casting time 2 for init.)

EDIT: I don't know if magic is illegal in this town. I will be attempting to hide the movements with somatic concealment. Book says you make that check in secret, Dungeon Master. DEX -1, which means 14.

I'm happy to make the check myself if you'd rather.

Graff is looking to run. Are we surrounded? Does he have a chance to run off?

Deetz will try to hide in the shadows, or at least sink into the crowd.
1d100 ⇒ 81 Yeah, not so much.

It doesn't look like you'll be able to run without needing to run into one of the templars.

Lorem accidentally walks right into a templar. "You're under arrest you scum!"

Meanwhile one of the templars shouts, "We lost that elf! Dammit he's probably run halfway to the Ringing Mountains already!"

Deetz: Go
Graff: Go
Quorin: Go
Linnad: Go
Strangeways: ESCAPE
Lorem: Arrested
Justin: Go
Aaron: Go

The half elf looks extremely annoyed at the situation. He is surrounded by damned elves and templars.

He casts Command (casting time of 1)
He moves toward one of the templars and says in a commanding tone Sleep! Then tries to run through the gap and escape.

If the templar has an intelligence of 13 or higher she/he gets a save vs spell. Or 6HD or more.

"What are you... doing..." Save v. Spell: 1d20 ⇒ 17 The templar resists the spell.

"That's it! Grab'em!" The opening Graff was shooting for closes up. Before he knows what's coming there are supernaturally strong arms wrapped around him.

Deetz: Go
Graff: Arrested
Quorin: Go
Linnad: Go
Strangeways: ESCAPED
Lorem: Arrested
Justin: Go

Kollash just folds his arms and stands to the side and sighs deeply. Being labeled a common thief would help any reputation and falling into the Thrill will not be helpful right now...

Kollash, making no active attempt at fleeing the scene, is quickly apprehended by the mul slaves near him. They at least give him the courtesy of not roughing him up.

Deetz: Go
Graff: Arrested
Quorin: Go
Linnad: Go
Strangeways: ESCAPED
Lorem: Arrested
Kollash: Arrested

We aren't thieves! says the nimble, smart halfling. He points out the smirking senator. Him! His slaves barreled into us and knocked us into the fruit cart!

If the guards still close, I'll go without resisting.

It's not a roll, I simply decide. :-)

Linnad can easily spot Senator Verrasi

"Like we'd believe a savage over a senator! Ha!" Linnad finds himself in chains as the templars continue to laugh.

Deetz: Go
Graff: Arrested
Quorin: Go
Linnad: Arrested
Strangeways: ESCAPED
Lorem: Arrested
Kollash: Arrested

Deetz will try (again) to hide in the shadows, or at least sink into the crowd.
31% chance to succeed: 1d100 ⇒ 17

"Not so fast. Wait.... where did that savage go?"

Deetz: ESCAPED
Graff: Arrested
Quorin: Go
Linnad: Arrested
Strangeways: ESCAPED
Lorem: Arrested
Kollash: Arrested

Curses! We only got here!

Quorin smiles widely. "Come now, we didn't do anything," he says, while making contact with his mind.
Contact (Wis): 1d20 ⇒ 6 Success!

The elf spreads his hands wide, standing there. His confidence boosted, his grin goes maniacal. "You know, I want to run. It's what my people do. But today I will face my aggressors. Stare them straight in the eyes. And I will not blink!"
Superior Invisibility (Int-5): 1d20 ⇒ 9 Success!

He says this last word, disappearing entirely. From view, scent, and sound... and he runs!

"Where'd that friggin elf go! Dammit!"

The templars take the prisoners, Graff, Linnad, Lorem, and Kollash.

Deetz, Quorin, and Strangeways escape....

End of scene. Post individual XP in the Discussion table if you earned any.

Deetz, Quorin, and Strangeways round a few corners before relaxing to catch their breath.

1d4 ⇒ 3

As the day grows long, hunger sits in. The trio of crafty fugitives find a tavern on the other side of town. The best option looks like it doubles as a wine shop. The cool air in your lungs and the sweet wine on your lips ease the day's tensions. All about, a cheerful clink of mugs and rattle of conversation fill the air, and the rich aroma of roasting meat bodes well for the meal to come. You can't plan a rescue on an empty stomach.

Team "Escaped", please sit yourselves at a table... Map updated.

Placed.

Gotta save that Linnad fellow, Deetz mumbles quietly. It's a matter of principle, of honor. He chews absently on a biscuit.

Any idea where they would be taken? If not, perhaps one of the local could tell us.

Placed.

