"What could an expert criminal like you possibly need from novices like us?"
The lord governor's lips twitch in an almost-smirk, and he waves away a guard who had raised his fist to punch Imp in the head.
"Child," he says, "your naïveté amuses. Of course a master criminal needs little guttersnipes like yourselves as flunkies and catspaws. There is such a thing as deniability; it allows me to live in pleasant luxury and grow fat, while lesser creatures struggle and die on the streets."
Those of you who dare meet the governor's eyes see something profoundly disturbing in his eyes. Here is a man to whom you are not nothing. Rather, here is a man who has uses for you, but sees you as no more than tools to achieve those goals.
Your lives, your pain, your own goals... such things clearly mean nothing to him, so long as his goals are met.
Brin Nonst wrote:
"If it pleases your lordship, I will rip the tongue from that creature's head."
"Gosh, can you really do that?" the lord governor asks, a faint flicker of interest in his eyes. "Hmm... Perhaps not this one; we might have reasons to keep the tongue in its head. But ... Dermott, is number twenty still alive and battle-ready?"
"Yes, m'lord," Dermott replies. "Kept living by eating the vermin in his cell. Fresh meat kept him strong."
"To the arena," the lord governor commands.
Servants rush forward to transfer the lord governor onto a palanquin; guards rush forward to haul you to your feet. You are moved to a different part of the grounds, where a large, sunken pit awaits. In the pit is a male Orc with an axe. He looks filthy, disheveled and more than half-crazed.
"Number twenty awaits," Dermott states, and he nods at the guards. One of them cuts Brin's bonds with a knife; another gives her a good, hard shove to send her into the pit. The fall is painful, but does not cause outright injuries.
With a dull thud, her quarterstaff lands next to her.
"We'll let you out as soon as you present the tongue," Dermott mockingly calls down to Brin.
Number twenty snarls furiously and starts to stalk forward...
The guards wait until you are all in position before they unlock the door to your cell and send one of them inside to tie your wrists behind your heads. He's an old, toothless duergar with one eye obscured by cataracts. For all that, his arms are still pretty much solid muscle and bone, and he ties you securely.
"On yer feet, criminals!" the hobgoblin captain barks. "March!"
There is some confusion as you have trouble levering yourselves to your feet without the use of your arms and hands, but the guards solve this by hauling you all up and pushing you out into the corridor.
"Left! Right! Left! Right!" the captain barks, both at you and at his soldiers ... and you set off.
Escape artist DC 15:
As you advance, you subtly shift and rotate your wrists. Nothing overt, nothing extremely noticeable, but you are starting to feel some give in your bonds -- and then you come to a point where you know you can throw off the ropes anytime you please! But ... maybe wait until there aren't any armed guards all around you?
You are swiftly escorted out of the cells, which turn out to have been located under one of Hive's guard stations. Just before you move up into the station proper, you can see that there are several other cell blocks, most of them occupied. A troll looks up from the cellmates it had been devouring to bare its teeth at you -- and you're out.
Instead of being processed in the guard station itself, you are marched outside. Your hangover reacts badly to the bright light of day and the noise of people going about their day.
The light is too bright. The people are too noisy.
Once you've blinked the tears from your eyes, you realize to your surprise and confusion that you spent the night under a guard station in the upper levels of Hive. Palatial buildings of marble and granite flank a street as straight as a harp's string. Fragrant bushes and trees scent the air. Beautiful people with all their teeth, unblemished skin and rather less clothing than is entirely appropriate are dining at outdoor cafés, doing small drug deals on street corners, and all of the other things that are a part of civilized life.
None of them pay you any mind as the guards march you on.
On ... to the biggest building in sight.
This colossal monument to opulence and bad taste can only be the lord governor's palace; from the candy swirl minarettes to the gold-plated gates to the screaming colours painted upon its walls, it is ... unique.
Gate guards open up when your group comes marching in, and you are ushered through a tunnel with murder holes high in the walls, into an incredible garden.
