Welcome to the campaign!
This is a solo play I am running. All are welcome to visit, but if you'd like to comment, please do so in the discussion thread, not in the game-play thread. We'd love to hear from you!
This is a heavily adapted rendition of Curse of the Crimson Throne set in Keith Baker's Eberron, utilizing my own House Rules.
Your breath mists the air, stinging in the bottom of your lungs. Your blood pumps in your neck, behind your eyes, in your fingertips, and on your knuckles where you struck him. The rain smells amazing, so thick and so sweet. The cold, fat drops sending a chill down your spine, causing you to wince as you feel the wound left you by the warforged that just dropped off the side of the walkway.
You become aware of your surroundings again as the adrenaline fades. The rain thunders down, a deluge beating on you with heavy, stinging drops, like small pebbles blistering your skin in the darkness, driven by the un-abating winds. This high up in Sharn the winds always whip around you, but they usually lack the ammo currently pelting you.
You feel alive.
The same can not be said for the man crumpled on the ground in a puddle. You hold his satchel in your hands, as off in the distance you can hear the hue and cry of the city watch approaching.
Even after the danger subsides, Esben’s pulse still pounds in his ears. He is wet to the bone, but the adrenaline surging through him mutes the cold for a few minutes.
His thoughts briefly flicker to the bread stashed in his satchel, and he lifts a corner of the bag to check — it is no longer warm, but mostly dry.
At least that’s a relief, he thinks. Won’t be hungry tonight.
His attention returns to the dead man on the ground in front of him, and he crouches to get a better look at the man’s face. He checks for a pulse once more, but feels nothing. Esben takes the satchel gingerly off of his arm and slings it over his own back. His awareness of the wind and rain returns, and Esben shivers beneath his layers of soaked clothing. He looks out into the dim light and sheets of rain, and the sounds of approaching men permeate his consciousness.
Instinctively, he clutches the bags against his body, and begins to run.
Esben hurries along the walkway, ducking under an overhang and out of the rain. He thumps down a long winding set of stairs, going in and out of the pools of light cast by the everbright lanterns. Behind him the sound of the City Watch arriving at the crime seen echo off the towers of the city. A bolt of lightning blinds you momentarily, leaving a mark over your eyes, blocking your vision some with the shadow of the bolt. You blink several times, clearing the after-image of the lightning and the rain from your eyes.
You make your way through the city, lower and lower, as the rain lessens. The smells of industry are carried up on the wind, along with the smell of the sea from the Dagger River, flowing in from the Barren Sea to the south.
Almost an hour later, you arrive at the Broken Anvil Inn where you are staying, in the High Walls district. Nestled between two towers is the remains of a large, armored Sky-ship. Covered in heavy, thick, rusting iron, only half of the ship remains, the rear of the ship having sheared off and disappeared into the depths. On the side of it can still be seen the name of the ship: Iron Anvil. Water runs off the hull, indication of the storm raging half a mile above you.
You clamber up a swaying rope and wood walkway, suspended hundreds of feet above whatever sidewalks and concourses are in the darkness below it. Your hands grip the side-ropes tightly. You nod at the innkeeper, a halfling woman named Eranna of Dragonmarked House, House Ghallanda, before heading up to your room, the satchel in your arms.
Still dripping, Esben sloshes into his room and sets both satchels down near the foot of his bed. He peels off the wet clothes and runs a hot bath, feeling grateful as the warm water brings feeling back into his extremities. After bathing, he discards the moistened parts of his bread and devours half of the remaining loaf, feeling famished after his fight with the Warforged.
Although it is nearly sunrise, Esben's mind is sharp. His attention turns to the dead man’s satchel. He hoists it onto his desk and lifts the flap to look inside.
Peering inside the satchel, Esben finds a notepad, a few writing utensils, an intricately made leather journal, and paperwork identifying who you can only assume is the man you left on the bridge. According to the information, his name was Provost Bonal Geldam, a human in his early fifties, and an academic at Morgrave University, located here in Sharn.
"Provost Bonal Geldam", Esben mutters, skimming over the paperwork. He flips through the leather journal. "Wonder what got you killed, Provost..."
The journal is thick, heavily bound leather. Scratches and worn pieces mark where Provost Geldam obviously used this book frequently. As wide as your hand and a bit taller, and perhaps a full inch thick, it has strands of some unknown metallic string woven into the cover in a pattern resembling interconnected triangles.
