Mitsui Soichiro's page

This is the last time I shall control your character. Enjoy!

At least they hadn’t imprisoned him underground, which Jonah took as an encouraging sign. He hadn’t been sure through most of the long dark night but the cell had seemed to dry and airy to be a real dungeon and now the tiny sliver of faint gray heralding the coming dawn outside confirmed it. The dawn of a holy day.

At least Jonah thought it was a holy day. Admittedly it was hard to keep track of dates while chasing a demon through the Fierani Forest, but the bloodrager was fairly certain this was Ascendance Day, a religious day of some significance to the followers of Iomedae. Usually it was marked with a public festival including mass songs, story-telling and riddling, not to mention the very popular mock jousts. Jonah wondered if the elves of this place had any idea, or if they would care. Well, so far no one had asked him and the man didn’t expect a sudden outbreak of festivities anytime soon.

Still, they had not treated him too badly, considering he was apparently an outlaw trespasser. The cell was dry at least, if sparse to the point of painfully spartan. A straw mat to sleep on, a small wooden bench and a chamber pot made up all of the furniture. Still, it was clean and fair smelling, with fresh straw and a clean pot. Jonah was sure the fortress, castle or whatever this was, had far less savory holding areas. So clearly despite this dislike for trespassers they didn’t consider him a true danger. Indeed, they hadn’t even bound his hands or feet. Compliment or disdain, the man wasn’t sure. Elves could be hard to read.

Joan had not seen much last night, when the small patrol had arrived after sundown. It had been a long march since his capture and even when his captors mentioned a cell, all the bloodrager had heard was ‘bed’. Still, the place had seemed large and well fortified, with stone walls silhouetted against the velvety autumn sky. More elven soldiers had been bustling around, purposefully moving this way and that, not giving Jonah or the rest of the patrol a second glance. A hive of busy activity, even after sundown. Then some empty stone corridors and this cell.

Not exactly a grand tour, but they hadn’t blindfolded him. Another hopeful sign. They had kept his weapons and gear, of course, but left him all his clothes not to mention his boots. This was no small favor, the weather had been unseasonably cold lately, with chill wind coming out of the Five Kings Mountains. Indeed, just two days ago, before his capture, Jonah had woken to see a glittering frost around his campsite. It had vanished with the true rising of the sun, but it presaged an apparently quickly approaching winter for southern Kyonin.

His reverie was broken as the heavy iron-bound door of the cell creaked open. A figure, not bothering with a lantern or torch, stepped in, moving with the innate grace of an elf. Jonah’s dark adjusted eyes could make out some details however, and he quickly recognized a slim dark-skinned elf who had been on the patrol that captured him. No names had been given, but he had seemed fair and just enough.

”Come with me.” The elf said in Common. Jonah had mentioned he spoke Elven but this had been either ignored or overlooked, and so far, all orders had been given in Taldane. ’Hurry.” A very un-elf like urgency filled the voice, quite opposed to the unruffled professionalism Jhan had so far encountered.

What was going on?

The bloodrager was quickly ushered out of the cell and confronted with two more black figures in a stone-clad hallway, again unlit by any light. Jonah almost stumbled when a quick hand by one of the new figures steadied him. More elves, clearly. To his surprise they had bows on their backs and swords at their belts. Geared for war. Here? Inside the castle?

”Follow.” The elf behind him said shortly, and soon Jonah was doing his best to keep up with the two heavily armed elves. They quickly passed through several corridors, across a cold dim hall and past several rooms.

The hallways were dark and cold, but not empty. Here and there, an elf passed by quickly, many of them nearly running. Jonah only caught quick glances at pale, startled faces. No one said anything, but there was a strange, unsettling feeling in the air, just as real as any smell. Confusion, doubt….fear. Jonah had no idea what was going on, but clearly nothing good.

The cold air seemed to seep into his bones as they walked, boots loud on the bare stone floors.

FInally they crossed under an elegant carved arch and began climbing a tightly wound stone staircase, climbing steeply upward. Here and there, as they climbed, narrow arrowslit windows let in at least a modicum of gray light, so at least Jonah didn’t have to worry about tripping. Twice other elves passed them going down, moving with reckless speed, ignoring Jonah and his captors. Again, the bloodrager was struck by the frenzied attitude, quite different from the business-like activity of the previous night. It reminded Jonah of an anthill after a child poked it with a stick.

Finally they reached the top of the stairs, where a small stone landing led to a closed door. Standing near the door was another elf, one Jonah did not recognize. She seemed older, with slight wrinkles crossing her face, a rarity among elves Jonah had met. How long did it take for an elf to wrinkle? Bright blue eyes gleamed in the dimness, catching the light from the slowly brightening dawn outside. She too was armed for battle, complete with weapons and a large horn at her belt. Short cropped brown hair was just visible under a leaf-engraved helm. At her neck, barely visible behind the folds of her shirt, was a small holy symbol that Jonah did not recognize, two faces in profile, facing away from each other.

Her face was pensive as Jonah was led directly in front of her, and she examined him closely, searching for…something. Without a word she waved a hand and the three elves that had led him here trooped back down the stairs, leaving him alone with the weary-looking elven woman. Outside, Jonah could hear the daily chorus of morning birds, musical notes drifting in through the narrow arrow slits, welcoming the coming dawn. It even felt slightly warmer up here, the stones not longer hugged by the cold earth.

She studied him again for a few moments before breaking the silence, speaking in a formal, elegant Elven, "I am Feaehhao Shamruldlieh, First Sergeant of the Southwestern Garrison Command, member of the Chestnut Set." None of this meant much to Jonah.

"The patrol says you can speak our language? And that you are a soldier? One with experience?” Her rich, cultured voice sounded very tired and edged with anxiety. A note of quiet desperation lingered behind her words. "What is your name, they did not mention to me."

Where was this going? Was this some part of the legal process? Jonah doubted it. It seemed too...rushed, too informal. Not Elven at all. Something strange was afoot.

For OOC discussion

This is the last time I shall control your character. Enjoy.

No one ever talked about the smell of teleportation.

The bards and legends always talked about flashes of blinding light, the rush of warmth or cold on the skin and even the sizzling sounds of raw arcane magic. But never, in all her years of hearing heroic and exotic stories, of which Sorala sought out as many as she dared, had one ever mentioned smell. Which was odd when you thought about it.

You experienced a flash of light every time you closed and opened your eyes. The sensation of heat or cold was taken for granted even if a warm fire after a winter’s breeze was a more mundane cause than the freezing cold between the stars. And what child had not encountered a loud noise in a dark room and felt surrounded by it? No, all of these were commonplace to the point of prosaic, unworthy of even the most casual passing remark.

But smell….even before Sorala opened her eyes, the white squire knew she was in a different world. Gone was that ever present, if rarely noticed, universe of scents that made up her mental and physical landscape. The resinous pitch of distant pine trees. The smoke of wood fires. The crisp, clear scent of a winter’s breeze fresh off a snowfield. They had been the uncelebrated background notes to her existence.

In their place was quite a different kaleidoscope, with an onset so rapid and jarring it made her head hurt. Tangy salt resting on her tongue. Wet sand and sodden wood. Exotic spices that made her stomach growl. Overripe fruit rotting on the vine. And over it all, the rank scent of verdant plant life. The smell of life, hot and wild.

Sorala opened her eyes. Then reclosed them. The sun overheard, which her entire life had been a rather wan thing near the horizon was suddenly an angry fiery orb directly overhead. Heat smote down on her like a blacksmith raining blows with a heated hammer. Sorala was already sweating, her woolen clothes sticking to her suddenly sodden skin. Squinting, she reopened her eyes. The distant skyline of Algidheart and the elaborate stone ring Lady Morgannan had housed the portal in were no more. In its place was an expanse of blue-white ice, glittering dazzlingly in the tropical sun. It was slightly wet underfoot and rocking gently as if she were standing on a massive ship in Glacier Lake, one of the mighty timber haulers bringing firewood for the city. To her surprise, as her eyes adjust to the glare, the Ulfen finds she is not entirely wrong.

She is standing at the center of an enormous ice floe in the middle of a busy harbor. Directly ahead of her, past the rolling ice and over the choppy ocean waves, she can see a port city, almost toy-like at this distance. Wooden wharves stick out into the water, behind which crouch stone and wooden warehouses, shops, homes and other buildings. Hills rise behind it, also dotted with structures of all sorts, mingled with tropical trees and brush. Ships of all sorts are tied up at the dockside, ranging from tiny whaleboats small enough to be rowed by a single man to immense ocean men of war that boggle the mind and eye.

The city is burning. Thick palls of smoke rise from raging fires, which are busily devouring whole districts. She is too far to make out little else but her imagination can fill in the rest. The screams of panicked people, the laughter and shouts of attacking soldiers. The smell of blood and smoke in the air. The howl of the hunting werewolf…..

”Sorala. So good of you to finally join us. Welcome to Port Peril.” A aristocratic voice drawled, dragging Sorala back to the here and now. The white squire jerked her eyes away from the burning city back to her immediate surroundings. Around her were the uneven tumbles of ice and snow that made up the surface of the surely magical iceberg. Some of it was heaped quite high, tall as a city wall, in a jumbled pile of natural-seeming ice blocks. At the base of such a cliff, only a few feet away, is a knot of humanity.

In the center, of course, is the owner of the voice. A voice Sorala knows all too well. Lady Elysia Morgannan. Heir to House Morgannan as fair and cruel as a winter blizzard. She was dressed in light blue, trimmed with startling white ermine fur. Blond hair, arranged in naturally appearing curls, tumbled down to her waist. Her clear, pale skin shone like fresh snow on a dangerous mountain peak. She was lounging at ease in a roughly hewn ‘throne’ made of solid ice. Such a seat would be painful after only a few minutes but Jadwiga had magical talents to eliminate any such petty discomforts.

Around her clustered a group of the obligatory servants, guards and assorted hangers-on. The heir to House Morgannan would not be allowed to be unattended, even in the middle of a battlefield. It was unthinkable, like asking when spring in Irrisen would come or when the fey would settle down and buy sensible shoes. Most would spend their entire lives as such, at constant beck and call from the flower of youth to the ruin of old age, and that was if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, Lady Elysia had many ways of making her displeasure known.

The Jadwiga noble had a delicate crystal glass in her hand, filled with blood red wine. At her side a servant held the rest of the bottle, ready to pour more at even the hint of her Mistress’s need.

”You have nearly missed all the fun, Sorala.” The noblewoman said easily, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the White Squire. ”I hope it was with good reason? The city has nearly already fallen, or so my captains assure me.” A purr of displeasure entered the cultured voice. Her mother, Lady Riina, was a harsh mistress but it took a very brave man indeed to report anything but good news to Elysia. Sorala wondered if anyone had dared to do so during this campaign.

”All is well from home, I trust?” The noblewoman asked, her attention wandering away from the White Squire to the icy landscape around them. When she spoke again her voice was distant, obviously addressed to herself and not the lowly squire or even lower servants. ”A stronghold built here could be useful. Carved out of the ice itself.” A task that would surely claim many lives but where were the lives of serfs? ”May be a useful way to strengthen our hold….”

She waves a manicured hand in negligent fashion. Instantly a servant steps forward and tops up the glass with red liquid, bright against the snowy backdrop. The Jadwiga noble takes a genteel sip and then goes on, ”I am told there is a convoy of ships, at anchor, that still resists us. It is one of the last knots of resistance in the city.” Another dainty wave indicates some area behind them, hidden by the towering crumble of ice. Sorala is not fooled by her gentle actions. The white squire had seen those delicate hands become steel talons, quite capable of removing an eye, or a heart, with bird-like speed.

