Henry Southgard's page

Bells ring three times across Kintargo, heralding six o’clock and the end of the curfew. The city awakes sharply, as it has every morning in the two months since the House of Thrune put Kintargo under martial law. The streets, deserted by all but the Dottari patrols a few minutes before, are choked with merchants bound for the markets and sailors stumbling for the docks. Everywhere there is a sullen resentment of the hour of daylight that was wasted while the curfew was still in force, though none dare give word to their anger. A smoky haze envelops the towers of the city as a thousand tea kettles are put on the fire to boil, and a particularly sulfurous miasma rolls out of the Tiefling slums of the Redroof district.

By six-ten, as the sun hovers between the spires of the Temple of Asmodeus, the city is fully awake and open for business. The Bleakbridge market is packed to the eaves with merchants and their stalls. The harbor swarms with activity as ships bearing salt and silver set sail for foreign ports, and other ships return with the riches of the world beyond. Commerce is welcome in the Queen’s northernmost city, but like every other part of Chelish life, much is forbidden and the law is enforced with an iron hand. Inspectors patrol the docks with Dottari squads and shield guardians at their call, while warships circle in the mouth of the Yolublis river.

And, docked in a quay a stone’s throw from the harbormaster’s office, a fast ship bearing the scars of a dozen pirate attacks is docked in the harbor with an empty hold. She has lain that way for a month.

By the time the hour is half-past, the sun has disappeared into the leaden sky. The only sign of the sun is a band of yellow light bound between dark clouds and the cliffs of Argo Bay. The hustle and bustle of the city has had time to die down, and hundreds of housewives have had time to return from the markets with fresh food for a proper breakfast.

Down the road from the docks, in a tavern that lies in the shadows of the walls that gird the noble district, a dozen people sit around a long table eating a hot meal. A young woman of foreign origin sits across from a war-scarred veteran, who sits a bit down from a Dwarf in fine clothes and a particularly inscrutable lizard.

The cook carries a tray piled with fish and eggs fresh from her skillet and places it at the center of the table for everyone to serve themselves. A young boy follows her with a basket of bread rolls and a pitcher of cold water.

“Yell if you want anything else,” she says on the way back to the kitchen. She seems to be speaking mostly to the inhuman inquisitor, as if she doesn’t see his kind often and isn’t sure what exactly he eats. “We got butter and fruit, but they cost a little extra.”

The server boy hangs nearby, ready to take an order.
Everyone is free to act.

Rules? Oh, there are many rules in Her Baleful Majesty's empire, but only a few you need to know at the moment.

First, do you hear those bells? Cold and solemn, you can't mistake them for anything else. They ring seven times when the curfew begins at nine, and only thrice when it is lifted at six in the morning. It is forbidden to walk in the streets now, expressly so if you are a citizen of this fine city.

Second, is that tea you are drinking? Perhaps coffee? Pour it onto the floor, stranger, for our Lord-Mayor has forbidden the drinking of such stimulating beverages after curfew. Ale is permissible, as is water.

Third, do you see how the proprietor draws a curtain over the windows? It is forbidden to look out in the streets at night. Even if you hear a man's cry, do not open those curtains! It can only be a squad of Dottari in pursuit of a criminal, or a common criminal fleeing from the law, or a revolutionary going about his foul way, or perhaps even a demon, though I imagine that the latter two are rare enough. Nevertheless, even a traveller as hardy and well-armed as you wouldn't want to draw the attention of such characters.

Hmm? Well, I suppose it would be permissible to go outside if you were fleeing a fire, though I shudder to think of what punishment our beloved Lord-Mayor sees fit for arson. Perhaps it is best to snuff out the lights and sleep the night away. I know I shall. It seems that your cup is still half-full.

Welcome to the grand city of Kithargo. I hope your stay is pleasant and brief.

Congratulations. The second annual attempt to run an RPG by the Crimson Flame has begun.

First post is freaking huge, and I'd like to apologize. I wanted to set the scene and even set up plot threads for later sidequests, but it's still a bit much. Rest assured that it's not as railroady as it looks. Tyler, for example, is free to pick up, examine, or ask about any object he can think of from the two tables, even if I never mentioned it. He could even just walk away.