Peacocks strut and fan their tails amongst flowers and trees from all corners of the world. A dryad gardener, chain clamped around her ankles, is tending a hedgerow as you pass. Tears streaming down her face, she is coaxing the branches and leaves into the shape of fanciful beasts.
Through the garden you pass, clouds of golden pollen doing nothing for your headaches and unsettled stomachs, and up to a courtyard. Acrobats and dancers are performing as best they can before a raised dais of marble, upon which lies a fat man, his black hair lavishly curled and oiled, his heavy eyelids painted gold. His yowls quiver slightly as he snores.
The performers are trying desperately to attract the fat man's attention while black-uniformed private guards casually crack whips at their ankles, and the occasional peacock screams to interrupt the music produced by a small brass band.
As your troupe arrives, one of the guards punches the orchestra's conductor in the ear, which sends him crashing to the ground and causes the rest of the orchestra to fall silent. Clearly exhausted, the dancers and acrobats fall to the ground like puppets who've had their strings cut.
One of the guards very carefully shakes the fat man's shoulder, saying: "M'lord, they're here."
The fat man opens his painted eyes and gives you all a dull, uncomprehending stare. He reaches out to seize the mouthpiece of a large water-pipe and takes a couple of drags. Finally, he wheezes out a disgruntled: "These strippers look a lot scruffier than the last batch, Dermott. Am I not paying these people enough to take care of their appearance?"
"No, m'lord governor," the guard says. "These aren't the strippers; they won't be here until this afternoon. These are the criminals you wanted. Four of them."
The fat man takes another, longer drag, and his eyes actually grow clearer - clearer and more predatory - as he looks you over. "Aha," is all he says. "A-ha."
The rats out in the corridor show no signs of being impressed by your presence. Their waistcoats really are extremely well-made, the gold thread and gemstones shimmering in the dim torchlight - shimmering bright enough to hurt your eyes. While you watch, they scuttle about, completely at ease as though they are the true masters of the world - and you but zoo exhibits.
A disconcerting thought, that. Strange things happen from time to time. Might a day really dawn when rats govern the world and it is your sad fate to languish in cages for their entertainment...?
Then there comes the hollow boom of a door opening somewhere beyond your sight down the corridor, and the rats scatter as rats do.
Heavy, booted footsteps approach, and a group of guards comes marching up. Imp's slur about them being 'pigs' is easy enough to understand, as each guard bears a boar's head amulet on his left shoulder; the mark of Hive's armed forces and the Spirit of the Swine which watches over them. It's no secret that the armed forces prefer following Shamanistic traditions over committing to one of the three gods, since none of them are a really comfortable fit for their line of work.
The scarred, lumpy-faced Hobgoblin who appears to be in charge of the dozen or so guards comes to a stop in front of your cell. His lips move as he points at each of you in turn, and then he bares broken and yellowed teeth in a hideous smile.
"Four of ya," he says. "That's just the right number. Alright, criminals! Off your cot and on your feet! Kneel facing the wall, hands behind your backs. You're off ta see the lord governor."
And as anyone who has spent more than five minutes in Hive knows, the lord governor is the aristocrats' aristocrat; the richest and most powerful man in the city and its de facto ruler, on the basis he's capable of bribing the most powerful people to go along with him...
To everyone else: thank you very much for interest and your submissions. You may not have been chosen this round, but if you'd like to follow and comment on the campaign in the discussion thread, you're more than welcome.
Which are you more partial to DM? I think I'm a little more fond of the Anti-paladin one, but I would love input.
The choice is yours. But if you go Antipaladin, I'd recommend swapping your ability scores a bit more for decent Wisdom, so you'll be able to cast spells.
I have put up the gameplay thread. Please don't post unless and until you've been selected.
I'll wait for Chillblame's entry before making the final cut.
The day dawns. Somewhere. It is not visible here, in a dungeon cell buried deep in the stony womb that is Hive, adrift on the silver lake like a particularly ugly lilypad.
You awaken, feeling the inexorable turning of the hours, the urge to rise.
To be specific - and a little crude - you feel the need for a privvy or a convenient chamberpot.