Inside, every page is blank, but the sheets have a strange feel; they don't seem to be paper or leather, or vellum, but something not readily identifiable.
As you flip through the journal, something falls out, appearing as if it had been bookmarking a blank page. It appears to be a card with the Provost's address at the University printed on it, alongside the Universities logo.
Provost Bonal Geldam
Department of History, Galifar - Five Nations
Shava House 13
Dalannan Tower
Morgrave University
University District
Upper Menthis
Menthis Plateau
Sharn
Breland
You look over the empty journal with frustration, and growing unease. You startle at every bump in the inn, replaying the encounter with the warforged in your head over and over, until you’re certain you can hear it approaching your door to your room.
But when you check, nothing is there.
Esben sighs and rubs his eyes, trying to remove the vision of the angry Warforged from his mind.
The best thing to do would be to get some sleep, he tells himself firmly.
He climbs into bed, listening to the sounds of the Lower City out his window, and tries to rest.
Work is only a few hours away, he thinks, groaning inwardly, and perhaps the unusual events of the evening will just turn out to be a bad dream.
With these wishful thoughts, Esben drifts finally into sleep.
Your sleep is troubled. You wake several times, to the sounds of other guests in the inn, of the City of Towers breathing with life, even in the darkest hours of the night.
Your eyes open again. Your room is thick with darkness. Your breathing is steady, your heart calm in your chest. The blanket covering you is warm and heavy.
You realize, much more calmly than you would have imagined, that you are looking at a woman in the darkness, sitting quietly in a chair opposite your bed.
"Hello, Esben. I am Lady Elaydren d'Vaux. It's so nice to finally meet you."
Esben smiles groggily at the woman and blinks slowly, his mind still foggy from sleep. When he finally realizes that there is a strange woman in his room, he sits straight up in bed and scrambles backward a few feet.
“Aah!” Esben exclaims in surprise. “How did you get into my room?! How do you know who I am? What is going on?”
Leaning forward, the woman gestures to Esben to calm down. "Shh!" she hisses.
She snaps her fingers, and a glowing white-blue point of light appears above her hand, illuminating her in a stark light. She is beautiful, perhaps in her late 30's, with long raven hair gathered up in an intricate, thick braid.
On her right pointer finger is a ring with what looks like a silver bull with a hammer.
"I'm sorry to approach you so covertly. There are those who would do me harm if they found out I was involved." You notice a bruise on her right cheek and temple, combined with a scrape and a deep scratch across the right side of her forehead. "As I said, I am Lady Elaydren d'Vaux. I need your assistance."
Esben sits silently for a moment, contemplating. He then stands and inclines his head toward the woman in respect for her title.
“Lady d'Vaux...how can I help?”
With trepidation, Esben thinks, And just how much danger are we in?
"Earlier this evening, a compatriot of mine, Bonal Geldam, was murdered, as you know. He was working with me to retrieve an artifact from the foundation of Sharn, far beneath us." She lets the blue light float up higher, in between the two of you, and sits up straight in her seat. "This artifact is extremely important to me, and to the security of our nation, to Breland. I would like you to retrieve the item for me."
“I apologize if this question is out of turn, but...why have I been chosen for the job? Why have you come in the middle of the night to ask me to do this for you?”
Esben chews the inside of his lip. “Also...what is the artifact? How would I know how to find it?”
Elaydren sighs. "You weren't. You were just there when Bonal Geldam died." She leans forward, her gaze intense. "But I believe in destiny. I believe that chance is only chance if you let it pass you by. You held off that warforged who killed Bonal, caused him to flee, so you can clearly hold your own. And you are unknown, so you can go places I and others cannot. You can move freely, and investigate. You can help your country."
"The item is a schema, a set of...plans, of sorts. Made by an ancient race, long ago, and lost in the ruins of Dorasharn, that the City of Sharn was built upon centuries ago."
She lets that hang in the air for a moment. "If it is a matter of payment..."
It's more of a matter of survival, Esben thinks. But I wouldn't say no to a offered reward.
"I am unknown, that's true," Esben acknowledges. "Is there anyone who could accompany me? Or is it necessary for me to go alone?"