”You are assigned to take care of it, squire. It is not an order I wish to give twice.”

A Jadwiga order if Sorala had ever heard one. Long on expectations and short of useful details. Was she being given troops or were they already in place? Was she in command or did she have to report to others? Was she supposed to hang or impale every resistor or were they taking prisoners? Parole? And who was this convoy? Civilians? Soldiers? Angels from another dimension? Gods, where to even start?

For Dotting

The scene is like many you have seen before.

The last tattered remnants of the early spring storm batter against the tavern’s roof and walls, sleet and rain beating an ancient tattoo. Smudged whale-oil lamps light a low hall full of sweating bodies pressed together for warmth and companionship. Soon the weather will crack fully and such communal gatherings will be set aside. Asleifar is too busy a place during the summer to spend indoors but now, with the tail end of winter howling outside, it feels good to huddle between worn wooden walls, around a roaring fire. The air is heavy with smoke, mixed with the tantalizing scent of melted whale fat. All is quiet however, as all attention is focused on the elderly man sitting near the crackling fire.

”And that,” The travelling storyteller says, voice a rich baritone, ”Is how Ardril Would-Be King, sailed across White Seas and won her way to Valenhall!” A roar of approval meets the end of the tale as tankards of ale are handed to the thirsty storyteller. Some ask for an encore while others ask for their favorite tale. It is a scene you have witnessed many times before. The stories, and the drinking, will go deep into the night.

Then something new happens.

The door bursts open, slamming against the far wall. A hulking figure lurches over the threshold, feet thumping loudly over the old tavern floorboards. The crowd parts for the massive man who stumps past them without a glance. Ice lingers in his wild black beard and his leather sea boots are rimed with salt. Two gnarled hands the size of frying pans are tucked into a whaleskin belt, alongside a cutlass and eyeglass. Kristtór Hallmundur, a legend.

Or had been one.

The crowd mutters as the solitary figure reaches the fireplace. He stands silently for a moment, a wrinkled and tanned face fiercely considering them. It is a battered visage, a face that has endured a thousand storms and worse. It is a gaze that would have commanded pure respect a decade ago and nothing short of unadulterated awe twenty years ago. But now? His clothes are salt stained and patched, his hair graying and a roll of fat clings to his middle. An old Ulfen saying comes to mind. Time and tide wait for no man.

”Valenhall!” Kristtor says, voice cracked with age and a life at sea. The word rustles through the crowd like a pike through a shoal of minnows. The distant utopia across the Arcadian Sea, the last haven for the greatest of heroes. A fabled land, unseen by all but the bravest and most legendary. It was not an afterlife however, and the sagas said it was a real place, on this plane. A land of plenty, of wealth, of idle ease. Or so they claimed.

’Look at you!” Kristtór Hallmundur suddenly roars, gesturing with blunt fingers at the nearly silent crowd. ”Sitting here, chewing over old stories like a bear gnawing last season’s bones! Pretending you are half the men your fathers were.” The voice is like a whip,raw and painful. ”How many of you have sailed more then two days out from land? Spent a night at sea?”

A shameful hush falls over the crowd, as men and women glance at each other. Precious few. The Ulfen were not what they had been. Much of their time was spent on trade missions, not raiding and trade followed the safe coastal routes to Cheliax and beyond. Even the whalers stayed close to shore these days, driving the great beasts into fjords and onto beaches. The great days of raiding were over, or so it was said. The southern kingdoms were too strong, too numerous and too organized. It was an age of diplomacy and trade not of blood and iron.

”Well I have,” Kristtor barks, ”And I am setting out again, before your rot sets into my bones. I point my sail for Valenhall itself, no matter what wind or wave may intend.” The old sailor pauses for a moment and then adds, as if an afterthought, ”And I shall return.”

This strikes the crowd like a thunderbolt, rippling through the smoky air. Going to Valenhall was bold enough, something no one had even dared attempt in an generation. But to return? No one, not even Fjarn the Farseer had returned from such a voyage. Was it even possible? Did the old man tempt fate merely by suggesting it?

”Aye, Valenhall!” His voice now rolls like thunder, mixing with the still driving rain outside, ”And I will not go alone! I call for any man or woman brave enough! Who else wishes to tempt Gozreh themself, to follow the ways of our fathers? No, to outdo them! Who is tired of creeping alongshore, like a man of mud? We are the Ulfen, of salt and sea! The ocean is our birthright! It is time we reclaim it! To see Valenhall, to step on the sandy shores and eat the grapes of the setting sun. To hunt the stags of the Ever Forest and wrestle with the great beasts of distant Arcadia. And to return and tell the tale to all, to live in song and saga! Forever!”

”Who is with me?”

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Welcome to the Recruitment for Any Port in a Storm, a PF1 Solo Game.

In this game you will be joining the crew of the Kristtór Hallmundur on his crazy quest to head to Valenhall and back! It will be a long and hard road, across some of the wildest seas on Golarion. All of untamed and unknown Arcadia lies ahead of you, and you might end up seeing much more of it and its people then Kristtor ever intends! But either way and no matter what happens you are sailing out of harbor and into legend!

If that sounds of interest to you, read on!

Ok, that is everything! A lot of information, I know, but it should help you apply with the best character possible and eliminate unwanted surprises. If you have any questions, comments and such, please ask below. I will be following this thread closely, and feedback should be swift.

Recruitment will close in two weeks, on August 10th.

I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one.

Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto I, Stanza 1.

The Storval Plateau. What outsiders called the 'High Country' or the 'Brown Lands'. Commonly viewed as an arid wasteland of deep ravines and rocky crags, all covered with gasping dust. Inhabited by little more then wild beasts and even wilder men. A land of brutal raiders best to be avoided and lacking the beauty and comforts of the low lands.

The Shoanti knew better. It was only their adoptive home, of course, they had long dwelt in the greener lands below, having been pushed out by the migrating Varisians in ancient times. Their old stories still spoke of the dewy dells and glades, of sandy beaches and green forests, lands long lost to them. But the Shoanti had grown to love their new home, and they named it the The Land That Breathed. The few outsiders who heard the name assumed it was related to the massive dust-storms that formed on the wide plains, raging for days across gorge and hillock. But it also had a another, deeper meaning to the Shoanti.

It was a living land, if one had eyes to see. Animals and plants abounded their, int heir own way. Vast herds of cattle roamed the rocky grasslands, great birds filled the sky and dark forests lurked in deep chasms. It was more then enough to provide life to the Shoanti, to the many Quahs that roamed the landscape. It breathed life into them, even as it sometimes claimed death in return. A lesson that Awenasa Windkeepr knew all too well.

But night softened the land. The hard ridges and hills of the distance faded from sight, replaced by vague outlines of shadow. The wind died away, no longer the dust-filled furnace blast of the day, but a cool gentle breeze. Awenasas' nose was long tuned to it, and she could detect the scent of night-flowering plants on the air, subtle and sweet. The gritty soil under foot was cool and soft, crackling softly under her feet.

The greatest change was the sky. It was not the daytime sky, a vast bowl of harsh blue, filled with the sun's blazing wrath, but instead a mighty canvas of the gods. Countless stars arched above, in every color from ice blue to dull red. They had stories, the stars did, stories that Awenasa had heard many times from the tribal elders. Some were heroic legends of victory and battle, others simple tales of hearth and home. Some even foretold the future....

Awenasa turned her mind from that final thought. She had no stomach for the future, not now. Not after what had happened to her sister....Almost against her will, the woman's eyes once again lifted to the heavens, searching for a pattern among the blue-black depths.

The Twins.

How the Quah had looked at her, when she and the warriors returned after the failed raid. More then the usual tears and loss after any loss of life, their had been the crushing burden of the dead prophecy. It had hung in the air after smoke from a wildfire, weighing down hearts and minds. There had been no rituals, no celebrations, none of the usual rhythms of life and war that were the way of the Tamiir-Quah. Everyone had simply slumped to bed, huddling in their huts and tents, grappling with the truth that their gods had lied or been mistaken.

Except Awenasa. Unable to sleep, she had begun walking around the encampment, pacing that thin line between home and the wild. Despite herself, her mind drifted to other dark nights, when she and Makayda had walked untroubled under the stars. They had talked of everything, of old stories of the Ulfen, of their bright future ahead, of the lands to be regained for their people. So many dreams and hopes. Now all as dry and empty as bones in the plains.

Lost in her thoughts, Awenasa almost missed the small sound behind her, of stone scraping stone. But no one survived in the Stroval Plauteua by being unaware and guided by instinct deeper then thought, the monk whirled, crouching low in a combat stance. It would be a brave predator that would come so close to a Shoanti village, but the Stroval plains had more then a few beasts willing to take the risk.

What confronted the young woman wasn't a pack of dire wolves, a sneaking giant or man-eating scorpion. Instead, it was an old woman, wearing animal hides and soft leather moccasins. In one hand she had a long staff, like a walking staff, while the other was behind her hunched back. Even in the dark, Awenasa could see the deep wrinkles lining her face and eyes, giving her a look of old leather or stone. Gnarled and bent, she looked like the stump of a weathered tree, still hale but worn by long life in harsh lands.

In an instant, Awenasa recognized her. She-Who-Upsets-The-Water, a village elder and one of the oldest. Awenasa realized she hadn't seen the old woman today, when she and the band had arrived back at the village. That wasn't unheard of, She-Who-Upsets-The-Water had a reputation as being an eccentric gadfly who seemed to do little then criticize the plans and dreams of others, constantly upsetting even the most genial meetings. Her name had been given to her with careful aforethought. Her other name was Dawnlight, for it was said the old elder never slept, and merely waited for the dawn.

Dawnlight stood in the dark, still as a statue, watching Awensasa. Finally she said, "You mourn. This is good." A moment passed, before she went on, "Come, sit with me. I am too old to stand to speak."

Without waiting for a reply, Dawnlight led Awenasa down a short slope of rocky gravel to a pile of jumbled stones, a long forgotten stream bed perhaps. The elder found a smooth stone she could rest on, and waved at another for Awenasa. With a sigh she sat on the cool rock, bracing herself with one wrinkled and scarred hand. She still clung to the staff, letting it trail onto the sandy soil below her feet.

"Beaten paths are for beaten men." She-Who-Upsets_The-Water said, glancing up toward the worn gravel Awenasa had been pacing in her grief and confusion. [b]"And women, so it is said. Is it true, are you beaten?"

For Discussion

This is the last time I shall control your character. Enjoy!

Morgan sat in the dark cell, eyes closed. His darkvision let him penetrate the stygian darkness but to what end? There was nothing to see but four bare walls of mildewed stone, a soggy pile of hay to serve as a bed, and a grated hole in the floor for waste. This had been his world for two days, when they had led all the captives down into the dungeon of the small castle. Most had to share cells but Morgan had apparently rated a private room, due to his supposed rank. So it was just him and the endless dripping of water.

Hours ago he had heard the sounds of battle and violence above, dim but distinct. The teifling had wondered what was going on, finding it surprising in this sleepy section of the front. Were the Androans fighting amongst themselves? Some local bandits? Surely the Chelish hadn’t chased them down…had they? Surely the minor Chelish captain didn’t intend to siege a Andoran castle for a few escaped slaves? Granted, Morgan and his crew were valuable soldiers and engineers, far more useful then run of the mill slaves but still…..To start a possible war over?

In any case, those sounds had been hours ago, replaced with silence. Silence and dripping water. It was enough to drive someone mad. What was going on out there? Morgan had almost decided to shout or rattle the bars of his cell when he heard footsteps in the dark corridor. Then he saw the sickly glow of a tallow lamp, making shadows dance on the uneven walls.