"Agreed. The presence, ridiculous! Any bets they'll take one look at Kollash and he'll be in an arena, quick as you blink," Quorin sips the wine furtively, not quite trusting how good it is.

Placed

As you're about to discuss the details, the inn door bursts open and a woman frantically dashes into the room. She searches for someone table-to-table. When she reaches your, a commotion comes at the door. The woman abruptly takes the empty seat your table. Three templars with eight mul fighters march into the hall and block all exits. The head templar harshly demands, "Where is the renegade Preserver? Where?!" No one says a word.

Cold-hearted and merciless, the muls twist patrons around for a better look at them. Their search starts at a table far from you and works slowly your way.

"King Kalak will favor anyone able to help us." One shouts.

A mul spins a man's head around so hard he nearly knocks him out, "Look at Templar Mandax when he speaks!"

The templar's irritation grows with each failure. The customers sullenly refuse to speak. They obviously loathe and fear the templars. Several patrons glance significantly toward the woman. The woman fights to seem calm. She studies your faces, to read your expression.

What does she see?

Meanwhile....

Graff shuts his eye tight as he is walked along. He can't believe he is being hauled away. His freedom is the one thing he has always had. At times the ONLY thing he had.
He tries to meditate on the wind, how it moves, how at times just little air currents here and there, and at times rushing in great gusts blowing sand and dust in great howling storms. Dust and Ash! I can't believe I'm in chains!
He does his best to remain calm and be patient. The moment will come and when it does he will be ready to act...

"I can help, so let me make contact," Quorin whispers, ready to do his disappearing trick a second time. His mind reaches out...
Contact (Wis): 1d20 ⇒ 5 Success
Invisibility (Int -5): 1d20 ⇒ 16 Fail
Invisibility, take #2 (Int -5): 1d20 ⇒ 6 Success

Deetz locks eyes with the woman, then gives a very slight nod when Quorin speaks. He then drops his eyes back to his biscuit, not looking up at the Templar or his entourage.

Per Slack, I'm using the psionic invisibility all wrong. I can only make myself invisible, and only to those whose minds I contact first. Will try something else.

Realizing for the first time that his trick won't work, the elf steps of his seat and, looking fearful, says, "I saw a woman. She looked fearful, and she ran out the back of this place. If you're quick, you'll catch her!"

Not sure if this helps, but Quorin has a Charisma of 14, which is a Reaction Adjustment of +2

There's the slightest hint of a smile from the woman. She then looks at Strangeways, hoping he'll also let her hide among the trio...

Strangeeways looks intently at the two people pressing the situation.

The woman looks like a malnourished early twenty-something., so normal. Her clothing is average for Tyr. She bears scars in places, but her hands aren't calloused. Rare. She has a scent to her that's hard to place. It's a melange of things both sweet and foul. Her hair is long and auburn. She could get by on looks alone, but you don't get that feeling.

Mendax is dressed in typical Templar garb, the black cassock of his station. His face is a maze of wrinkles, brought about by a combination of 40 years in the Athasian sun, and the consternation of a man who disapproves of all he sees. The ever so subtle upturned lip on his left side betrays his love for the hunt. In this case, the hunt for this woman.

That way, Templar! She was raving! Mad!

Strangewayes motions towards the servants quarters and the rear exit.

Reaction of +3 if it matters.

She gives a smile at Strangeways.

Unfortunately, the templar isn't in a forgiving mood. "YOU people let a raving mad woman through and didn't stop her?! In King Kalak's name I'm arresting every last one of you! This is obviously a front business for the Veiled Alliance!"

The eight muls begin arresting everyone. People without weapons get a gag as well as tied up.

The three of you are bound. Strangeways gets gagged.

The party doesn't stay split for long.

Both groups are brought to King Kalak's slave pens for processing. Whatever your hopes and dreams were for Tyr, this is your reality now.

Processing occurs with callous efficiency. Ever-present guards quell escape attempts while slaves, with no regard to gender or species, are stripped of all clothes and items. When its your turn, you're no exception. As clothing is heaped onto bonfires, the supervising templar pockets items that interest him and distributes those that do not. Fortunately for you, books hold no interest.

Next a team of guards shave beards and heads to eliminate lice, and each slave receives a loincloth, a blanket, and a small waterskin. Once within the pits proper, a taskmaster assembles you and assigns each to a work crew commanded by an overseer. Work crews perform one menial task, such as hauling water, mixing mud, forming bricks, hauling bricks, setting bricks, cutting wood supports, and so forth. The seven of you are now... mud mixers.

You hopes and dreams have been replaced with a life of mixing mud for King Kalak.

Quorin sighs, but gives a nod to Strangewayes.
20XP for the subtle test of trust (Elf)