Then you register the various pains: the hangover poubding your brain like an anvil; the rotgut drink setting your bowels on fire; the bruises the guards put on you when they beat you unconscious and tossed you in this cell like sacks of flour.
You register the rank stench of unwashed bodies, unwashed cell, and the privacy-less hole in the middle of the floor, which connects to the Maze below.
You see and hear the rats, walking freely through the corridor outside the cell. They're wearing particularly fine waistcoats today. One grey-whisker has set up a little chair and table and is alternately watching you and reading a rat-sized paper while he sips tea.
I hadn't really considered multiclassing! I'm already pretty MAD, and I wanted to keep my saves up to snuff. Still, that sounds really cool, and I might end up going for it! The only issue is that witches are int based, and I'm really not invested in int. Maybe levels in arcane blooded sorcerer, and pretend that it's witch?
Nothing's set in stone yet, if you want to recalculate your ability scores. ^_^
I've made a debuff/buff themed cleric. Brin Nonst found here! Primary schtick at this level is inspire courage, (evangelist) as well as a few other fun tricks. Healing is not really one of them I'm afraid. Next level when I get the ability to channel energy, I can throw out confusion for a turn on anyone who fails the save. I'd also love to get some feedback!
I really enjoyed your backstory, with the implication that Brin's hag mother is somewhere outside the city, and Lucky might be her prospective familiar. Approved!
Are you considering cross-classing into Witch and going for Mystic theurge or another PrC at some point?
One more note: you may choose any alignment, but play it intelligently.
Being CE is no excuse to randomly murder everything you meet without a reason; you're not pureblooded demons, and even stereotypical Orcs have to want something from the people they attack. Being NE is no reason to rob and backstab your allies when you're all in the same mess and need each other's help to survive.
I've been away for over a year now; I felt pretty burned out with gaming.
Now, I'm starting to feel that old itch again, so I thought I'd see who wants to play.
Welcome to: Debt to Society.
Some of you may have met in a bar. But where you all meet, is in the dungeon cells beneath the Palace of Justice. Drunk and disorderly, is the charge.
You were drunk before you got here, but now you just have a hangover and assorted other aches from when the guards beat you unconscious and threw you in the cells. Disorderly, you are.
Something brought you here, some great failure or disappointment. It brought you low, to the point that you spent your last few coins on cheap hooch in the city's disreputable dive bars. And now, you are here. About to be tried and sentenced, about to start repaying your debt to society.
The name of the city is Hive.
It is a city of four levels, which floats in the great silver lake. Everyone knows the liquid in the lake isn't water; it's poisonous and it burns flesh. Also, it's thicker than water.
The highest level of the city is where the aristocrats, the high clergy and the philosophers live. The second highest level is for the army. The third highest is the general residential level, and also home to Hive's industries. And then there's the bottom-most level, which is submerged in the silver liquid of the lake; a wretched maze where the worst elements of the city are pitched in to die - the Maze.
If the world has a name, it was forgotten long ago. Now, it is simply the world. The world has changed since the days of your distant ancestors; it has grown strange, more cruel.
Where once proud and mighty nations contested one another command of precious resources, now the remaining settlements are inhabited by a sprawl of different species and creeds. What culture remains, is a hybrid of many histories and customs. Peoples who once loathed each other must now live cheek by yowl to survive, for - and listen well - the world has grown strange.
Character creation:
System: Pathfinder 1E.
Starter level: 2.
Abilities: Point buy, 20 points.
Species: Any in the Advanced Race Guide.
HP: Max for 1st level. For all following levels, half maximum value of hit dice + 1.
Source books: Core rulebook, Advanced player's guide, Ultimate magic, Ultimate combat, Advanced race guide, Advanced class guide, Advanced intrigue, Occult adventures.
Traits: choose two from the traits in the Advanced player's guide.
Special:
* You get 2 background skill ranks per level. NO other unchained rules, period.
* You get maximum gold at 1st level, but any money you don't invest in gear is lost when the adventure begins. Spend as much on gear as you can!