Eventually three humans materialized out of the gloom, standing just in front of the cell door. One, the man holding the lamp looked familiar; he had been one of the patrol guards to ‘capture’ Morgan’s crew. The others two were heavy-set middle-aged men, armed with swords at their waists.

”That him?” One of them said, pointing at the still sitting Morgan.

The young man with the lamp nodded, ”Aye. Bring him.” The two men hesitated a long moment until one said, ”Are you sure?”

The patrol man stifled a sigh and said, voice louder, ”You heard me, get him out! The others want to see him. Hurry up.”

The cell door opens with a creak and two set of rough hands heave Morgan to his feet. No one speaks directly to the tielfing, instead frog-marching him out of the cell, holding onto his arms tightly. The man with the lamp leads the way, buttery light playing off damp stone. Together the quartet leave the dungeon and began climbing a winding set of stairs.

Even with darkvision, being aggressively manhandled through a strange castle in the dark would be confusing. But Morgan was an engineer, and had a clear sense of direction. The paladin didn’t know the exact layout of the castle but one thing was very clear. They were going up, probably into one of the towers judging by the winding path. Morgan’s conjecture is rewarded when his two guards, both breathing much more heavily then himself, pause at a small landing. At the far end of the room, a slit window lets in a small shaft of pink dawn light. Craning his head Morgan can just make out a few tufts of green, the tops of trees. One of the towers for sure.

Soon the strange walk is over when the cavalcade stops at a heavy wooden door, placed at the top of the stairs. The man with the lamp, still in front, turns toward Morgan. He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, opens again then finally shrugs and says, ”You’ll see soon enough.”

He opens the door and the dazzling light blinds Morgan for a moment. His eyes barely have time to adjust as he is basically hauled up the last few stairs and dumped through the door. Clambering to his feet, Morgan can taste fresh air for the first time in days and savors it. A morning breeze tousles his black hair, bringing with it the wholesome scents of dew, trees and distant mountains. After blinking a few times, Morgan looks around him then his eyes widen at the breath-taking view of the world at dawn.

He is standing atop the northern wall of the castle, facing out over the crenellated parapet. This the direction his guards took him, when he crossed the border. A land of rolling foothills, green for the most part, dotted with small groves of trees. The valleys were deceptively steep, which is sore feet knew quite well. To the east the hills proceed onwards, slowly becoming smaller and shallower, with less trees. Here and there Morgan can make out the small clearing of a homestead farmstead, or a winding stone fence. Through the hills a road winds, a brown streak of dirt against the green grass. To the south, the hills are fully wooded, with few breaks in the overgrown canopy. The tangled forest runs to the horizon, out of sight.

The view is best to the west, back toward Cheliax. Here the rugged Aspodell mountains rear up, morning light turning the gray cliffs gold. Rank upon rank the peaks grow until, in the far distance, Morgan can see the snow-capped summits of the highest mountains. Between these mighty shoulders, the teifling can see a narrow pass crawling through the mountains, the continuation of the road he saw to the east. It wouldn’t be easy, but you could take a wagon over it, if you were made of stern stuff.

But Morgan is far more concerned with what he sees closer at hand. Coming down that pass is a small force of men. They are still distant, minute figures moving slowly down the stony slope but the banners and wagons leave Morgan no doubt. That is a group of Chelish soldiers, in full battle array including a detachment of cavalry, marching toward them. How many? A few hundred? No army, but still enough to give the local garrison trouble, surely.

Morgan’s thoughts are broken by a cough, and he turns realizing he is not alone atop the wall. Standing with him, watching the army are three figures. One is the same patrol man whof etched him from his cell, the lamp now cold and forgotten at his feet. Next to him is a short, stumpy man with arms like oak roots, barely tall enough to see over the parapet. He is wearing an old Andoran uniform, much frayed and patched but clean. A mace hangs at his belt, looking like it hasn’t been drawn in a generartion.

The third man looks he is taken out of Andoran propaganda. A tall man with square chin and broad shoulders, he is wearing a militaristic blue and white uniform with golden epaulets at the shoulders. Eagle Knight, Morgan’s brain finally tells him after far too long of a delay. The most elite force in Andoran, highly trained and outfitted. The best the young nation had to offer and a reputation to match.

The man turns to face Morgan, green eyes unreadable. Face a blank mask, he waves toward the Chelish forces and says to Morgan, ”Well, what do you make of it?”

Ok, so I know that is a lot but also not enough! I was going to describe the castle but we can save that. So feel free to react to anything. Do you have any questions? Anything unclear? Let’s have some fun!

For discussion.

The Andoran soldiers were quiet, as they guided you and the other captives out of the mountain passes. Their feelings toward a deserter from the Chelish army were...complex. On one hand you had worked for the hated foe, a member of the most foul army in Avistan. Then again, you had deserted to Andoran so you couldn’t be completely evil...could you? Some of the older hands, the few the patrol had, spoke of spies and informants but it was hard to consider you a dire threat, bound up with common bandits and petty criminals. Still, you were an exotic object of interest in what had been another just routine patrol of the mountains border between Cheliax and Andoran.

And a few think of the decorated Chelish deserter lying in bonds below as perhaps their only salvation...

Welcome to the Recruitment for A Desperate Command, a PF1 Solo Game.

In this game you, a Chelish deserter, will be given charge of an outlying Andoran fort manned by raw recruits (and a few experienced soldiers), besieged by abnormal and inhuman forces. For a long time now I have wanted to run a game that is smaller in scale (but not in stakes), with a tactical angle both in regards to combat and character choices. A pressure cooker of a game in a fixed geographic area with rising stages in both the combat and social environment. What fits this better than a lone outpost under siege by a hostile force? A situation that will call not only on your brawn but also your wits, leadership skills and luck to defeat a dangerous and cunning foe!

If that sounds of interest to you, read on!

Ok, that is everything! A lot of information, I know, but it should help you apply with the best character possible and eliminate surprises. If you have any questions, comments and such, please ask below. I will be following this thread closely, and feedback should be swift.

Recruitment will close in two weeks, on June 4th.

Sunset in Starfall, a strangely quiet slice of time in the usual din of the crowded city. Nural sat, as was her custom, on a disused barrel, long polished from being the perfect seat, just outside her workshop. Due to her semi-nocturnal habits sunset was the mid-point of her day, dividing the more physical and social work of the day from the lonely drudgery of paperwork of night. While many in the city were headed either for a well earned rest or am evening of drinking (for those that could afford either) Nural was merely halfway through her daily schedule.

Around her the caravan loading area slowly cooled, no longer directly under the blazing Numerian sun. Indeed, that flaming sphere was out of sight now, hidden by the crumbling walls of her compound. It would be just sinking over the distant horizon now, slowly being hidden by the rocky crags of the outlands. The usually dull wastelands, spreading plains of rock and dust, would be shine like beaten bronze for a few minutes then plunge into dusky twilight. Nural had seen it all before.

Far above her, just visible if she turned her head, rose the murky mass of the Silvermount, the font from which all blessings in Starfall flowed. It was a dark pillar rising above the city now, a towering mass covered in windswept dust and grit reflecting little light. Only the very peak shimmering brightly, revealing how the artificial (or so the stories went) peak got its name. It was finest at dusk, Nural had long ago decided, gleaming like a multi-pointed needle hundreds of feet above the gritty plains. The hobgoblin could see how it had acted like a beacon to the first explorers, as well as the thousands of hopeful to this very day. And she also knew how much of a fool's hope it was.

Despite what the tales told from the Crown to Garund, Starfall was not a land where riches lined every road to be harvested by anyone, and where a great fortune awaited the curious or clever. Instead, Numeria's largest city was a strict oligarchy tightly controlled to only benefit the established elite of the Technic League and the Black Sovereign (its puppet Kellid leader) with only crumbs for the rest. Oh, of course the League claimed it was open to everyone and indeed they held supposed 'entrance examinations' every few years. They even let an occasional prodigy (or well heeled) pass and formally enter the the ranks of their society but it was little more then window dressing. Most residents of Starfall had a better chance learning to fly then joining the Technic League.

There were other businesses of course, hundreds of them in a city as large as Starfall, where a living could be made. The construction industry, the mining guilds, the various import/export firms, all of them hired hundreds of workers on a daily basis. More lucrative were the formal organizations such as the Aspis Consortium or the Pathfinder Society, both of which operated in the city. Still, even these jobs were in short supply and generally went to those with connections or were able to grease many palms.

No, the best place for a new arrival in the city to make a living was in the extensive underworld of the city. For those with quick hands, an iron stomach and a distinct lack of morals you could become a self-made man among the muggers, thieves, house-breakers and smugglers. Still, while it did provide a path to fame and fortune, it was a hard life, constantly in struggle with both rival gangs and the city government. While both the Technic League and the Starless Guard (the Black Sovereign's personal military unit) usually looked the other way and let the gangs run rampant, for suitable bribes, they did occasionally cracked down on smuggling at random times. These brutal violent actions usually lasted for hours in the poorer city districts with dozens of criminals being swept up, beaten and taken away, only to be brought back to a properly public location for a creative execution.

So, all in all, Starfall was not the city of promise and riches it was claimed, but for all of its problems it was Nural's home. And it was not a bad one, especially compared with the strict and fairly one-dimensional home of her childhood. Compared to the straightened, disciplined life of a hobgoblin legion, Starfall was a chaotic center of social and cultural life with opportunities abounding at every corner. Or at least it had been, for news had reached Nural today that threatened to change everything she about the city.

Kevoth-Kul was dead. The Kellid warlord had made a great name for himself in the wilds lands as a cunning leader and a formidable warrior. Decades ago he had marched into Starfall and claimed it his own, naming himself the Black Sovereign. In theory his will had been law and his clan had taken over the most lucrative posts. In practice however the city had been managed by the Technic League as always, with rumors about the extent of their control running rampant. But now the towering figure who had been the central pillar of the city for decades, was gone although rumor was not clear how he died. Some claimed it had been a final coup by the League, hoping to secure power in name and deed. Others hinted at plots within the Kellid community, clans rivalries perhaps. One man, deep in his cups, claimed it had been an assassination ordered by the Mendevian Crusaders, hoping for a more friendly ruler to take over.

Whatever had killed Kevoth-Kul, the timing was poor. The city had already been buffeted by rising tensions in the last few years, some substantial, others mere rumors. The Technic League had been more fraught with factionalism then usual lately, with rival Captains using brute force even within view of the normal citizens. Only two months ago a workshop owned by Merisk Kaffaun, a well-known Technic League Master, had been burned to the ground and his guards killed. Open clashes both in the streets and in the corridors of power were becoming common and Gods only knew what was happening inside the Silvermount.

This tension had reached the rival criminal gangs, many of which were being immeshed in the rival wars of the League, forced to take sides to protect contracts or business deals. Apart from the most violent thugs few in the underworld actually liked street wars or turf battles but they too were growing, especially in the rougher quarters of the city. Recruitment was up and many long standing truces and gentleman agreements were under heavy strain. Blood was running in the streets even now, and it promised to only get worse. Castillion had only given hints but Nural could tell the usually unflappable man was uneasy about the situation.

More fundamentally, there was rising unrest among the Kellid tribesman. Never very united even at the best of times, a deep rift was growing between the more urbanized Kellid with deep roots in Starfall and the more rugged outsiders new to the city. The former had long rallied around Kevoth-Kul, who epitomized the respected barbarian. However other rival figures had grown in recent years, druids and shamans calling back to a different tradition for the Kellid people. Ritualistic duels and challenges, not seen in Starafll for centuries, were happening again. Nural herself had seen two female warriors fight to the death not a week ago in the Road of Glass, using nothing but their fists. The most militant outgrowth of this conservative backlash was a radical group of druids who were outraged by the constant pollution and rape of the land under the uncaring rule of the Technic League. Acts of industrial sabotage were threatened and, it was rumored, employed.