"You may bring anyone you trust. As for how to find the artifact, I believe that that information is contained inside of Bonal's journal. You have it still, I assume?"
"I do have it, but I can't read it. All of the pages are blank."
Esben holds up the journal for her to see.
"How did you know Bonal Geldam? What was his significance to you?"
Elaydren scowls and takes the journal from you. Flipping through the blank pages, she muses. "I've known him for...well, it seems like forever, now. We had similar goals: finding this schema, and defending our homeland." She sigh in frustration, tossing the journal back to you. "Was there anything else aside from the journal? Anything inside it, or inside his bags?"
"The only other thing in his bag was a notebook from his studies, and a card with his address on it. Do you think there's anything useful at his home?"
She sits quietly for a moment, her posture stiff, thinking. "I think with nothing else to go on, that will have to be where you start, yes. Hopefully you can find what you need there."
"Will you be coming with me to his home? Do I have a way to reach you if I need to send you a message?"
Esben bites his lip again as his thoughts stray to the Warforged once more. I am not looking forward to leaving this room, he thinks apprehensively.
"No. I'll come to you." Lady Elaydren stands. "Thank you, Esben. I'll speak to you soon."
She departs. The room is quiet, and still again, in the dead of the night. Your eyes feel like sand is in them.
Esben sleeps again. Dreams of drowning, and darkness. You see your father in them, discounting your little sister with something she said, but in this dream your father is also the King, King Boranel ir'Wynarn of Breland, he just looks like your father. He then rebukes you for killing your mother. Several of your childhood friends are there as he does it, yet you don't feel the embarrassment you'd expect. The room you're in changes, and your little sister is humming like she used to do, but when she looks at you, her eyes are burning, but she doesn't seem to notice.
Your eyes pop open again. It is morning, and you can feel the aches in your body where the fight with the warforged didn't go your way, as the wound slowly heals. You stiffly get out of bed, ready to go to work.
Esben groans and rolls slowly out of bed. He wants to take a bath to sooth his sore muscles, but there isn't time.
"Was last night a dream?" he mumbles sleepily. Lady Elaydren's clear, intense eyes seem burned into his mind. He looks around the room for signs that she was indeed in his room last night, and notices the journal on the floor. "She must have been here, I'm sure I placed the journal in my bag..." he trails off, his words sounding much less certain aloud.
What IS sure, he thinks firmly, is that my father is NOT the king. That one was definitely a dream.
He dresses as quickly as his aching body will allow, grabs his satchel (with the journal tucked inside), and trudges out the door.
"Wake uuuup", he wills himself as his breath becomes visible in the crisp morning air. "The sooner I get to work, the sooner I can leave and visit Bonal Geldham's home."
It is this thought, as well as the anticipation of a freshly-baked role for breakfast, that urges his weary feet forward.
The morning coldness bites today. High Walls is typically cold, as the sun doesn't penetrate well to this refugee district. The smell of cook-fires on the wind is a pleasant experience for you now, and feels familiar.
You walk through the guard station to Cogsgate. A remnant of the Last War, the guard stations around High Walls aren't here to guard against foreign infiltrators in the refugees fleeing the violence of the war, so much as to provide security for the crime that has swept into the vacuum of poverty there.
The Cogsgate is a warehouse district to the north of High Walls. There is more bustle here, as some workers have been working all through the night. It smells of dirt and chemicals. You pass several Guardians of the Gate, the local security for the shipping concerns of merchants and Dragonmarked Houses provided by Sharn.
Entering the district of Terminus, you are greeted by a buzzing hive of activity. House Orien lightning rail coaches arrive twice a day at Terminus Station, bringing travelers from all across Khorvaire. Skycoaches and magic lifts take new arrivals to Sharn to the various corners of the City of Towers.
You look longingly at them, but knowing you can't afford one, you continue on your way to work, now climbing the ramp on the inside of an enormous tower, up out of Lower Tavick's Landing, up into Middle Tavick's Landing. As wide as a street, it slowly arcs upwards, full of carts and wagons moving up to the upper levels by more conventional means. The tower is so wide, that other towers are inside of it. This is one of the great supports of the city above, bearing unthinkable weight on its walls, some over fifty feet thick.