Background: Give me at least three paragraphs of background, including a reason as to why your character has hit rock bottom.
pantheon:
Once, there were many gods, or so say the historians. Now, only these three remain.
Cha-chukai is the goddess of chaos. She both creates the universe and erodes it into destruction, without any rhyme or reason.
She is not malicious, but neither is she benevolent. She forbids nothing. She condones nothing. She simply is what she is.
Her clergy is divided in various independent sects, some of which believe they can appease or distract her so she will not destroy all of creation, some which seek to hasten that destruction so as to end the meaningless of existence, and yet others see her as the patron of whimsy and freedom.
Appearance: A winged woman without a face. Her simple dress, skin, hair and wings are all bone-white.
Sacred colour: White
Realm: Cha-chukai is said to lair at the very lowest level of Limbo, where chaos crystallizes into serenity.
Er-chukai The Hungering Mother
Alignment: N
Portfolio: the earth, the seas, life, death
Domains: Animal, Earth, Plant, Water
Subdomains: Caves, Decay, Feather, Fur, Ice, Growth, Metal, Oceans, River
Cleric alignments: CN, LN, N, NE, NG
Weapon: Quarterstaff
Er-chukai is the world's mother goddess. She is the earth; she is the oceans. She is the mother of all plants and animals; she is their mortal enemy. What she creates, she inevitably devours, returning the building blocks of life to her womb through death, so she can build anew.
Er-chukai is not random, she is not rigid. She is concerned with nothing but her own purpose, and the cycle of life and death is just one part of her works.
Her clergy is diverse, but is broadly guided by a council of hierarchs who represent each of the alignments which may worship her. In everyday life, priests of Er-chukai may be simple village priests, tending the people like a farmer tends the herd. Others are natural philosophers, studying the great cycle of life or the secrets of biology. Some followers of Er-chukai are great healers; others are stern philosophers who unleash death on the unsuspecting in order to preserve the balance of the world.
Appearance: When Er-chukai deigns to appear, she takes the form of titanic earth elementals, walking mountains garbed in forests. She is surrounded by swarms of flying creatures, ranging from robins to rocs, but pays neither them nor the cities she crushes under her heel any heed.
Sacred colour: Green
Realm: Er-chukai's home lies in the depths of the Elemental Plane of Earth.
Kalai The Dreamer; the Mad; the Weaver
Alignment: LN
Portfolio: Civilization, deceit, knowledge, philosophy, writing
Domains: Darkness, Law, Magic, Trickery
Subdomains: Alchemy, Arcane, Deception, Divine, Espionage, Judgement, Legislation, Loyalty, Moon, Night, Rites, Thievery, Tyranny
Cleric alignments: LE, LG, LN, N
Weapon: Longsword
Kalai the Mad is the great deceiver. He filled the minds of mortals with dreams and ambition, he convinced his followers that there are rules and purpose to existence, and that they need only seek them out. It was Kalai who brought mortals writing, so they might pass on knowledge. It was Kalai who taught mortals how to take the treasures of the other gods and bend them to their own purpose. If there is merit in civilization and thought, it is owed to Kalai. If there is sorrow because of those things, it must be blamed on Kalai.
Kalai is not hidebound by rules; he simply persuades mortals that rules, laws, exist in all creation and that they can be discovered by determined minds. Maybe this means he is a great liar. Maybe it just means that he takes pity on the mortal condition and is trying to give their existence some pale echo of divine purpose.
Kalai's clergy has a strong, centralized hierarchy, with clear rules as to who should obey whom, and how much a superior may demand of an inferior. Many of his clerics are great scholars, each researching such subjects as intrigue them and all contributing to the sum of mortal knowledge.
Appearance: When Kalai manifests, he appears as a short, gnome-like creature. He is hairless, faceless and virtually sexless in form, his flesh the inky black of the space between the stars.
Sacred colour: Black.
Realm: It is said that Kalai lives in the World of Dreams, but he may also be at home in the Plane of Shadow. No one is entirely certain.