More recent was the arrival only yesterday was a record number of Crusaders, heading north up the old road. Several hundred strong, it was the largest group of armed men to enter Starfall since Kevoth-Kul himself arrived all those years ago at the head of his armed legion. They were encamped just outside the now leaderless city. What...opportune timing. Narul found it hard to believe Mendev was involved in the death of the Black Sovereign and yet....Much was now uncertain.

What would happen now that Kevoth-Kul was dead? For now the streets were quiet, but it was the middle of the night and the news was racing across the city even now. It would take time for reactions to take place, and what would they be? Riots? Street fights? Parades? A quiet coup by the League or a bloody insurrection by the common workers? Would anything change or would some new Kellid barbarian take the old Sovereign's place smoothly? Nural doubted the last, considering the powder keg the city was these days. Dangerous times had come to Starfall.....

Nural's thoughts were shaken from these dark and complex thoughts by movement along the top of the ragged wall that surrounded the caravan complex. At first she thought it is an animal, a cat or a pseudodragon maybe, prowling for scraps, an all too common pest in the city. But no, it quickly becomes apparent despite the dying light that it is a human figure, scrambling over the wall. Nural stands up quickly, instantly alert. Burglars are not common in Gritforge, most of the local gangs and citizens militias keep them in line, but certainly not unheard of. They were rarely this bold however, simply scaling a wall.

The figure isn't very graceful either, barely managing to crest the uneven parapet, legs dangling. A rookie perhaps, overestimating their chances? Or maybe a young blood trying to prove their way into a gang? Whoever it was she wasn't going to let them-

The figure slips and falls to the inner court-yard of the complex with a crash. A small cloud of dust is kicked up by the impact, with even the hard-packed earth being dislodged by the heavy fall. Whoever it was, they might have some broken bones now, Nural thought grimly. The hobgoblin can see the supposed thief better now, being closer to the few night lamps she kept in the compound for late night arrivals. It was a thin human, gender undetermined, wearing stained but fine robes, cut short. Both arms are clutched about its chest, as if holding something.

The she hears a voice from the unmoving sprawled figure, weak and tired, ”Help...help....they are after me.”

For discussion. In case Discord fails.

For dotting.

The Laws of Man

I Let no man be beholden to a god.
II Suffer not the divine.
III The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
IV Truth stands alone.
V An educated mind is a defended mind

Azir, capital of the atheistic nation of Rahadoum has been admired and despised for over one thousand years. Admired as a bustling metropolis and one of the cleanest, best educated and richest cities in the Inner Sea. Despised because it is the birthplace and keystone of the Law of Man, the atheistic edicts that ban all divine interference and activity. A major trading hub, the city has long been nicknamed ‘Port Godless’ in varying tones of wonder and derision by outsiders. The Pure Legion, the organization dedicated to keeping divine influence at bay and only answerable to the Laws of Man has kept the city safe for centuries, despite many covert attempts by the varied faiths of Golarion.

However, a new challenge is rising. Rumors of a crusade are spreading throughout the Inner Sea like wildfire, whispers of a grand coalition of religious forces to finally end this sad and dangerous experiment to an end. No longer content to merely watch and wait, many now seek to destroy the very city itself and purge the Laws of Man entirely, root and branch. Where piety and conversion have failed, coercion and force may prevail. Can the city stand against the tides of the divine and uphold their own traditions against the so-called will of the Gods themselves?

Welcome to the Recruitment for How To Defend A Walled City, a PF1 Solo Game.

For a long time now I have wanted to run a game that is smaller in scale (but not in stakes), with a tactical angle both in regards to combat and character choices. A pressure cooker of a game in a fixed geographic area with rising stages in both combat and social environment. What fits this better than a city under siege? A situation that will call not only on your brawn but also your wits, leadership skills and luck to defeat a dangerous and cunning foe!

If that sounds of interest to you, read on!

Ok, that is everything! A lot of information, I know, but it should help you apply with the best character possible and eliminate surprises. If you have any questions, comments and such, please ask below. I will be following this thread closely, and feedback should be swift.

Recruitment will close in two weeks, August 3rd.

It was a disturbing sight. The figure, they guessed it had once been a human male, was nailed to the splintered post with crude spearpoints, jammed into arms and legs. The dry desert air had partly mummified the remains, transforming what might have been a rotting body into a dry mass of leathery skin, twisted hair and bleached bone. While the victim lacks any armor, ragged bits of leather and clothes remain, pitted by wind and sand. Even the wooden post itself is weathered and pocked by the brutal weather. While not a true crucifixion like those rumored to be used by the distant Chelish, the corpse staked in the center of the path sends a clear enough message.

Go Away

Zolzi and Fimdi pause in front of the grotesque marker, pondering their options. Around them soar the stunning if formidable Brazen Peaks, that range of dry mountains that formed the backbone to Katapesh. Imposing and vast, this tangle of jagged peaks, steep valleys and sandy dunes makes up the northern border of Katapesh, virtually ignored by the nation at large. Mostly uninhabited by humans, it is filled with disorganized tribes of gnolls and ogres, not to mention the rumored hordes of truly wild monsters. No roads pierced these rocky heights, no trade routes braved the dusty cliffs, with even the famed merchants of Katapesh giving the desolate land a wide berth.

It was a good place to hide.

Zolzi and Fimdi had left the last town, Bronze Hook, days ago following an ancient and long disused road. At the time they thought the rugged land they were traveling were the Brazen Peaks but they had been wrong. Those first few days had been spent traversing the mere foothills, the lowest slopes of the range. Only lately had they truly understood the sheer scope of the real mountains, towering thousands of feet overhead, rocky outlines blocking out sections of the sky. Travel had not been easy. Clambering over massive boulders that had long rolled downhill to block the road, or struggling through waist high drifts of sand. The only real constant (other then toil) was the weather. So far the two of them had experienced nothing but blazing unobstructed sun. As far as they could tell, clouds simply did not exist in the Brazen Peaks let alone rain. Katapesh was a dry country but it looked downright swampy compared to the bare rock shelves of these mountains.

Still neither thought about turning back from their given mission. Even standing under the bright sun, tasting the acrid tang of dust of the road both could easily recall the dim cool interior of the Grand Temple of Nethys in Katapesh, far behind them. Old Archmage Tahmesh Orwa, wearing his usual redskull cap, had ushered them into an inner room of the temple and given them the world-changing news. The Nine Sacred Rods of Nethys had been stolen, out of this very temple. The fact someone had robbed the temple has shattering news of itself. The building was one of the largest structures in Katapesh, guarded by endless wards and magical barriers, protected by centuries of accumulated arcane knowledge.

”We must avoid a panic.” Orwa had said, ancient voice as dry as the vales of the Brazen Peaks.

A panic indeed. The Nine Sacred Rods were the most precious items contained in the rather extensive vaults of the temple, a place awash with items of great power. Each of the Rods stood for a separate school of magic, abjuration, conjuration, divination, enchantment, evocation, illusion, necromancy, transmutation and universal. They had been created centuries ago by the greatest wizards of the age, raw magic given physical form. The exact extent of their powers were shadowy, long lost in rumor and legend but one thing was clear. They [i]must[/] be returned. Not only were they central to the religious faith of the church, but they were also powerful items that could do great damage in the wrong hands. Worst of all, there was a school of thought that the Rods kept back the creeping growth of the Mana Wastes. If they went missing for too long, these strange and violent anti-magic zones might increase, spreading north throughout Garund.

Still, the news had gotten worse as the Archmage had gone on. The thief had been one of their own, a fellow cleric in the temple, a woman named Mulunesh Tennamar. She was unknown to both Fimdi and Zolzi but they were informed she had been a stellar researcher and historian at the temple for years, one of the finest archivers the order had ever known. No one had any idea why she had robbed the temple of such holy items, not even her closest friends and colleagues. All that was clear was that she had taken the relics and headed for the Brazen Peaks as fast as possible...

Which was why the fetchling gunslinger and the gnome sorcerer know stood on an empty dusty road, looking up at a grinning, desiccated skull.

For dotting!

Edit: I made a gameplay thread for you to dot!

For discussion!

The unthinkable has happened. House Thrune has fallen, but not by some treacherous lord or power-hungry Archduke. No, nearly the entire family that ruled Cheliax with an iron fist has simply...vanished. Overnight everyone from Her Infernal Majestrix, Queen Abrogail II to the most minor related courtiers and relatives. Why and where to no one can say, but most speak of devilish contracts unfulfilled and payments do. Whatever the reason, Cheliax has been thrown into turmoil. For over a century the House of Thrune has cemented their power as the keystone of the entire Empire, the one irreplaceable and necessary piece of the complex puzzle. With it gone, order has broken down and many seek to gain the Thrice-Damned Throne by whatever means required with most of the Archduchies aflame. The countless factions once kept in check by the throne have exploded in violence on the fruitful and productive provinces. From the streets of Kintargo to the cliff coats of Longmarch, all is war. Cheliax has become a place of blood and iron.

Welcome to the Recruitment for A Place of Blood and Iron, a PF1 Solo Game.

For a long time now I have wanted to run a game that is not concerned with preventing war (a laudable goal in most games, to be sure!) but more concerned with winning one. The ebb and flow of the conflict, both affecting my you and some of it outside your control. Desperate secret missions deep in enemy territory as well as diplomatic assignments to gain new allies. A slow rise in the ranks as you prove yourself worthy or a demotion for failure. The possibilities of changing sides and selling your skills to the highest bidder or following a faction with ideological interest. The sense of a big, fast-changing world around you, not always under your control yet shaped by your choices, all overlaid with the fog of war.

If that sounds of interest to you, read on!

Ok, that is everything! A lot of information, I know, but it should help you apply with the best character possible and eliminate surprises. If you have any questions, comments and such, please ask below. I will be following this thread closely, and feedback should be swift.

Recruitment will close in two weeks, May 17th.

This is the last time I shall control your character. Enjoy!

It was the drums, Jiang Hua decided in the end. Goka was a city of flutes, of harps, of woodwind instruments. A place of light and subtle beauty, a city of elegance. The martial drumming was as foreign as the invaders themselves. She was not the only one who had felt this, who knew deep down that the world was changing. Ever since the drums had begun hours ago, at first light, the young noblewoman had sensed tension. Then again, when was the last time the city had not been gripped in fear and unease? Since before the Imperial troops encircled the city, endless ranks around the crumbling ancient walls? Since last summer when Imperial troops seized the Highland Canals, cutting up the Gokan trade to the interior? The spring before that, when Gokan hired mercenary troops had fallen back in disarray before the onslaught, where her brother had died? Or even farther back, to the years when a re-born Empire was a mere rumor, a whisper on the trade ships?

Hua shakes her head, banishing the memories of the recent dark years. That nightmare of tension, worry and anticipation was over. An entirely new nightmare was about to begin. Goka had lost, reconquered by the resurgent Empire and today was the first day of that occupation. Once, Goka had merely been a bright star in the grand constellation of the mighty Lung Wa Empire. A shining crown jewel among a hoard of others, and had been subjected to outside control for centuries. Had those days returned fully? Would Jiang herself grow old and die before Goka would be free again? Surely not and yet….what was happening today shook her faith in her homeland. It was painful, confusing and terrifying. But she had to witness it, she had to be here to see it through, to make it real. Jiang’s world was ending.