Remember, please bold your dialog and italicize your thoughts.

It is the first day in Autumn, and the sun shines down upon the Swallowtail festival in Sandpoint. The square beside the new cathedral is packed with tents and booths, and hardly any room is left for the townsfolk. But they squeeze into the room that's left, laughing and scarfing and quaffing and having a good time.

At the hastily-erected platform wedged against the Cathedral's eastern wall, Mayor Deverin takes the podium.

"I'd like to thank everyone for coming, but if even Larz Rovanky could tear himself away from the tannery, the rest of the town was sure to find the time." She pauses to let the laughter and applause subside and beams an apologetic smile at the surly tanner. "No, true thanks should go out for the determination this town has shown in the face of adversity. We did not let hardship defeat us, but pooled our time and toil to rebuild. We did not let mistrust fracture us when we discovered darkness in our midst, but grew stronger through faith and friendship. If this community can survive such turmoil and still thrive, I believe Sandpoint will be here for generations to come."

Paul Reinjer's Start

Paul has always detested crowds, but even he couldn't resist the lure of the Swallowtail festival. He asked for, and received, booth space at the edge of the ruckus, in the southern corner of the square. Early in the morning, he erected a birch frame from which dangle the hides and horns of a dozen woodland species. Now it's beginning to dawn on him that gazing at fairgoers with disinterest isn't attracting customers. The glassmaker to his left and the herbalist to his right are making fools of themselves shouting their prices and hawking their wares, but they're also making money.

Paul, roll perception please.

Abbicka's Start

Being a guide involves many things. When the Deverin family hired a cartographer from across the Inner Sea, it meant Abbicka was hired to lead him all over the Sandpoint Cove and as far as Thistletop. Not a mean task when he brought all his kit and surveying tools, but the Gnome and the Elf found common ground in nature. The Cartographer turned out to be a naturalist and minerologist, so guiding him meant assisting in a census of every coniferous species on the Lost Coast.

Now, near the end of his contract, guiding the Cartographer means fetching a late breakfast to the loft of a house on Chapel Square, where he is sketching the Swallowtail Festival for Father Zantus. As she takes in the charcoal lines, Abbicka can't help but feel disappointment. Jensen Keuypher is drawing the festival as it looks, not how it is. All lines and perspective, no heart and soul.

"You're back," Jensen says, turning away from the window as he smells the food. "What did you get?"

Viorec Liberty's Start

Making his way back from the Valdemar's tent, a table catches Viorec's eye. Old man Basso Scarnetti has set up shop. A former cabinetmaker by trade, he has long since expanded to other schools of woodworking. Smoking pipes crafted from horn and knotwood rest on cherry boxes with oak inlay, flanked by driftwood carvings of every kind of forest animal save birds. There's lacquered bottles and phials on display, but the rest is covered by a tablecloth.

Instead, Basso is standing behind his grand-nephew Curphetes. His side of the table is occupied by glass sculptures and tools. A lot of jars and cast figurines, to be sure, but the young man's talent for shaping glass is evident. The centerpiece of the table seems to be a set of glass tuning forks; a remarkable technical achievement, if rather mundane.

"Good morning," Curphetes stutters, to his great-granduncle's chagrin. "Can I help you?"

Janaga's Start

It just goes to show. Spend a whole season planning the festival, and somebody is inevitably going to forget to hang thirty yards of bunting the morning of. Janaga's fetched a ladder, fetched Naffer Vosk to hold the ladder, hung the bunting across several stalls, and the rest of the day is hers until the dedication ceremony tonight.

"Want to get breakfast? I dunno about you, but I'm starving." Naffer says. Naturally, he gravitates toward the tent set up by the Valdemar family, from which emanates the smell of fried fish and oiled potatoes. The line is short, and Ceti Valdimar is renowned for the things she can do with cod and a little bit of seasoning.

Welcome to the second annual attempt to get a regular RPG campaign going! I'll be your host and DM in the coming weeks/months/years/however long we can keep this going!

I'm still building maps and writing exposition, so post your character sheets and coordinate your backstories and get used to the new forum. We start Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning. If you got any questions about anything, ask.

To outsiders: this is a closed campaign, we've already got the maximum amount of players I'm comfortable with.