Ideally, I'm looking for players who don't mind a slow pace.
One to three posts a week is plenty.
"Move along, citizen," one of the two hard-faced men intones.
"Carry on your lawful business." the other drones.
Both pound the heel of their polearms against the ground and chant: "All who obey the Law need not fear the League of Temperence. All who obey the Law are basked in the light of the gods of law."
The high priest receives the box and opens it with some urgency. He looks intently at its contents and mutters an orison (Detect magic), after which he subjects the contents to some more study -- and visibly relaxes.
"Yes," he says as he closes the box. "Yes, I can very easily do that. Thank you."
He hands the box back and rings a little silver bell. Fairly soon, a lower-ranked Cleric enters the room, bows, and listens to your wishes.
Soon enough, you are the proud owners of a map of the city of Fallingdowns, on which your current location, the harbour, and the branch office of the Adventurers' Guild are all clearly marked.
"Be very careful of the seals," the high priest says as you are escorted from the room. "Trust no one, verify everything. We have our suspicions as to who might be trying to increase their stock at our expense, but I shall not say. You don't want to show the enemy you suspect him, not with the tactics he's shown to favour."
= = = = = = = = = = = =
As you leave the temple, you finally know where to go: the Fallingdowns Adventurers' Guild is set near the Forest Gate, at the edge of town. You suppose it makes sense; the branch office has easier access to the woods, where a lot of fetch quests can be fulfilled.
Yes, it's smooth sailing from here on in.
Or it would be; as you walk away from the temple, you notice that two Samurai are now openly following you, their hard faces impassive, but suspicion writ large in their cold eyes...
The high priest spits on his left hand thumb and holds it out to Dyrm.
"May my pact with Our Lady be cancelled prematurely if I plan to take, steal or replace the seal of Ulla in your possession, and the Debt Collectors take me if I speak falsehood to you regarding this matter," he says. "So I speak before the audit of Ulla, may she balance the scales of my karma with her thumb and ascribe value to my wretched soul, so I need not suffer the indignities of the Underworld but may pass into her realm upon the termination of my mortal tenure in her service."
This is what passes for a binding oath among priests of Ulla. It is not a very refined oath, but it is very effective. As the one receiving the oath, Dyrm is expected to spit on his own left-hand thumb and press it to the thumb of the one giving the oath.
"Of course this is bothering me," the high priest says, bitterly. "This is an attack on the whole church of Ulla, make no mistake. And the authorities are no help! Whoever took my predecessor's greatbook used it to attack a lot of businesses. You ever wonder why we're getting so many people in, paying for seals of protection? It's because they think we're trying to put the squeeze on them! I've had to order discounts and extra rotations of our enforcers to make sure none of the businesses under our protection get hit.
There are criminals operating in Fallingdowns who have nothing to do with Our Lady's church. They're thugs, brutes, undermining the power base of Our Lady in this beautifully corrupt city... And there are rumours in the underworld that they're not stopping there."
The high priest sternly points at Dyrm. "You carry a set of seals, for the reopening of the Adventurers' Guild branch office in Rameii. There are whispers in the back alleys and the sewers that someone wants to replace one of them - Ulla's, of course - with a ringer. If that happens, if a set of seals either stops working because what looks like Ulla's seal breaks the circuit or it works in spite of Ulla's seal being taken out of play, what do you think that will do to our standing with the Guild?
I've been sending letters to all the nearby temples. There've been attempts on other high priests and high priestesses. We're on full alert now, so the inside of the temples should be safe, but you and yours won't be completely safe until you hang those seals up in Rameii. All of them; the ones meant to go there; intact."
"Thanks," the high priest says, drily. "It'd be more fun if I'd been the one to put out the hit, though. I could have sacrificed the receipt to Ulla, my mentor would be ushered into our goddess's kingdom with reverence, and I'd be sitting pretty, getting to grips with her finances. Instead, we found her floating facedown in the river and her greatbook is missing. To put it bluntly, the previous high priestess died in a damned mugging, and the church has been robbed. I've decided to postpone my inauguration party for now."