So that is why Jiang Hua found herself here, on the northern end of the Seven Dragons Bridge. Even the Bridge itself had changed, with Imperial troops having cleared it of the usual clutter of rickety shop stalls, gaming stands and pushy vendors. Instead the hundred foot wide stone pathway, that linked the North Bank and South Bank, had been throughly scrubbed and cleared. It was eerie, to see something that had seemed the very lifeblood of Goka snuffed out and removed without apparent effort. An entire flourishing community simply...vanished. Replacing them today, were crowds of onlookers, pressed against the high stone rails, leaving a wide center lane clear for the incoming parade. Hua looked south, shading her eyes against the brilliant midday sun.

At this distance South Bank was little more than a gray smudge of buildings, indistinct and blurry. Only the looming ziggurat of the Bank of Abadar stood out clearly, dark and imposing far taller than the rest. She thought she caught a twinkle of light off the spires of the Great Hospital of Qi Zhong and a gleam off the Dome of Perfection but that might have been mere fancy. Her eyes were good but it was a long way. She turned her attention back to the southern end of the Bridge, where the drums were growing louder. The victory parade had been a bit of inspired brilliance, Hua thought to herself. A grand procession from one end of the city to the other, ending in Gokan Palace itself, the symbol of Goka’s independence and power. How better to demonstrate the power and glory of the new conquerors? Who could question their supremacy and victory after such a display? Clearly, whoever was in charge of the Imperial army was canny and well versed in matters of public display.

Finally, Hua saw the first rank of Imperial soldiers, advancing up the ruler straight bridge. At this distance they were simply a wall of glittering gold, sun shimmering off the distant uniforms. Slowly they drew closer, marching with a steady, monotonous rhythm that seemed to break the time down into small, discrete chunks. As if the world was being sliced up by the sound and neatly laid out on a plate, to be examined and used as one saw fit. In time Hua could see the soldiers more clearly, make out faces and uniforms. Most were stolid Tian-Shu men with dark eyes and straight black hair, cut into military fashion. This was hardly surprising, since the Empire’s heartland was mostly inhabited by the Tian-Shu just like the Lung Wa Empire of old, the realm these men seemed intent on re-making. Hua saw others in the ranks, slender Tian-Dtang, dark skinned Tian-Sing and even several rough looking Tian-La from the northern wastes. To Hua’s cosmopolitan eye however, used to the wild diversity of Goka, the men looked nearly identical, like chains of paper soldiers made by children. They all kept perfect time with the marching drums, marching with unnerving precision. Even their eyes were the same, focused forward on some distant spot. Something inside Hua shivered at this bland mononty, the antithesis of Goka’s rebel spirit. This couldn’t be the future….could it?

The men marched past, rank upon endless rank. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, the dull routine made Hua’s mind wander. She knew the parade was ending on the Diamond Knoll, that immense hive of power and prestige. Where would they puteveryone? Goka had no public square or plaza for such a procession. Would they stack them up in the warren of streets on the hill? Judging by the scale of the parade, which seemed to include the entire invading army, the first units would reach their destination hours ahead of the others. Even in a city used to traffic jams it would be record-breaking.

She shifts her gaze northward, looking over the backs of the marching soldiers (now columns of archers) toward the North Bank. Being much closer, Hua could see much more detail here. Highest, of course, was the Gokan Palace, a sprawling network of blocky towers, strong walls and sweeping roofs. Home of the Mayor of the Palace the most powerful figure in the Gokan government...or was at any rate. While the outline of the impending occupation hadn’t been shared with the public, one thing seemed clear. Mayor Nai Yan Fei was headed back to the Imperial capital of Changdo in irons, held as both hostage and bargaining chip. As far as Hua knew the Palace was empty, although she doubted such a potent symbol of status and wealth would stay that way for long. Surely whoever took over Imperial management would be eager to set themselves up as a despot in the abandoned Palace?

Like supplicants surrounding a royal throne, Hua sees the other buildings clustered around the heights of Diamond Knoll, pubic and private alike. The Grand Pagoda of Bountiful Gifts, the grim prison of Yanshan, even the defunct Imperial Examination Hall (often rented for parties in modern times) and as well as the imposing palaces and manors of the merchant Houses. Each vied for space, gaining influence and prestige just by sheer proximity to power. The buildings were tall there, with space at such a premium, and some of the larger towers reaching well over ten stories of stone and timber. The heart of the city was usually decorated in silk banners and ringing with chimes but not today. Today, even if the occupiers did not know it, the city was in mourning with the few family flags on display hanging limply in the still, humid air.

A shift in the sound of the parade brought Hua’s attention back to the Bridge. It takes her a moment to recognize the unfamiliar sound of hoofbeats on stone but she quickly focuses on the cavalry detachment marching in smart order up the road. In the Gokan world of shipping and narrow wooden bridges, horses were rare and generally only expensive prestige symbols for the very rich. To see a whole troop of them took Hua back to her travels in the heartland of Tian Xia where horses were far more common. Yet another sign how different the Empire was from the city.

Behind the gilded and armored riders, a large knot of people were pressing forward, all clustered around an ornate and ornamented palanquin. Aides and courtiers huddled around it, like old men in front of a warm fire. With a start, Hua realizes this must contain the leader of the Imperial Army, Grand General Xeo Zeting, of whom rumor barely whispered. While the streets positively heaved with rumor, all that was generally agreed on was that he was a brilliant tactician and organizer, the architect of most of the new Empire’s victories and a trusted confident of the Reborn Emperor.

The young noblewoman cranes her neck, trying to see more clearly. Slowly, the crowd of military men, civilian scribes and even a few priests comes into clear view. Hua ignores all of them, for the moment, to catch her first glimpse of the conqueror of Goka, the man the Empire had lavished so many titles and privileges on. A hushed silence fell over the crowd around her as everyone else tried to do the same. When the Grand General came into clear view, Hua’s eyes widened.

The figure in the golden plated palanquin was not particularly imposing. Not the hulking brute, with broad shoulders and bristling beard that she had conjured in her imagination. A demonic looking warlord with burning eyes full of glory and lust for battle. Instead, the man everyone was paying homage to was lean and spare, wearing gleaming white Imperial robes. He was clean shaven except for a thin mustache, with close cropped brown hair under a thin gold circlet of office. Long fingered hands were tightly clasped in front of him, stately and reserved. But Hua found herself staring at the man’s eyes, which were tightly bound with a pale cloth.

Xeo Zeting was blind.

His face turned slightly this way and that, as if listening to the crowd but never focused long, clearly unseeing. Frequently he gestured and whispered something to an attendant or scribe, who rushed off to do his master’s will. Even at this distance and through the crowd, Hua got a sense of gravity from this man, an aura of command. Whatever his handicap, the Grand General was clearly a man in charge of events; not overtaken by them.

Then a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye draws Hua’s attention away the Imperial retinue. Sitting on the stone railing near here, is a dirty boy of eight or nine, dressed in ragged monk’s castoffs. With some determination, he has gathered up a handful of sticky street mud and bird droppings from the bridge. The noblewoman is confused for a moment until she sees the boy draw his hand back, taking a throwing stance...aiming directly at the Grand General’s entourage!

For discussion, obviously!

For dotting, if you wish....

For Discussion...

This is the last time I shall control your character. Enjoy

In the Name of Grand Prince Stavian III,
Emperor of Taldor, Scion of Aroden, Doge of Andoran, Defender of Galt, Eternal Monarch of Cheliax, Primarch-in-waiting of Absalom to his formal agents of External Commerce and Protection in the Prefecture of Avin.

FIVE, to report back at timely intervals on the state of affairs in the region

Few people traveled the Endless Way alone. Standing under a boiling sky, with dry shrubland spreading out in endless miles around him, Connacht Metayer could see why. The blasted landscape of the Whistling Plains was not an easy terrain to cross alone. Even for the druid, the hundreds of miles of plain open country had been a trial. Sunburned, wind whipped and with plant life best described as ‘rugged’ the land here was not forgiving. More than once Connacht had seen the ruined remains of a cart or tent, coated with dust on the side of the Way. These lonely ruins showed the fate of those who had not fared so well in this brutal landscape. He did not want to think of the bleached bones that may lay under those forgotten boards or tattered fabrics. Some things are best left to nature to mark as memorials.

Around him the low, brown Nomen Hills, a wild and forbidden stretch of mountains that are generally considered the edge of the Avistan rise and fall. Past it is empty Iobaria and then Casmaron, the strange and wild east. The Way winds through the lower valleys of the Nomen’s, avoiding the craggy hill tops, following the few watercourses. Somewhere here, close now, is Wheldrake, nestled in a remote valley. What would he find there? A boisterous town of killers and gamblers? A nervous outpost of Taldan culture in a sea of wilderness? A ghost town and a dry well? He had no idea and no one in Yanmiss has known or cared enough to find out.

The Endless Way itself of course, continued far beyond Wheldrake. The trade route arced north of the Casmaron Sea, a lonely course beyond the ken of Taldor and it’s merchants. Rumor said it stretched, in some form, all the way to Vudra or even Tian Xia beyond, fabled to be the richest places in Golarion. Lands of silk and spices, of slaves and jewels. At least, that is what the traders who made it to Yanmiss claimed. And such trade as it was that flowed into Taldor that made men rich, and created wealth even an Emperor could not ignore. Despite its small size and remoteness, Wheldrake was a potential keystone in the Imperial economy, a critical cog in the machinery of Empire and perhaps, a stepping stone to future glory.

So far Connacht had seen no signs of civilization, of other people. There had been no caravans heading either north or south, just the empty miles. That didn’t mean it was empty of course. Quite apart from any hidden bandits or strangers, the land was quite alive. Lizards and snakes hid in dark holes, waiting for the cool of evening. Several times he had startled crouching rabbits or mice out of the brush as he walked. Above, circling hawks and eagles scoured the land for prey. Vultures too most likely, although Connacht had cheated them on his trip north.

Here and there, scattered at seeming random, Connacht had seen the ancient remains of Iobarian society, raised by the cyclops in ages long forgotten, millenia before the Starstone fell. Huge blocks of worked stone, lying at odd angles, half hidden under the dust. The shapes were gigantic, some of them nearly 100 feet long of solid rock, weighing countless tonnes. While he did not have time to investigate a few even seemed to hold ancient carvings and signs, not quite weathered away by the passage of endless storms and wind. But they had nothing to do with his own goals, so the druid passed on, leaving the stones to their lonely vigils.

Rounding one last bend in a weathered hill, he spots his goal. The road falls away in an even, careful descent, cut into the hill itself, obviously made when Taldor was young and strong. At the the very center of the valley, a town sprawled out, the Endless Way a dark ribbon running through it. Connacht pauses, not only to rest his weary legs, but to get the feel of this place, his new charge.

In the center of town, nearly on top of the Endless Way, a large rambling building stood. The caravanserai itself, part tavern, part stable, part fort. In ancient times, it would have been the only structure here, a safe place to rest and escape from the perils of the road. It served that role poorly these days, and even at this distance Connacht could see crumbling walls, and cracked mortar. It had been long indeed since Taldor could afford to repair such places and apparently the locals hadn’t. Near it, in even more ruined condition is the old Taldane governor's manor home. While it once might have been a fine, multi-storyed building with walls and gardens, it was now a decaying ruin of tumbled stone and creeping vines.Arranged near the Endless Way is a small paved plaza or square, circled with low structures Connacht can’t make out.

Farther away, tucked into a hollow of the stone, was a large oasis, the first open water Connacht had seen since he had left Yanmiss. The blue water sparkled like a jewel in the crown of a king, glittering with reflected sunlight. Rows of planted trees surrounded it on all sides, vanishing into the scrubby hills and into hidden twists of the land. A fine looking wooden home sits under some massive trees, dappled in shifting shade.