Tavick's Market sits above Terminus, the city watch helping to manage the large, and loud bustling crowd. As you move through, there seems to be a sense of energy, of anxiousness you've come to associate with people still not feeling secure after the end of the Last War.
Graywall is much quieter, to the south of Tavick's Market. The people here cast a suspicious eye on people not from the district, giving them a colder welcome. You hustle on across a long, thick bridge, over the canyon between towers called The Depths. The wind whips at you, as you traverse from Middle Tavick's Landing to Middle Menthis Plateau.
The bridge drops you off in the theater district of Smoky Towers, but you continue on quickly to the district of Little Plains a halfling District. The towers here appear inside out, instead of open central spaces surrounded by buildings attached to the outside of a tower, streets run around the outsides of the towers, giving access to very low doorways leading to cave-like interiors.
You skirt the magic district of Everbright, cutting across its smallest section near Kelsa Spire to finally make it to Cassan Bridge, where your shop, on the outskirts of Dolannon Tower, resides. Cassan Bridge is a fairly unremarkable shopping district, unique only in the small community of human immigrants from the Shadow Marches who make their homes and livings here. Several importers bring Marcher crafts into Sharn, and specialty groceries carry ingredients favored in Marcher cooking. Although no buildings need to be built on stilts in Middle Menthis, some of the architecture of Cassan Bridge echoes the styles of the Marches as well.
Your heart speeds up as you find another bridge across to your tower, one looking at the underside of the bridge you fought on last night in the pouring rain. Puddles still gather in corners, and the air feels its customary humidity this high up.
As you approach the open landing where your shop is, Little Zarash'ek, named after the city of Zarash'ek in the Shadow Marches, you slow, unease gripping you. The energy of the people around you changes, and you see them all focusing on something ahead.
You smell the distinct odor of smoke, and fire.
"What's that smell?" he mutters. "Is it the bakery?" Anxiously, Esben strains to look over the heads of the people in front of him, to see if his shop is affected by whatever event has occurred.
As you approach the street that Little Zarash’ek is located on, a crowd gathers and becomes more dense. People crane their necks, and push shoulder to shoulder to watch the spectacle in front of them: your little bakery is fully ablaze!
Local watch and other city officials and workers move to contain the blaze, as thick, black smoke curls into the towers above you, towards Morgrave University.
Esben's thoughts race, hoping his coworkers made it out of the bakery alive. His stomach drops, thinking of the warforged who attacked him the previous night, and wondering if the fire was meant for him.
The noise and turmoil of the crowd escalates as people yell back and forth, conversations roiling together like refuse in a sewer. Kalashtar, humans, half-elves, warforged, dwarves; Esben sees a few goblins as well, and what might be a trader from the Talenta Plains leading an enormous Threehorn being used as a pack animal.
"--can't believe it, I was just in there!"
"--probably an attack from those worthless Cyran terrorists around--"
"--thank Olladra no one was injured--"
"--I'm Cyran, you--"
"--please, this has 'Boramar Clan' written all over--"
"--heard it was some illegal refugee from High Walls, burned the place down to get back at the owner for firing 'im."
Esben's head snaps around. He moves discretely through the crowd, trying to get closer to the speakers.
"--you're kidding. What'd he do, burn the bread?"
Several half-orcs guffaw loudly, as the Threehorn trumpets nervously. The air reeks of burning.
"--make the best Ashi bread here. Burnt or not, no one makes--"
"--same one killed that Professor last night, just up Dolannon--"
Esben's neck hairs stand on end.
"--killed on Dolannon Tower last night?"
"--Sergeant of the watch was askin' me 'bout him all night last night. I heard the whole thing, I swear. The Professor was tortured up there, screamin' a lung out, and I saw this one bloke with shaggy hair over 'is body. 'Bout twenty sumpin.'"
"--off it, Hewett, you're straight deaf, you didn't hear nothin', or the Six take you."
"--did too. He took the man's satchel, right off 'im!"
"--best Ashi bread in Sharn. Bit of honey, some hot and sour sauce, and a grilled viper, and I'm back at home in--"
Esben feels like the whole of Sharn can hear his heart beating out of his chest.
Esben eases back from the crowd, calmly and quietly exiting the area. After the events of the last 24 hours, I do not need to be framed for arson.
Esben heads to the stairs, walking upward toward the University District. He gingerly fingers the dagger in his bag.
