The Sea of Rage earns her name this evening. Between the spray from the sea and the downpour of frigid rain, one would have a difficult time staying dry. Water cascades down the edges of the roads, sweeping away debris, guilt, and regret.
The ramshackle buildings of Port Krez stand next to each other, sometimes the foundation of its neighbor the only thing keeping a structure erect, seem themselves to cling together for an illusion of warmth. Crowded and overbearing, yet a network of alleyways has managed to worm through gaps in the city’s construction. Occasionally to the East, glimpses of the Sea can be seen through interruptions in the wall-to-wall buildings, and in the fading sunlight, grey mists ebb and flow on the horizon. Even passersby have heard tales of the Gray Tide, a dangerous and elusive phenomenon.
Architecture here is as varied at its people. Many doors were made wide and large to accommodate the ogres and orc-kind seen trudging through the streets, but many more buildings show the squat and sturdy defendable designs of the Dwarves of Mror, and too can descendants of these architects be seen going about their business in the City.
Dwarven magewrights tend to the few intact continual flame lanterns as the light fades. Though the streets are lined with many, most are shattered, or have fallen into some form of vandalism or disarray. Pulling their cloaks tighter and their wide brimmed hats lower, natives begin to make their way indoors or out of sight, as the water continues to fall in sheets.
Alistair:
The last several weeks have not been kind. As you find yourself traveling further and further East chasing rumors of forgotten treasure, you find yourself in the company of seedier peoples. Few caravans and vessels have need of an exorcist’s talents, the less educated have deduced that anyone in league with spirits is a Khyber-worshipping lunatic, and you have found yourself less than kindly removed from a few of your paid passages. People stopped asking questions near Talenta. If you pull your weight and defend the folk you travel with if it comes to it, they let your business be. A dwarven merchant offered you a ride aboard her derelict ship, not much more than a glorified paddleboat, and took you to her home city of Port Krez in the Principalities. The old salt talked your ear off about the treasures of Trebaz Sinara and the possibilities of Tempest Isle. If you’re going to search for some coin to fill your coffers, there are worse places than Lhazaar. The storm that hit as you made port occupied your hostess, but she assures you that answers can be found in the city…
Avicia:
A full night’s sleep would be a blessing, but it has been too long for you to expect such kindness. A lovely maiden of Thrane would draw many an eye in the Isles, afflicted as you are, you draw even more sidelong and wary glances. Most give you a wide berth, though a few pirates have found firsthand your skill with your pike. A den of aberrant-marked thieves and urchins has taken kindly to you, your withered countenance pales in comparison to some of their physical side-effects. Their leader, a man to which you are still unsure is dwarf or lizardfolk, has been trying to get you to join their brotherhood, confusing your dark talents with Khyber’s blood blessing. He is adamant that your mark will manifest and you will lead the Boilers to glory. At night, the voices whisper. Lately they have been telling you of dragons painted in stars, and of opportunities waiting to be grasped. “To live, one must travel to Dolurrh…”
Chierak:
Your exile has been a lonely one. You’ve met few dar on the open waters, save for the random ship golin by and by, but fewer still know of the glory of your people. Aboard one ship, as you worked for travel, you found that the Talentan minstrel knew a few songs of your kind, and though she sang sweetly, her words were empty of the reverence that the duur’kala blend into their songs, a hollow reminder of home and what you have lost. The Lhazaarites put your strong back to use, and even mostly human crews are willing to accept your aid. Baubles and battles you have found a’plenty, but none with honor or much reward. The pirates attack each other and villages almost without purpose. Off the northern shores of Lastpoint, the brigands you were employed by came under attack. Their pathetic schooner quickly falling prey to the revenge laid upon her by one of the Cloudreavers’ elite. She took no prisoners, and soon left all for dead in the burning and sinking remains. Adrift a piece of the ship, unsure if any others survived, you were lucky enough to be pulled by the tide into Port Krez. It has been a Khyber of a week, and you could use a fresh start. Dwarves at the docks offer you a room for the night to shake off the cold, and the next day point you into the city to begin anew.