On the other end of the valley, is a irregular pool, much smaller. The water is brown and stagnant, with only the smallest fringe of green plants around it much trampled. Shacks and hovels are clustered here, arranged in a erratic hodgepodge of muddy paths and ramshackle porches. Here and there small garden patches of sickly plants struggle to survive.

Closer to the Endless Way, a trim white building with the unmistakable look of a temple sits, nearly glowing in the bright sun. To his surprise, there is no roof on the building, instead revealing a empty courtyard, paved with local stone. The interior glitters and sparkles, as if the sunlight is reflecting off burnished metal or glass beads, but Connacht cannot make out any details at this range.

Somewhat more distant, a large round building stands, two stories tall. The second largest building after the caravanserai, it is built out of the pale, flaky stone of the Nomen hills. While it looks weathered and aged, Connacht guessed it was built long after Taldor abandoned this place. There are splashes of color on the distant walls, some form of art painted onto the stone.

Other buildings lay scattered about, with no rhyme or reason with no hint of a town plan. Some were clustered along the caravan route, while others sat in seeming isolation. It felt wrong to Connacht and then it hit him why. It was not a community, there was no sense of oneness here. It was a collection of individuals who just happened to occupy some of the same space. Not the most promising soil for a follower of Erastil.

Still, who had said it would be easy?

For Discussion

The isolated Taldan town of Wheldrake is in need of a Marshal, someone to bring law and order to the remote outpost. While not important of itself, the town is a stop along the caravan routes to distant Casmaron. Recently, the usually lazy bandits have taken to raiding the caravans and nobles investments have been hurt. In response the Taldor Empire, in an unusually energetic exercise of governance, is sending you to the town to bring law and order. Alone, you will be expected to whip the town and the environs into shape, using your wit, your words and your fists. It is a rough and tumble place out their on the wild frontier and no place for the weak. Nestled in the foothills of the Nomen hills, Wheldrake, known for little beyond exhausted archaeological digs, is on the edge of the Taldan Empire. Bordered by unstable Galt and wild Iobaria, it is the final outpost of the Empire, though long ignored. Until now. You will be the thin line between the outlaw and the innocent, between the wild and the town, the last bastion of civilization. The living embodiment of order in a land long without.

Are you up to it?

See all the stuff below for more details for what I am looking for in applicants.

Recruitment will close in two weeks, so Sunday July 29th.

This is the last time I shall control your character. Enjoy

The River Kingdoms. It had always been an anarchic borderland, rounded on sides by great powers but never subdued itself. Unlike other lands, there had never been an ancient empire here, no storied imperial legacy. Empires rose and fell around it, but none penetrated the depths. No, this land of swamps, rivers, lakes and gnarled forests had always resisted being tamed, by any race. Its very wildness called to those with the same outlook.

So they came, rugged souls from across Golarion. Pirates, smugglers, hunters, trappers, those escaping the past or those simply looking for an adventurous future. They found a home among the quiet fens and swift moving water, a place for independence, for self-reliance. Le the other kingdoms have their pomp and nobility, their hierarchy and their rules, where one man ruled over another for what his father was and not because he earned it. Here, one stood on their own two feet and got what he deserved.

So the River Kingdoms evolved not into a single central state, but a patchwork of city-states, independent towns and stubborn holdfasts, all linked by the ever-present rivermen, who rafted up and down the waters. It was they, that group of ever capable, practical and above all independent, who gave the area it’s character. Not tied to any land, they were impossible to dominate and too important to mistreat.

Each spoke to the sense of freedom and independence held dear by most of the inhabitants. In addition to this political and cultural outlook was added the unique faiths of the region, born of the two local gods. The twin gods of Hanspur and Alseta.

One was the worship of Hanspur, the Water Rat. God of the Sellen, he is the darker aspect of the River Kingdoms, the avatar of flooding and wild storm. It was he who taught the first rivermen how to navigate the waterways, the hidden paths in this dangerous land. A chaotic god of murder and travel, he values the freedom and independence of the inhabitants. His symbol, a rat walking on water, is a common sight on everything from ships to city gates.

Alseta was the goddess of the land in the River Kingdoms. Unlike Hanspur, who was the god of the mobile and rugged watermen, Alesta was the chosen goddess of the hard-bitten and proud farmers of the River Kingdoms. These were not the servile peasants or effete landowners of other lands. Farming here took grit, courage and skill. In return farmers are accorded great respect here and considered a valued and strategic resource. So the worship of Alseta rose among those communities. She was the goddess of travel, of transition, of community and it was her that governed the seasons. It was her that was invoked for events of change such as marriages, coming of age ceremonies, and indeed even funerals. Her outlook was that of the positive consequences of the freedom of movement, or the independence to live how one wanted, but stressing peace and communal effort. Her sacred animal, the turtle, is a welcomed sign for any traveler or trader and is carved into many doorways and lintels throughout the River Kingdom.

Hanspur lives in independent minded, the pirate, the cultist, the unique. Alseta relishes the flourishing and development of people, of the seasons and climate of the place, of the hardbitten farmers and survivors, of the mystical druids. Both are needed, to balance the other. Only Hanspur would leave the River Kingdoms a bloody tangle of anarchists and murderers but Alseta alone would not provide the independence and freedom. Together, they create a symbiosis, a stable medium that allows both the struggle and the reward of freedom.

Born out of this were the River Freedoms, the mantras that guided life in this divided and unruly land.

Say What you Will, I Live Free: The freedom of speech, even to speak truth to power.
Oathbreakers Die- The solemn duty to follow your word.
Walk Any Road, Float Any River[/i]- Freedom of travel, unbarred from tolls or taxes.
Courts Are for Kings- That every ruler is soviegen in his domain.
Slavery Is an Abomination- Slavery is strictly outlawed in all of the River Kingdoms
You Have What You Hold- The disgust at burglary but the grudging acceptance of robbery.

For millennia it was these freedoms, and the priesthoods of the two gods, that governed the River Kingdoms. Petty states rose and fell, on their own merits. Kings and tyrants, presidents and elected officials governed bits and pieces of the still untamed lands. Weaving through all of it were the priests of Alseta, trusted and honorable. In a land as divided and turbulent as this, arguments were common. Lacking a formal court system, many turned to the local priest for arbitration or judgement. This practice, informally used for generations, slowly increased over the years into acceptance in even the most aggressive and materialistic areas.

The priests were helped by the fact they had no hierarchy, no faction of their own. Unlike the churches in many parts of Avistan, the faith of Alseta lived in individuals, who lived remote, often hermit like lifestyles. Almost druidic in nature, many of them spent entire lifetimes out in the nature, pondering the changing seasons and wandering from place to place. There were no temples, no monasteries, and no priest governed another. As was correct in the River Kingdoms each holy man or woman was judged by their own skill, their own wisdom. If they were unwise or foolish, people simply ignored them. If they were skilled and helpful, they would find many who would ask their aid.

In 4651 Gralton, that splinter kingdoms of exiles and displaced nobility, required an arbiter. While the debate was supposedly an arcane matter of land law, it was really a power struggle between several rival families. In due course a priest was sent for, to help resolve matters with outside help. A young woman, dressed in the traditional brown robes, arrived a few days later, giving the name Veleda.

Despite her youth, she gave off a radiant aura of command and competence. Apparently unimpressed by the postureing and pomp of the Graltons, she heard all sides of the case, asking penetrating questions and always getting to the heart of the matter. Most importantly, she demanded the sessions be hold outside, in public. It should be noted it did not turn into a public free-for all, as was common in neighbouring Galt, with the crowd invited to participate and call for blood. Indeed, Veleda was the first to calm the crowd and to brook no interuptions. Her calm and commanding demonor was enough to stifle most protest. Instead her hearings became part of city life, her sitting on a simple stone as Gralton nobility paced in front of her.

In the end, after due considerations he gave her judgement. The details weren’t important but her technique was. Her solution to the problem was not only a compromise between the two rival factions, it also involved, productively, other unrelated groups. Veleda had, cunningly, created a web of groups, each with some interest at stake, in her judgement going through. In a sense, she created a community answer to an individual problem. It sustained itself through self-interest. It was widely regarded as a wise success, and her name was hailed throughout Gralton as a saviour who had helped them avoid civil war.

And so for the next ten years Veleda traveled the River Kingdoms, making herself a fixture across the various petty kingdoms. Regarded as not only an effective diplomat, she was also hailed for her simple piety and, quite frankly, obvious holiness. A hero among the common people, it became another aspect of her character. When a ruler called Veleda into a city, it often turned into a propaganda coup, resulting in parades or assemblies of happy citizens. So she was called from one kingdom to another, sorting out everything from succession crisis to border disputes. In addition, she also often oversaw important marriages or acted as witness for vital trade deals. Her web of contacts grew and she was soon known and trusted up and down the River Kingdoms both for her skill and her faith. Many of the more observant viewers guessed she had more in store then a simple itinerant arbiter but few guessed what she did next.

The Outlaw Council had been meeting for thirty years by 4661. Formed after chaos in Daggermark, it was an annual meeting of the more important River Kingdom leaders. Considered one of the few times they could meet face-to-face on equal footing, it was an astoundingly common-sense and straightforward way to resolve problems. For a few weeks a year various leaders (proxies were forbidden) would sit in the same room and hash out various problems. It had been a success, although limited by scope and interest.

It was to this assemblage of the greatest power players in the River Kingdoms that was faced with a grave crisis in 4711-50. Razmiran, that insane theocracy let by self-proclaimed god Razmir, was preparing to invade. His legions, backed by his strange divine priests were poised to sweep all before them, uniting the River Kingdoms in his insane bid for godhood.No longer was it a question of milirized Lambeth or Tymon to fight off the invasion. It would take an alliance of all the River Kingdoms to beat back this threat.

And therein layed the problem. For who would lead such an alliance? Every petty ruler and kingdom vied for control, not only out of greed but fear for what a rival may do at the head of a massive River Kingdom army. Never before had such a force been assembled and led. Who could be trusted? The deadlock was insuperable and as they bickered, time slipped away. In desperation they called for an arbiter, someone to choose a worthy leader. And by this point, only one person had the prestige, the skill and the connections to decide among such a body. Veleda was called.

For the first, and only time, the Outlaw Council moved outdoors, to a public square of Daggermark. It was there, under a dark and cloudy sky, she held court. With immense crowds pressured in, each ruler in turn made his case to Veleda (perched on a stone chair) for why they should be made the commander of the joint military. Some spoke of personal glory, others of cunning, still others of vast armies at their command. The crowd took it all in, and as did Veleda though she was as unreadable as ever.

Finally, after the last potentate had finished speaking, the priestess of Alseta rose, gray robes billowing in a stiff breeze. The crowd grew silent, the rulers leaning inward. How would she cut this knot? Anyone she chose would be given power beyond compare and everyone else would feel slighted?

Of course the choice was obvious.

She chose herself.

The crowd roared in approval as the leaders stood, stunned. Any protest was stilled by the cheering crowd, the raucous approval by their own troops. Going against the holy woman was political suicide. While the people cheered the rulers felt a cold wind of danger, a rumor. Would she, Veleda of Alseta, seize power? Would she do the thing they all secretly feared?

The war distracted them in the short term, of course. Veleda proved herself a worthy leader, although she was happy to remain a figurehead for military choices. She summoned councils of the finest generals in the River Kingdoms and took their advice. With her at the banner, thousands volunteered for what became nearly a holy crusade. For the first time, there was a untied River Kingdoms army, led by a coalition from many kingdoms.