"Can we be sure, please?" the high priest asks. "Can we have a look? I wouldn't normally bother, but I'm halfway sure there're people who want to steal one of your seals and replace it with a ringer.
They'd be the same people who assassinated my mentor and predecessor last week. It's all part of the fun in Fallingdowns."
The high priest pinches the bridge of his nose.
Sense motive DC10:
This young man is speaking truthfully and is just barely hiding his exhaustion.
The elder Cleric looks Dyrm up and down, his eyes coming to rest on the Dwarf's holy symbol of Ulla. Then his gaze glides over Myri and Nusku, and he bestows upon you all a wintry smile.
"If you would all pass through the left door, please," the elderly man says as he rises, briskly bowing his head. "Your needs will be met."
Assuming you follow his directions...
Beyond the left door lies a brief corridor, which ends in a luxurious waiting room. Velvet-upholstered couches; purple-green wall-hangings portraying scenes from forest and city on all the walls; a low coffee table with plates of snacks both sweet and savoru, bottles of beer and wine; a surprisingly tasteful painting of Ulla's seduction of Ohiro, the seminal event which saw the goddess ascend, above the hearth; a pleasant fire on the hearth warming a room that might otherwise be chilly, given that it is surrounded by stone on all sides.
A tasteful little sign on the table, set among the snacks and drinks, reads: FREE OF CHARGE.
You've barely cooled your heels for five minutes in the room before one of the wall-hangings bells out and a young Vitor man in the regalia of a priest of Ulla enters through a hidden door.
Knowledge (religion) DC 10:
This is not a regular priest; by his regalia and signet ring, you can see that he is a high priest of a community - presumably the community of Fallingdowns!
"Welcome," the young man says, displaying none of the usual simmering aggression Vitor are famous for. Without preamble, he seats himself on one of the couches and pours himself a beer. "I hope you don't mind," he says before drinking, "but I'm being run ragged lately."
He drinks deeply, and sets the glass back down.
"Ahh. Better. Now then, if I may quote scripture: "let's get down to business". I am informed you desire directions to the Fallingdowns Adventurers' Guild, a map, and perhaps some recommendations for good dining venues? I can certainly provide all these things, no charge. But before I do, I must ask: are the seals safe? Do you still have them?"
The temple of Ulla sits at the edge of the city's business district, reflecting both her importance due to her connection to business and contracts... and the danger she poses due to her connection to theft and other crimes.
A quartet of Samurai from the League of Temperence is positioned on the street around the temple, openly staring at Ulla's house in Fallingdowns, their faces hard and their eyes unreadable.
Four Ninjas in Ulla's sacred colour stands opposite them, returning the stare impassively. (And more than likely more are watching from hiding, given the nature of the faith.)
There's a fairly steady stream of traffic in and out of the elegant, granite building all the same. Most are well-groomed Vitor, likely lesser functionaries of the various merchant houses, conglomerates and manufacturers in the area. The ones going in openly carry what appear to be bags and boxes of money. Those coming out carry illuminated scrolls certifying that the building under the seal of said scrolls are to be spared the attentions of any Guild-affiliated thief, and that violations of this protection will be met with the spiked boot of lawlessness.
Two lion-shaped offering-boxes flank the open double doors, discrete signs proclaiming that a voluntary donation of five copper coins equates immunity to any unsolicited crime while on the premises.
Past the double door is the kind of foyer you might expect in a wealthy merchant's guild; muted lighting, red velvet, gilded woodwork, tasteful music coming from behind a curtain, a helpful chart on the east wall showing the currently best-yielding stock values, and a pair of Clerics behind a big desk receiving visitors. One Cleric is cheerfully receiving protection money donations from the functionaries and handing out the illuminated scrolls. The other, older Cleric is receiving guests with other business, and directs them through one of two large doors in the back wall.
Looking around, Nusku fails to see anything so helpful as a little sign that says 'ADVENTURERS' GUILD THIS WAY', but he does see some other things.
