A few sensations are all you comprehend first. Muted voices. A humid breeze. Rocking motions. A clinical smell. Then nothing once more. Then, a dull yellow light, as if through a dense fog, begins to glow from nowhere in particular all around you.
You look around. A roiling yellow fog obscures most of your vision, but as you adjust you see more. Shadows, at first. Things just beyond your vision. Some appear humanoid, their gait stiff. Some are low to the ground, skittering on too many legs. Some tower above, every lumbering movement a creaking roar in your ears.
You notice four others then, standing around you. They too look around in the fog, lost. Two are taking note of the few details. One bears a look of guilt. One is watching the movements of those things in the fog. The last one seems to not notice the dense mist surrounding the group. At your feet, scattered amidst the cobblestone, broken glass and pottery, are hundreds of pages bearing sketches of some alien city.
Whether it is a moment or an eternity, you cannot say, but the roiling mists reveal the five of you are in the middle of some street. The buildings are strange, blackened and ruinous, with no windows or doors. Ziggurats, minaretes, and stranger structures loom in the distance. An iron lattice tower stands beneath two black suns in one direction. A pyramid standing on its point dominates the opposite horizon. These sights fade in and out as the curtains of mist are drawn and reveal new wonders. You realize the countless sketches are of this city.
[The five of you come to consciousness here. Roll a d4 to determine how much of your gear you start play with. Post with your characters’ gut reactions to their environs.]
Iosif, above all else, is confused. He is, above all else, a man of reason and innovation.. yet everything here defies all that unabashedly. Pyramids, in all likelihood, denote somewhere close to Osirion, and the papers are likely a map if they designate the city that they are currently in. He looks down, can barely see what he has aside from his ornately decorated musket, and looks around him to take in the surroundings better.
He then realizes the pyramid is standing on its point, which should be impossible with no support structures... and such a building would require a lot of support structures. Perhaps they are invisible by some solution of the arcane? How on Golarion and Abaddon did he not notice that?!
He starts to hyperventilate, but he calms himself down as a he grips his firearm close to his chest. He doesn't even remember if he loaded the thing, so it does very little to calm him down. He looks around to see if there's any verifiable life forms he can communicated to see if anyone knows anything, rather than... vague shapes in the mist, which could be some machinations of a hallucinating mind. There are reports of the mind hallucinating entire people and conversation, but they were much more rare than reports of nebulous shapes.
This is not home. Where is? Do we even have one? They know that much. Alvar shakes their head, trying their best to pierce the fog. There are others here? People... or threats? They carefully examine the others in the fog, trying to make out their forms, but... no details are immediately obvious.
They take a few steps back from the other figures, drinking in the scene that surrounds them, this wondrous city beyond any they've seen in the past. No. Focus. Study later. They grip their amulet, then release it. Instead, they draw a five-pointed star with the inner three fingers of their hand and, with their outer three fingers, draw a flaming eye inside of it, invoking the Seventh Defense against Weapons Natural and Unnatural.
As the protective field settles around them, Alvar fights through the foggy recesses of their mind to try to determine where they are.
Ethyl regards the passel of monstrosities just beyond her vision with a mix of detachment and dread. "Run! Escape!", an urgent part of her mind screams at her. "I'm hallucinating, this can't be real," the calm part of her mind asserts itself over her base reaction. She grips her dagger and holds it in a defensive position looking for a way to escape and then the xanthic fog fades. She finds herself humming a queer tune.
Ethyl observes the strange city and the strangers around her. "Is this normal? No," she answers herself. "What is normal?" she wonders. Again another part of her mind answers, "I don't know, but it isn't this."
She grips her dagger hard enough that her hand begins to shake and tries to place her back to a wall while also leaving room for her to dart to the right or the left. She asks, "Who are you?"
"One ball, one dose of black powder...," Iosif says as he goes through the motions to load his firearm. Ideally, he'd have his cache of alchemical cartridges composed of paper, bullet, and powder... which is making him uneasy. He always has the quick-loading cartridges.
"Iosif Formicidescu, having trouble recalling anything else," he says as he tries to swallow down his fear. Fear is illogical and pointless, faith in Cixyron and black powder are this man's currency. "You?"