The Razmiri army melted before it like ice before a searing flame. They were thrown back into their own lands in confusion, chased by death and destruction. Many River Kingdom commanders wished to invade Razmiran in turn, to defeat such a potent foe once and for all but Velenda said no. She knew all too well what such a powerful man may do if cornered. Instead she marched the army, now fully hers in heart and soul back to Daggermark.

There they made camp, a city outside the city, every single one of the swords at her beck and call. At the gates of Daggermark she assembled the lords and rulers in front of her. Without a choice they came and every one of them could feel doom in the distance. Here they were, surrounded by her army, her swords, and she was going to dictate terms. The River Kingdoms would be hers.

They found the priestess on the lintel of the city gate, sitting on a simple wooden chain, unadorned. What she suggested was not a coup, not a dictatorship. In fact, it was far more surprising then that.

The humble priestess started simply enough. The Outlaw Council was a great force for good in the River Kingdoms, helping regulate trade, prevent violence and defending the River Freedoms. Alseta was pleased with this but the Council was limited. It only met yearly for a brief time and did not actively seek to gather all the leaders. This was natural since few rulers could spend much time at such meetings, either because of fears of a coup or simply out of boredom. It was then that Veleda turned the political world of the River Kingdoms upside down.

What about a permanent standing body of delegates from all the River Kingdoms? What if they never left but simply provided a constant and on-going council to promote trade, talk out difficulties and to provide protection from external threats. A always in session committee, with suitable proxies, to help govern the ungovernable River Kingdoms?

Her initial response was utter astonishment. She didn’t mention the army behind her, the war that had just been won, the victories she had personally achieved. No, instead she was talking of simple cooperation, of communal effort, of trade meetings.

Normally this proposal would have been rejected instantly by the leaders of the River Kingdoms. A chain around their sovereignty? Giving up power, however slight, to a proposed Council? Unthinkable. Absurd.

And yet, compared to what Veleda might have asked for….and still might, if they refused.

And so it was that the Pact of Years was founded, in Daggermark in 4662, signed by every ruler in attendance.

It still wasn’t easy. Forging a unified group out of the diverse River Kingdoms took years of determined efforts. Veleda criss-crossed the River Kingdoms like never before, building support among the people and rulers alike. She touted the virtues of cooperation, the opportunities it opened, the advantages it provided. And soon, her dream took shape.

A massive new building was built in Daggermark, right along the Sellen’s bank. Petty kingdoms sent delegates, some more reluctantly then others, to discuss problems. Connections were made, networks were forged, plots hatched, alliances born. A simple bureaucracy began to form, built at first out of formerly wandering priests. The need for experienced arbiters was so extreme, Daggermark soon became a center for the Alseta priesthood. Over time however, the priests were supplemented by secular gents, volunteered by the various kingdoms. While it started as a simple outgrowth of the Outlaw Council, the scale was something else entirely.

Every independent land, no matter how small or remote was invitely, repteadly. In most cases Veleda went personally, and used her own charisma and command to convince. As more joined, it grew of it gained its own momentum. As Daggermark grew as a node of power, it drew more and more who wished be at the center. Again, the humble priestess of Alseta had harnessed their own self-interest to her yoke.

There were many crisis. In 4683 Artume gained a new leader and broke away from the Pact, its leader sneering at the idea. Indeed, he began gathering forces to invade neighboring lands. Veleda’s response was simple.

She went out into the main square of Daggermark and stated she would not eat until Artume re-entered the Pact. No more, no less was demanded. The priestess, now older and bent with responsibility, made a striking figure, sitting on her simple chair. At first the new leader of Artume laughed and simply went about his business. What was it to him if some woman starved herself?

But the people noticed and began to talk. In a week, pilgrimages formed, people coming from miles away to visit her seat, which became a temporary shrine to peace. The people of Touvette would endure much but would they really see Veleda, the holiest woman in the River Kingdom die over politics? After two weeks the protests began in the Artume capital. After three weeks a group of nobles and officers came to the truculent king and said they could not guarantee his safety unless he rejoined the Pact. Outraged he dismissed them and went to the balcony to do the same to the crowd. Before he got there one of the nobles had put a sword through his heart. The next day the new ruler of Artume announced the re-joining of the Pact and his own personal commitment to Veleda and her ideals.

This was merely one of such personal acts of sacrifice and piety Veleda undertook to form the Pact. Through sheer personal will she gave it form, breathed life into it against all odds. By 4711 it had gained some measure of self-stability. The kingdoms bought into it, using it for their own ends, providing it with a modicum of power and money. Daggermark boomed with the arrivals of delegates, diplomats from all over the River Kingdoms, and indeed beyond.

The Pact was regarded quite favorably from outside the River Kingdoms. It was far more convenient to have a single point of contact to deal with the menagaigres of lands and petty territories. With the coming of the Pact and the rise of Daggermark, there was now one place to meet with the political, cultural, economic and religious powers of the area. Over time, three outside nations, Kyonin, Mendev and Brevoy joined the Pact and although they were accorded full status, many regarded them as wary observers. It added another layer of difficulty in bringing outsiders in, but it had worked. So far.

A whole quarter of the city was demolished and re-built as apartments and hotels for the influx of outsiders. This caused an economic boom in the city as the population soared and demanded more of everything from food to books to clothing. Luxury merchants, rarely seen in the River Kingdoms before, flocked to the city and the rising class of delegates. Postings to the Pact bureaucracy were desired by even the most unscrupulous as not only the best diplomatic training in the River Kingdoms, but also as the best way to make the personal connections required for personal success. Most rulers sent prospective advisors and even heirs to serve under Veleda.

Only two statelets in the River Kingdoms held out against the rising influence. Fort Fielong, home to a brutal horde of hobgoblins and Touvette home to an anti-religious dictator who refused all outside influence. These twin failures were considered by veleda to be black marks on her record but everyone else was astonished at the fact their were only two.

However, the seasons and years do not pass without mark, especially on a priest of Alseta. Veleda was entered her eightieth year and many wondered what would become of the Pact after her death. Would it dissolve, swallowed by the Sellen like so many schemes before it? Or perhaps be hijacked by base men with personal power in mind? Those who wished otherwise looked for an heir apparent to be announced, a successor, someone to carry on the ‘Great Task’.

Who Veleda picked surprised anyone. It was not the heir to a great kingdom. It was not one of the many accomplished diplomats. It was not even a fellow member of the Alseta priesthood.

Instead she chose, Rudabeh, an undine paladin of Alseta.

It was a move that had stunned the entire hierarchy of power in the River Kingdoms, as so many of Veleda’s choices had done for the last half century. Was she again seeing something no one else could see or had old age finally caught up to the woman?

So that is why Rudabeh found herself here, in Daggermark outside the imposing structure of the Grove, the home and heart of the Pact of Years. It was a stunning building, built (if that was the right word) right on the Sellen’s banks. It was made of a huge domed centered, which held the Grand Hall and debating chamber. On both sides were large wings which held offices, conference rooms, servants quarters and other rooms.

What made it remarkable was the manner of construction. Much of the building had been created, by Veleda herself, out of intertwined trees, growing so closely as to meld together. The main entryway was made of two massive oaks, grown together to make a living archway, outlined in leaves. Beyond it, the Grand Hall was made of dozens of living trees, swirling together to create a sealed and enclosed room. Grand stories were told of the living branches that were interwoven throughout the entire building, a living scaffolding for the rest of the more mundane building.

It was here that Rudabeh had been summoned to meet Veleda herself, for the first time. Why had the holy woman chosen her to be her successor? An undine she had never met, and a relative newcomer to the faith?Not even born to the River Kingdoms.

Well before she could solve that, she didn’t to find Veleda’s office.

All sorts of people milled around, passing in and out of the living doors. Some were obviously delegates, dressed in the traditional XX. Others appeared to be simple servants, lugging boxes of paper and ink inside. Still others were hired scribes or entertainers or lobbyists.. More were supplicants to the Pact. While normally dealing with state affairs, veleda also had a constant group of judges in the Grove that would hear minor cases from anyone who showed up with a legitimate grievance.This was always run by priests of Alseta and justice was firm, fair and swift. Everyday saw dozens of simple folk from all over lined up to say their piece.

It was an imposing sight to Rudabeh, who felt quite small facing the large crowds and living, growing building rustling in the breeze. She had been here before but always as a minor agent, a mere bureaucrat. It was quite a different experience being here looking to find Veleda herself.

Where did one start?

Ok, so that is a giant post. Lots there. Please, ask any questions or make any comments. I am going to treat this opening interview/audience with veleda as a prologue and explicitly say it is such. After that, we will cut along to the action so don’t worry about the start dragging. But I think you needed to meet Veleda at this point. I am really looking forward to this game! Info will soon be uploaded into the Campaign Tab (list of nations in the Pact, for example).

For Discussion!

for dotting. First post up tonight or tomorrow.

A thread for the game!

Let's start talking turkey.

For Dotting

For Discussion

And now, for a short intermission

”It isn’t right.” Obella Kamos said, gripping the small stone in her hand, weighing it. The halfing’s usually bright face was dark with a heavy frown, staring at the fancy carriage rattling past. Her brown eyes seemed to smolder as she glared at the crest emblazoned on the side, the red and gold of House Iuncus.

It was a blazing hot day in Sothis, extreme even for this desert city. The sun was at high noon, a punishing disc of hot white light. There were new shadows, few places to avoid the blinding light. Rayka Parekh knew, from her youth, that once this street was lined with palm trees for just such a day.

This used to be the Oldstone district, an area of rich craftsmen and lesser nobles, the houses edged by canals and facing broad, well-kept streets. That had been before the Awakening, before Sothis had been ravaged by the Spawn of Rovagug. Shalina the Stalwart had stopped that apocalypse, not before the city had been ruined. The trees were long gone now, and many of the houses empty. The canals still ran, but only because the Chelish used them.

Much of the city was still blocks of empty houses, empty windows like eyes looking out into deserted streets. Many had not come back or had been killed in the chaos, and only now, five years later, were children beginning to fill the streets. The city, now over-large, was in a state of disrepair, lacking the funds to keep the desert at bay. While not a danger in Oldstone, Rayka had seen entire houses swallowed by approaching dunes.

No, not a problem here, because Oldstone was were many of the new Chelish lords lived and it would not do for these men and women to be troubled by mere geography. They had come to plunder Osirion, but any connection past servant and master was more then they. Most of them lived in plush manor homes, surrounded by lavish garden while men and women starved in the streets.

Sothis was a city were fountains were guarded by armed men and it was a capital crime to steal a grape from a Chelish vineyard. While official a new Pharaoh ruled from his palace on the edge of the city, everyone knew the child was a figurehead, and the real power flowed from the Chelish nobles. It was they were paid the troops, guarded the markets, cleaned the canals, and even repaired the docks. Most had welcomed this aid, in the dark days after the Awakening. But since then, their hand had grown heavier. Chelish troops ‘requisitioned’ food and supplies, never paying, churches to foul new faiths were erected, and worst of all, Chelish plunderers were aboard in every corner of the kingdom, tearing open old tombs and looting gravesites. Wagonloads of such ill-gotten gains flowed into the city, straight into the coffers of the Chelish families who had descended here, like fat, over-fed vultures.

Even this street showed the signs of Chelish rule. It was kept wide and clear, allowing their richly appointment carriages to roll unimpeded. The sidewalks were still rubbled ruined however, never repaired. Signs were plastered everywhere, either promoting diabolic gods or threatening horrible punishment to 'trouble-makers'. Armed guards patrolled, keeping this quarter safe from vagrants and vagabonds. It was a risk to even come this far into the district for Obella and Rayka but it had been worth it to view the gardens in front of the noble houses that dotted the area.