* There's a relatively small shop, what you can see of it through the window cluttered with all manner of things. Although everything looks clean enough, you don't have a high opinion of the pedigree of most of the merchandise. A relatively large sign above the door reads 'EVERYTHIN YOU WANNA'.
* A panhandler is huddling in a narrow side-alley. Large, fearful eyes gaze out at the street, constantly judging every passerby for their qualities as either an easy mark and source of income, or else a threat.
* Among the higher buildings, you see the steeples of various temples. You recognize the holy symbols of Aku-Dev, Ash-Kta, Laut-Hawyn, Ma-Oth-La, Ulla and Zeber-Oht. Some of these are patrons of the Adventurers' Guild.
* And then you notice the occasional pair of Samurai of the League of Temperence, patrolling the streets. Presumably you could ask them for directions -- or else one of the very fancy passers-by. There's that Zlapav with his bodyguard and the two underdressed beauties following him around. You also see a handsome Gelnet, his gem shaded green, having a muted argument with a Dwarf nearby.
SHAmlegger's Prize docks with only the lightest scrape of hull against dock. Unfortunately, even that light scrape is enough to set off captain Amlegger; the captain harangues his crew, screaming about damage to the fresh paintjob, reducing business opportunities by marring the ship's appearance, and damages subtracted from wages.
A couple of League of Temperence Samurai come marching over and watch the captain throw his wobbler. Their eyes would make those of a lizard look warm and expressive. One has a hawk riding on his shoulder.
In spite of the captain's tirade, the crew works smoothly, and soon SHAmlegger's Prize is tied up at dock. An official from the harbormaster's office comes aboard, and predictably, the captain's attitude does a 180. Now all smiles and obsequious bows, captain Amlegger guides the minor functionary to his 'state room' for drinks and to discuss the mooring fee.
It is first mate Pike who comes to see you.
"Cap'n said the three of you have business in the city," he says without preamble. "Fine with me. Fallingdowns is as safe as anyplace, except for La Grande. League of Temperence will gut a man for the first offense, and there generally isn't a second offense."
(The first mate gives Dyrm a meaningful look after having said this.)
"The Prize will be tied up at dock for three days, three nights. You can come back here to sleep and eat, or you can try your luck in the city. If you want to stay off-ship, try not to get into debt, 'cause we won't bail you out. Also, don't be late in coming back, 'cause we're not waiting, and the cap'n will send the Debt Collectors after you for breach of contract, see if he won't."
Dyrm:
The Debt Collectors are actually a militant -- or rather, mercenary -- branch of the church of Ulla. They take on missions for people who have suffered damages from criminal breaches of contract, chasing down the ones who have defrauded. They confiscate the property of those they catch to repay the damages suffered (as well as their own wages), and will even sell prisoners into slavery if they don't have enough cash to repay their debts...
"Anyway, be about your business before cap'n's done with the harbormaster," first mate Pike says, soberly. "Else he'll have you at work loading cargo or fetching and babysitting his guests on the way on board. I got no idea how much time you need for yours, but cap'n would prob'ly only leave you a cold minute of furlough to get it done."
You disembark and make your way out of the harbor area.
Those two Samurai watch you go, their eyes flat, lifeless and unreadable, but make no effort to stop you.
Perception DC 10:
On a hunch, you turn to look back at the two Samurau, and see that the one with the hawk has tied something to its leg and now sent it up into the air. The bird is flying into the city's interior, presumably with a message.
If you made the Perception check and roll Knowledge (nature) DC 10:
That bird was not an ordinary hawk, but a messenger hawk. They're much more intelligent than regular hawks, and can navigate both by landmarks and certain symbols, such as the banner of the League of Temperence. The thing is, they're expensive. Even the League of Temperence can't use messenger hawks just for a lark.
As you make your way away from the harbor, you come to see why Fallingdowns is still known as a city of the aristocracy. Everything is so clean, every glass pane sparkles, there's no litter in the street, the trees that line the streets and provide shade to pedestrians have been trimmed and pruned to perfection.