A clag of smoke lingers over everything, under the archways, in the stairwells, over the platforms. The breeze whips at Esben, taunting him, chasing his thoughts around like children at play. The air is hazy as he climbs out of Cassan Bridge in Middle Menthis Plateau, and up into Upper Menthis Plateau, into the Seventh Tower district, and its fine shopping.
From there, it is only a brief walk east to the University District. Students carry armloads of scrolls, and sit out on grassy knolls built into the sides of some of the towers. The sun is out, almost blindingly bright do to the height and the haze. Esben's stomach lurches as he traverses a bridge, and upon looking down, realize the depths of Sharn are lost in the gloomy air.
Esben cautiously moves about the campus, looking for Shava House 13. The idyllic life of the students, unviolated by the attack last evening not too far from here, and the fire this morning at Little Zarash'ek needles at Esben. They had no idea what was going on around them.
Finally finding the building, you see nothing out of the ordinary. Students and what are likely professors mill about.
Esben attempts to look nonchalant as he strolls into Shava House. Immediately he is impressed with the craftsmanship of the place. The wood work is quality, a dark cherry wood, the smells are of exotic foods from faraway lands, cloying, spicy and savory. It is cool, yet not cold; dim, yet well lit. The floor is marble, old and worn by thousands of feet passing over it, covered by thick rugs, looking like aged red wine; quality, yet old. Everbright lanterns fill key areas with light. A haze hangs near the roof, remnants of cigars and pipes regularly imbibed.
Used to house professors and other staff that lack families, there is a bit of a gentleman-bachelor vibe here. Trophies mount tables, on display, each one competing to grab your attention. A growing pile of cases, ropes, tents, backpacks and other exploration gear is currently being staged in the front entryway, unaware its getting in the way of foot traffic. A garish helmet, big enough for you to sit down in, covered in dents and age-old dirt thrusts out into one hall. Spears, shields and swords from different cultures adorn the walls.
No one seems to pay Esben any mind as he cautiously moves through the hall, perhaps mistaking his care for a students timidness. Porters lug gear out of an apartment to the front hall, while professors move about the building, noses pressed into old books, or laughing jovially with their guests.
The building is two stories, split into two wings. There is a central area with small alcoves for greeting guests and housing the staircase, utilitarian, but wide. You find that there are three apartments on each floor, on each side of the building, numbering twelve in all.
At the far end of each wing are kitchens, dining halls and other meeting halls.
Esben looks for Shava House 13 as it states on Provost Geldam's card...but it doesn't seem to be there. He doesn't want to draw attention to himself by asking anyone for directions.
"I wonder if it could be underground..." he mutters. "Or has it been magically hidden...? Do I even have the right building?"
As Esben looks around the building, a hand suddenly touches his elbow. "Excuse me."
Starting, Esben turns to find an attractive young woman smiling at him inquisitively. "Can I help you? Only you look a bit lost." She greets him with a smile, crinkling the sun-weathered skin around her bright blue eyes. She wears a broad-brimmed hat over her close-cropped dark hair. Her beige clothes are practical, including a number of pouches hanging from her belt. She looks ready to take off on an expedition at any moment.
Esben turns to look at her. "Ah...yes, I'm trying to find number 13. But ah..." He studies her for a moment, then squints down the hallway. "...it doesn't seem to exist." He trails off, and turns back to face her.
The woman looks you up and down. "Number 13?" she smiles, a waggish look on her face. "13 Shava House?"
”Yes,” Esben frowns, his eyes wandering up and down the halls, distracted. He holds himself stiffly, wishing he didn’t need to draw attention to himself. “Do you know where it is?”
The woman cocks her head at Esben. "Well, yeah. But it's not here. Shava House 13 is a pub," she chuckles, looking at the ground a moment, before looking back up at you, an impish gleam in her eyes. "Where...professors hang out after they've lost tenure. For...moral turpitude...and other scandals."
He lost tenure... Esben thinks, momentarily lost in thought, fingering the card with Geldam's address on it. But it said he lived at Shava House 13...
Esben clears his throat slightly and looks at the woman. "Do you know if the pub also has an area for living quarters?"
"It's got rooms, yeah. Who are you looking for?" she asks, eyeing the card in your hand.