He's still unsure if he can actually see people, but hearing clearly identifiable voices is at least somewhat reassuring. On the bright side, he doesn't seem to have his unholy symbol on him, so there's no need to scare the planar-knowledgeable with the fact that he worships a literal Daemonic Harbinger.
A pair of hands emerge from the fog, followed by a face. A young-ish-looking, pale woman with short black hair stumbles into the vicinity. Her breathing is shallow and fast. She leans against the nearest wall as her eyes race to find some semblance of normalcy in the situation. She eyes you curiously, not sure what to make of the presence of others in this place. Not that she seems to make sense of her being here to begin with, but she looks startled nonetheless.
"Is this it?" she asks sheepishly, her voice barely audible amongst the odd sounds produced by whatever is hiding in the fog. She looks at her clothes. She feels the sleeves with her fingers and palms. She stretches the clothing. While it seems to fit her size, she clearly does not recognise it. Few things seem to make sense to her or reassure her in any way, shape or form. "Where are we? -Who- are we?"
She keeps looking about frantically, her eyes and face showing confusion and fear. For a brief moment, she seems like she is going ot be sick, but manages to swallow it down. For now.
"My name...?" The tiefling pauses, wondering, even as they keep their eyes on the other people, if that's what they truly are, warily examining them for any sign of threats. What is my name? More importantly, who am I?
A word comes slowly to them, drifting out through the fog without within. Wanderer? No, no, that's not it. Sojourner? Explorer? Those aren't right either. Their left hand drifts up to touch their amulet, feeling the uncomfortably familiar ridges of the symbol engraved on it. The item gives them a sense of security, but no hint to the answer.
Each thought feels like molasses clings to each word, each concept, while simultaneously racing through their mind like a maddened horse, all direction unheeded.
But none of those are names. They're titles, nicknames, sobriquets. So what is their name...? Iosif's words catch them off-guard. That one knows his name. Is it his? It sounds like a man. These things can be so confusing. They force the thought aside. More importantly, like the... lady(?) says, where are we? The wizard forces their attention back to the task at hand.
As these chaotic thoughts pass through their mind, a word - a name - does indeed come to the tiefling's consciousness. A word that brings both wonder and horror: the Dreamlands. A dimension as chaotic as the First World, overlaying the Ethereal Plane, but more sinister than either. Ruled by gods older than any other known to civilization - even older perhaps than Pharasma or Asmodeus - and formed from the dreams of countless sentient beings.
"Although I don't know how I got here, or basically anything about myself but my name. We are in the Dreamlands. Even though I have memory loss, I do not seem to be a petitioner -- since I know very well where my soul will end up. You... you don't just end up in the Dreamlands with other people."
Iosif is starting to panic. Could he be here after death? This is decidedly not Abaddon, so that mustn't be the case... but logic is starting to fail the man.
Ethyl's mind races at her own question before dredging up from the depths her name, "You may call me Ethyl, spelled like the type of alcohol. Ugh my parents must be awful people. Correction, Dr. Ethyl Ermengarde."
She smells the air as Iosif messes with his musket and wonders out loud, "Black powder?" She needlessly explains to the man, "A mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Careful that could be quite explosive if it were exposed to an open flame." She doesn't say, Clearly I am a doctor of alchemistry..
As the others hesitate, "Well, I surmise that none of us know anything particularly substantive about who we are, other than what we claim our names to be."
As the group tries to make sense of their surrounds and precious few memories - even their own names now slipping away from them - they begin to notice it is unnaturally silent in this abandoned street. No wind, no clattering shutters, no creaking hinges, nothing.
That is, until a noise like a nail on chalkboard draws their attention in separate directions. Another grating noise. Another. Like the unnerving footfalls of someone - or something - drawing closer. As this sound draws closer, you all feel a terrible dread. You cannot seem to tell where this noise is coming from, the sound echoes like broken glass off the alien urban landscape. However, as your mind slips away from you, a single thought remains:
YOU ARE BEING HUNTED
The fog, which had thinned enough for you to identify those here with you, begins to close in once more. A thick orpiment curtain that reaches out for you as that infernal footfall grows louder. Something is coming for you.
The girl finally stirs from the cobblestone ground her first feeling is one of utterly confusion. She remembers... nothing. Not how she got her nor why she came to such a unnerving place. Fear grips her young heart immediately and her hands go to cradle her body as if they could provide her some kind of protection from the strange mists or daunting shadows that seem to twist and fade at the corners of your eye. "Where... where are we?" she asks. More to herself than to the others, as if some facet of her mind could provide an answer.