While there is nothing so gauche as a roadside stall, there are dozens of shops lining the streets, all of them clearly advertising their wares.
The people walking the streets are mainly Gelnet, their forehead gems gleaming, their clothes the most fashionable of all. However, there are members of the other races as well, all of them appearing to compete as to who can show the most refined taste and opulence in self-decoration. You see a rather incongruous Zlapav, their back and chest displaying an exquisite tattoo, and a beauty on each arm; a Gelnet on the left, a Malinger on the right. A male Herder trails behind them, his demeanor and leather armour practically shouting the word 'BODYGUARD'.
The whole city smells of wealth, the trees smell of late summer, and the cafés smell of fancy food. Now you just need to find out where the Adventurers' Guild branch office is...
The days and nights have passed fairly quietly. The trip was monotonous, in fact; so monotonous that you might swear months have passed, instead of days!
Guildmaster Decker wrote:
"The boat will be putting in stops at Fallingdowns and Proxissima, two minor cities, to pick up passengers and cargo."
SHAmlegger's Prize has chugged gamely down the Wazoo. On the first night, Skeeters buzzed around the circle of light cast by the riverboat's lights, and you though there might be a bit of excitement... except there wasn't. Maybe the Skeeters weren't hungry enough, maybe they were smarter than they should have been. After the first nervous sailor flung a sling-stone in their direction, the swarm scattered in search of easier prey.
Guildmaster Decker wrote:
"During the lay-over, visit the Adventurers' Guild branch offices. Get your scroll signed by the local Guildmasters, and blessed by the local chaplain."
Dyrm and Nusku have been spending a fair amount of time with Cook; the Zlapav seems keen on joining the Rameii Adventurer's Guild as its resident cook, once you re-open the place. Unfortunately, while Cook is happy with the idea, the rest of the crew has started to mutter and grumble. The prospect of losing a good cook is not a pleasant one. The Dwarf and the Sû-Rog have received a couple of foul looks as a result, and more turns cleaning the day's catch than they might have liked...
Guildmaster Decker wrote:
"Guildmaster Haggerty's in charge of the Fallingdowns branch office. He's a failed aristocrat, from what I hear; got pulled down for letting down the side in some big plot. He prefers to work at the office. If you can't find him at the office, he'll most likely be at home. Ask the staff to guide you."
...but time moves on, and finally the skyline of Fallingdowns comes heaving into view.
Fallingdowns was built around the King's summer palace. It used to just be one huge supply center for the king and his cronies, so they could enjoy their summer vacation. Even today, Fallingdowns caters to the rich and aristocratic. The difference is, it now caters to disgraced aristocrats and the troubled rich. Fallingdowns is where you go when you can't hack it in La Grande, the nation's capitol, or because it was suggested to you that you should take your business -- and yourself -- elsewhere. Sometimes at daggerpoint, sometimes with more subtle encouragement.
The people of Fallingdowns have a reputation for being even more arrogant than those of La Grande, because they're trying very hard to not show weakness. They want to return to the big city some day. Local merchants are supposed to be greedy cutthroats, looking for every opportunity they can seize to get ahead. Local aristocrats are supposed to be vicious beyond belief, playing political games to rise in the esteem of the people who evicted them.
And this is where SHAmlegger's Prize will dock to take on guests and trade-wares -- and where you get a couple of days' worth of furlough to conduct guild business.
The dock is coming up, and while you notice that it is pristine when compared to the crowded docks of La Grande, it is also much smaller.
Despite this, a small troop of Samurai from the League of Temperance, their armour banded the traditional umber, ivory, rust and black, is patrolling the area. Their banners flutter in the breeze, and manage to look more alive than the hard men's hard faces.
"Halt paddles!" Mr. Pike roars from the pilot's deck. "Down sails! Ready anchor!"
As I'm restarting the game, I thought I might recruit one more player to join my band of heroes, off to re-open an adventurers' guildhouse, off in the farmland.
If you like the premise and think you can work with the character creation rules (please see the original recruitment thread), then please let me know. ^_^