Dharatatak:
”Wake, little soldier, your Destiny awaits.” For a moment you think that your blade sounds much nicer than it has before, until you open your eye and realize the voice belongs to the human serving girl that offered you a place to sleep. Rolling over in the hay you find yourself nose to nose with a hefty sow. The serving girl giggles. “I managed to sneak you some breakfast, but Kra would be most displeased if he found I let a goblin sleep in our pen. I’m afraid after you eat you must go.” After a too-small breakfast, even for you, you find yourself ushered out into the rain. Orienting yourself, you hear a familiar voice whisper “Aram’dar.” You find your swordhand outstretched and pointing further into the city. Making your way through alleys and between the legs of larger folk, you overhear this city is called Port Krez, however any time you try to inquire further your answer is usually the end of a boot. Glancing up, as goblins have to do often, you catch sight of the bottom of a ship sailing over the rooftops. You catch a glimmer of a burning ring of fire before it is gone from your sight.
Illyri:
Not a day goes by that Zach doesn’t cross your mind. How could he not, in a place like this, where street urchins are far too common? The Isles have been fair to you thus far, jumping from one island to the next. No place has felt like home since The Nest. Usually you find it easy to finish a job, but now and again it rings too much of the past and a changed face later you start again in a different town. It is all too easy to get lost in Lhazaar. Every few months some deranged pirate goes after Trebaz Sinara, most never return, those that do rarely have more than horror stories to share and battle scars to back them up. You’ve heard whisper that there are changelings in Lastpoint, and without realizing it, every trip you’ve made has brought you further South. The last ship you jumped dropped you off in Krag, in Port Krez. A wretched city composed of mostly orc-kin and dwarves, an odd mixture but works here for some reason. If you could just land a good haul, you might be able to make some headway in life. Few people question the presence of an elf, being relatively common in the Isles. A storm has carried over, though, and fewer people are out today in the chill of the rain. As you head into the city, you spy a child lifting a few coins from the cloak of a dwarf sailor. She seems oblivious. The youth has the familiar blonde hair that you came to love, and you are awestruck, but the moment is broken when you notice the boy’s other hand is the size of an ogre’s, and blister red. Meeting your eyes the boy scampers off into the dark flooding alleys.
Micha:
Your travels have taken you across the entirety of Khorvaire. You have seen good, and also terrible evil, stains from the Last War. Your mark has opened doors to you that you never thought possible, travel and luxury, but also the burden of every carpenter with a splinter coming to you for aid. In Breland, you met an elderly half-orc who calls himself Jazahn. Seeing your quest for experience, he offered to take you and Poppy with him on his sailing vessel as he explored the coasts. In the weeks you passed with him, it became apparent that his health did not match his fervor. In his quarters, through bouts of heavy coughing, he revealed that his true reason for bringing you along was in hopes you knew of a remedy to his wasting ailment. Discovering that the illness is foreign to you, the captain resigned to finish out his days in his homeland of Krag. Along the journey, you discover how needy some people can be, and how many people are just trying to make their mark upon the world. The Fang pulled into Port Krez just as a heavy storm hit. Jazahn took your hand fondly, apologized for his ulterior motives, and sent you on your way to see the world. Somehow you knew that would be the last time you saw the half-orc amongst the living. As the cold downpour drenches you and your companion, you find it might be a good idea to get an agitated wolverine dry. A few fisherman point the way into the city where a few taverns can be found, answering quickly to get away from your snarling pet.
As you pass the alleys, you can see several spots where fresh blood from the darkness mingles with the water flowing down the streets. One by one lights inside businesses and homes extinguish, adding a sense of urgency to the chill solitude of the night. A few people can be seen congregating towards an alley. Bottlenecked, the alley is cramped, but mostly clean of refuse. A solitary door betwixt two smoky windows lies at the end. Many of the figures make their way inside, a few linger in the alley chatting or smoking. A simple symbol etched into the door resembles the symbol for the Sovereign Host, two words written in Common and Dwarven are scribed beneath the symbol- Dolurrh’s Doorstep.