Before it can one of the strangers supplies the answer, a dark-haired man with a fierce looking weapon. "The Dreamlands?" It is not a question or denial. The moment the man says it, Elyssa, or perhaps something at the back of her mind, knows it to be the truth.
"I-I think know about them. Or at least read about them. Maybe?" She shakes her head as if that could help with her confusion. It doesn't really. "You're right we shouldn't be here together. This is wrong. This must be wrong."
Panic starts to creep into her thoughts. They shouldn't be here. They shouldn't here. They shouldn't be-
Stop your whining. It is unbecoming. You will make them know us. You will make them know of our Blood and Flesh.
And with that Elyssa shoot up straight and made her formal introduction without so much thinking of the act. "I'm Lady Elyssa Volgori, of the House Volgori. I am of noble Ustalavic blood and... that's all I remember," her voice trailing off. What just happened?
Before Elyssa has anytime to think on that the feeling of being watched, no, pursued overtakes her. Something is out here!
On instinct, Elyssa manages to call forth something deep within her to protect her and soon a skin of energy covers her fragile form.
Iosif turns to Dr. Ethyl, remembering two things, one of which being the formula for blackpowder. "Yes, I know that formula well. I am not -- most of the time -- surrounded by blackpowder. Thus, I need to make my own. I see no firearm by your side, so I am to surmise you are some form of alchemist?"
Before he has long to do anything, the words appear in the man's mind as he nearly panics. Firearms are far more likely to hit their target, yes, but that does not change the fact that that he only has one shot left.
So, he raises his ornately decorated musket to face whatevee thrat lies ahead, the man's hair standing on edge. Oh for the Furious Thunder's sake, let this be over quickly.
Ethyl stops talking and cocks her head around trying to locate the source of the noise.
If she determines the direction she attempts to find a corner to hide behind.
The eyes of the confused woman dart around the area. And then she stops, her brow furrows. She tilts her head to the left and then to the right in confusion, then presses her palms against her ears. She clicks her tongue, producing a sound that echoes through the deafening silence. And she is visibly confused by this. And as the strange sounds of something else pierce the silence, she starts panicking, keeping her back to the wall. An instinct kicks in, and she quickly starts looking for a place to hide. "Something's coming. We need to run. To hide."
She starts patting the walls, looking for doors or openings that should be there but are not, getting more frantic by the moment, vocalising her frustration by suppressed whimpers as she scratches at the walls.
She eventually resorts to cowering near what she believes to be a corner.
Iosif tries to hide as well, behind what he believes to be a corner, keeping an eye out.
The wanderer's eyes narrow as they realize where they most likely are. The Dreamlands? Am I asleep then? Are these people also sleeping, or are they mere dreams? Not locals. Still, they weren't certain until two others spoke aloud to agree with their assessment of the location - Iosif and a young woman. Ustalavic nobility? We're in esteemed company indeed- No, they have to focus.
"Yes," they begin, "I think-"
The wizard's eyes widen as the sudden overwhelming sensation suffocates the life out of the words. They take several steps back. "Stay close! My-" The swelling dread chokes them for a moment, but they force themselves to continue, though each syllable feels like it is being forced through a vice. "My magic will protect you if you do!"
They chant another spell, their hands dancing through complex ritual gestures long-ago memorized and drilled into them. A field of force sheathes itself around their body, protecting them further from any harm.
As the group casts spells and claim corners, that horrid sound of something approaching grows ever louder.
As Nyarai takes her hiding place, the fog shifts and she can no longer see the others. Those footfalls turn from nails on a chalkboard to the heavy armored march of mailed knights. She hears them from further down the alley she hid in, and looking behind her she sees a towering knight standing over her, wearing the greens and blues of Taldor.
"WITCH" A hollow echoing voice rattles in her ears as the knight raises his longsword and strikes her repeatedly, cutting her down.
The others had also lost sight of Nyarai, but they hear her cries of shock and pain, and from the direction she had fled they see blood stream into the cobblestones. Any seeing the blood watch as the red liquid form letters in the cobble: UP
Elyssa's hands rush to her mouth to suppress a scream as she hears one Nyarai be violently cut down. The sight of the dead woman's blood does little to help with the shock and soon Elyssa feels a wave of nausea come over her.
Blood, she thinks, trying desperately not to start dry heaving. If there is one thing I know is that I hate the sight of blood.
The desire to run away into the mists and escape the sight of the red ichor is overwhelming but Elyssa's body does not obey her instincts. Her feet stay rooted to where she is, defying her. "Why can't I... why can't I move?"
Silence. You dishonor our Blood, our Flesh, with your cowardice. Act. Fight. Destroy.
"How? I can't even see what I'm facing," she says aloud before realizing that she is quite literally talking to herself. I'm mad. I must be. How else do you explain it?
Before Elyssa has time to try and answer that, the voice in her head is already making new demands.
Foolish, sheath. We have eyes. And ears. And a tongue to taste the blood in the air. Use them. Now.
And so she does. To the best her ability anyway.
"The alley," she says, her tongue and nose overwhelmed with the musk and taste of blood. It's a disturbingly familiar sensation.
Shaking off that foul feeling, Elyssa repeats herself to the others and points. "The thing that killed her is in the alley."
Those words must have awakened the... thing inside her to act as the moment Elyssa confirms her finding her legs are on the move without her consent pressing forward to the blood-reeking alley.
Ethyl's eyes trasfix on the copious amount of blood running through the cobble forming the strange word. She doesn’t trust the word, It's a trick. She nods slightly at Elyssa'a words and then motions towards the north while ducking from alley to alley making her way north.
Iosif goes to investigate the sound to the south, also sneaking along a whole 30 feet while holding his musket up, ready to fire. I am unsure how they knew she was a witch. If she is a witch. Hopefully they do not have access to all our identities, or I am not safe, he thinks to himself. He doesn't even know what his identity is, but he has the sinking feeling not everyone would like it if it got out.
The wizard's eyes shoot wide as Nyarai disappears from their sight, and a low yelp of surprise bursts out of their lips. "By his black heart..." The blood flowing out in the distance catches their attention, and they frown. Something teleported her? They fight to think of what could've caused something like that so suddenly, or if it is just another aspect of the Dimension of Dreams.
No, there's no time. Or perhaps there's too much? No, that makes no sense. We don't have time to think this through! Elyssa's words bring them back to the present, and they stride forwards, readying a minor cantrip to throw at anything that appears threatening. Whatever the case, I'm not going to go down without at least attempting a fight.
As they arrive nearby to Iosif, their magic whirls up around him, guarding him against attack.
Ethyl looses sight of the others as they move southwards deeper into the mists. She finds she can barely see her hand in front of her face till the fog parts to the west, revealing a street covered not in parchments and sketches but Harrow cards. At the end of that street is a coffin chained shut.
Ethyl blinks and finds herself standing over this coffin, where a spread of Harrow cards is set across the lid.
The Beating. The Uprising. The Demon’s Lantern. The Vision. The Carnival. The Liar.
Before Ethyl can begin to comprehend the message, the chains latch onto her limbs and pull her towards the coffin. The lid, now loose, creaks open to reveal a tangle of three male corpses reaching up for her.
“Ethyl!” They croaked, grasping her arms and neck. “Till death do us part!”
Unable to escape the chains and the corpses, Ethyl is dragged into the coffin, the lid slamming shut. She tries to cry out, to shout an alarm, but a withered hand clamps over her mouth as the chains and limbs crush her within the blackness.
Alvar, Iosif, and Elyssa arrive at the alley Nyarai disappeared into, the fog parting to see the witch seemingly lashed to the statue of a Taldan knight, her skin and clothing charred nearly beyond recognition. The last echos of a bloodthirsty crowd could be heard as the fog once again swallows the alley.
"This does not seem to be a unified effort. So there is bound to not be teamwork. Nyarai, Ethyl, if you can hear my voice, respond!" Iosif is, externally, resolute and fearless... internally he is very much beginning to panic, as logic has no explanation for the occurrences, and everything is happening so quickly. His shaky hands clutch at his musket, still ready to fire.
He refuses to address the elephant in the room that is seeing their demise with his own eyes, but he is not letting any possibility by him. Illusion spells exist, and this could be a case of one of those... but in his gut, he doubts it.