”It isn’t right.” her friend repeated, holding the stone as if to throw it at the carriage. ”Them living like that while we scrape by in the streets, afraid in our own city.”

For discussion!

Enjoy

Amara Ishu stood easily on deck, enjoying the feeling of the swaying ship. The Dancing Lucre was a fine ship, and rode the rising swells with ease. Whatever else could be said for her employers, they owned fine watercraft.

The skald thought back and wondered how she found herself her, steering a ship not her own through the rocky remains of Azlant, the Inner Sea hundreds of miles behind her with a load of a hundred colonists belowdecks. The Raven Shipping and Trading Company was behind it all of course. They had hired her, after being kicked out of yet another navy this time the Absalom Citizenry Naval Force, for her dislike of slavery. The Raven Company, as it was nicknamed was not as picky.

They had wanted an experienced naval commander who could sail a ship of landlubber colonists to Arcadia safely and had few ties to other nations. Someone with magical skill and a good head on her shoulders was a plus, as well as no deep religious ties. Agnostic as possible Quailla Raven had said, one of the Masters of the Company. Amara has fit the bill nicely, and for a good fee and a chance at a new adventure, she was given this new command.

It hadn't been easy of course. She had been drilled endlessly by the Company administrators. There had been written tests, verbal exams, tasks with magic, and she had spent months working on this Company ship or that. The Raven Shipping and Trading Company, which was second only to the Aspis Consortium in size and scope, did not make an investment lightly. But she has passed, with flying colors. So they had given her a brand new ship, the Dancing Lucre, a hold full of provisions and supplies, as well as one hundred colonists.

Her orders were simple. Get to Arcadia with as many colonists as possible, establish a foothold, and manage the colony as more colonists were sent over. She was given broad, nearly supreme authority over the fledgling colony at least until more Company advisers arrived. The Raven Company's goals were rather simple. Arcadia was a land rich in resources ranging from gold and jewels to fish and magical items. The purpose of the new settlement would be to gather these materials for transport back to the Inner Sea. In exchange the settlers would be well paid, in both money and, more importantly, land. Free land was a rare commodity in the Inner Sea, at least uncursed or land empty of monsters.

Suddenly Amara's reverie was broken. She heard footsteps coming up behind heavy, heavy on the wooden deck. The female Captain cocked an ear, trying to guess who it was my sound alone. The steps were too heavy to be Zuck, her only friend on this mission. A tengu who had sailed with through every storm on ship and in her own life. His bird-like talons would never make this much racket.

But it was too light to be Benold Gregon, the prosperous blacksmith who had been taking charge of the colonists lately. A big, burly man with a good head for numbers and hands for steel, had taken a liking to his new taste of authority. For now however, he mostly complained about the short rations and how long the voyage was taking. The blacsmiths boots usually clunked much louder then this. Which meant....

Brekarv.

The bestial looking half-orc had been assigned to her by the Raven Shipping and Trading Company as a 'bodyguard' but she knew his role was far greater. Surely the robed man was reporting her every move? But worse then that, Brekarv was just.....creepy. The summoner always wore heavy robes, embroidered with red sigils and signs, no matter the weather. All you could see was his scarred and tattooed green face peeking out, mostly made up of two big tusks. His jet black eyes were like twin holes, dark as night.

Worse all though was his companion, that foul ediolon. It reminded Amara of a very skeletal crow, with long spiky wings, spindly legs ending in claws and a wicked sharp beak. The creature was black with veins of deep red running up and down, as if veins of blood were visible. Often hunched on his shoulder, it's iridescent, penetrating eyes made Amara sick. So far it hadn't hurt anyone however...

The footsteps were closer now and sure enough, it was Brekarv's soft but carrying voice that reached her. ”Good Morning, Captain. How are the seas?” One of Amar's only comforts was that the half-orc was obviously not comfortable at sea, and she had seen him stumble a few times when the waves had barely been enough for her to notice. Even now, with the sea below barely cresting, he looking unsteady and grasped the wooden rail with one meaty fist. 'Well, I trust?” His ediolon was nowhere to be seen, thankfully.

For Discussion for the upcoming Arcadia settlement game.

The worst part was the endless routine. When people in the City talked about the Black Whale the usually focused on the wet cells, the terrible food, the endless vigilance, the violent inmates but no one ever mentioned the worst part, the sheer repetitiveness of prison life. Every day was exactly the same.

Razwin and Nyx woke up just before dawn to the tolling of a heavy iron bell. The cell (build in the bowels of an old, grounded ship) was always dark, wet and stuffy. Then the guards would come with breakfast and a headcount. The breakfast was always cold gruel, and a small bit of hard bread.

Then a few hours passed with nothing of note, time for talk and restless waiting.

Then lunch came, and the guards came around again for another headcount. After this, all were manacled and led out of the cells. It was time for work detail, and this was the one point of variety in the day. The prisoners were used for all sorts of maintenance and repair work, which the aging ship needed badly. Some days you were in the bilge, re-caulking old busted seams, other times you were on scrubbing the top decks, and sometimes even hanging over the side, re-painting the weathered wooden sides. Always watched, always chained but the fresh air and sun felt good.

Dinner was eaten communally, on the top deck, chained to heavy rings, sitting on the (hopefully) freshly scrubbed wood. Then, at the bell, all were re-manacled and led back to the cells and another headcount. Lights out at dark, to go to sleep and do it all over again.

It was a diverse group that endured this unending purgatory of back-breaking work and endless boredom. There were corrupt politicians, crooked merchants, political radicals, relatives of the rich and powerful and a smattering of common criminals deemed too dangerous for the usual jail. Some had gone mad here, and sat with silent eyes in the corner or screamed endlessly for no reason.

In the three weeks they had been here, Nyx and Razwin had seen one escape attempt, a pitiful job that simply involved jumping off ship into the dark water below. The guards had merely laughed and pointed as the man tried to swim. After only half a dozen struggling strokes, a dark shape loomed out of the water. Without pausing the huge shark simply opened its jaws and nearly swallowed the man whole and dove for the deeps. All that was left was a slick of red blood that the rough waves soon dissipated.

No one escaped from the Black Whale.

Another day and dawn had just come and there was a bit of time for talk between the two cellmates.

Also, feel free to ask for information about the jail in ooc. There is a lot of detail that can be added, so be as specific as you like. I figured you'd want a post or two to introduce yourself to each other though as well.

Here it is! Let us begin....

Asleifar was a coastal town of gravel streets and gray weathered wooden buildings. Unlike most Linnorm settlements, it hadn't been founded as a starting point for coastal raids or as a trade nexus, or evening a fishing village. No, Asleifar was built on a single industry, one that had kept it alive for generations and one of the most prosperous cities in the Thanelands. Whaling.

It was a dangerous career, heading into the wild northern seas, dodging both icebergs and winter storms, but the wealth from a single whale could sustain a ship for months. Bowhead, Right, Sperm, the whalers of Asleifar hunted them all, harvesting hides, meat, blubber and other more exotic substances.

The entire city showed the whaling trade, from the many docks stretching into the iron gray water, to the huge processing centers, where whale fat and blubber was melted down and harvested. The very smell of burning oil was embedding in every building in the city, so pervasive the locals never noticed it (although it has sent more then one visitor to choking). Whale oil, smooth and clean burning was cheap in the city, and the finer streets even had lamps that burned all night.

For all the wealth though, Asleifar had its seedier sections. Entire streets of brothels, grog-shops, taverns and flophouses catered to the rough and tumble sailors, ready to spend months of backpay and let off steam. The constrained life aboard ship, where the lash ruled, often meant wild times on land, where there were no watchful eyes.

One of the more famous taverns was the Black Gull a large, three story weathered building, only two blocks from the docks (and therefore reeking of whale oil and grease). Boasting over twenty rooms and live entertainment every night, it was a fixture of the district and a local watering hole. Owned by a group of prosperous whaling companies, it had deep roots in the community.

All that meant little to Bryndis Dahlstørm and Pa-Soa Sieng at this moment however.

The room was a mess, window kicked in, furniture smashed, door blasted open. In even that brief fight both the monk and the summoner had unleashed forces the average tavern room was not equipped to handle (not to mention an agathion eidolon). The sounds of sizzling spells and smashing wood had brought several of the Gulls's bouncers up, who witnessed the fighters smash through the floor and fall into the busy common room below.

A tangle of bodies, magic and wooden splinters fell directly onto the playing band below, knocking everyone over. This being an Ulfen tavern, it immediately erupted into a full tavern brawl, including smashed tables and shattered bottles. The original disturbance was quite forgotten as the lusty patrons punched, cursed and bled for quite some time.

The manager however, a one-eyed man with a long white beard and shoulders fit for a giant, did not forget. As the fight settled down and all the rowdy locals left, he stares at both the Tian monk and the Ulfen summoner. Slowly, with the same inexorable feeling of a glacier, he crooked a thick finger at the two of them, pointing at the two chairs (the only unbroken ones left) in front of him.

Have at it!

Intricate planning, elegant solutions, coordinated assaults and, of course, the dashing display of panache, all are marks of the Absalom criminal. No vault is safe, no safe unbreakable, no purse beyond reach. Their arenas are many, ranging from empty misty streets, to ornate ballrooms, to busy bazaars. All places have have their targets, every object a price and no one is beyond the reach of the true thieving master.

Welcome to Breaking the Bank, a game of master thieves. I am looking for two clever, cunning souls willing to risk lives and limbs to perform heists of the highest caliber and earn fame, glory and of course, treasure. A potential career of glittering achievements and legend stretches out before you, people singing of your exploits in taverns, merchants cursing your name and lords buying heavy duty vaults at the mere mention of your coming.

That dream seems far off at the present, however. Both of your will start off locked up in the Black Whale, the infamous floating prison of Absalom For a crime of your choice. The two of you cellmates, you must hatch a daring plan to escape this place and get to work, for the call of ill-gotten gains reaches out to you. Absalom is a vast city with plenty of ripe fruit for the picking! Do you have the brains, the skills, the bravery to rob an entire city blind and get cheered for doing it?

So yeah, this is a game of robbing hard to rob places in daring ways. Think Ocean's 11 mixed with Robin Hood with a dash of the Great Escape. It will be episodic and character driven with many goals and targets provided, with you deciding how to go about them. We will start in Absalom but may move farther afield as you plunder the place.

Looking for a Pair of players so build someone who can play nice with others. Recruiting NPCs will be a big part of the game so social skills will come in handy. While you are master thieves I'm looking for lovable rouges not viscous cutthroats so no Evil, baby-eating characters, please.

Hoping for a game full of well-planned heists, criminal hi-jinks and staying one step ahead of rival thieves and the City Watch both.

Interested? Look below.

Stats: 25 point buy
Starting Level: 4
Races: All core races without question, as well as teifling, catfolk and ratfolk. More unusual races on a case by case basis.
Classes: All Paizo classes, including Occult, are allowed.
Unchained: Rogues and Summoners must be Unchained, Monks and Barbarians may be either.
Wealth: You are locked up in a jail cell with no equipment and no gold! You may have ½ WBL in a safe place in the city at a location you detail.
Traits: Two traits, no flaws.
Background Skills: 2 background skill ranks per level.
ABP: We will be using Automatic Bonus progression

Things I want in your backstory:

Why you are a thief?

Your favorite past exploit/crime/?

How did you get caught and locked up in the Black Whale?

What is a crime you've always wanted to commit? It can be as vague as 'I've always wanted to seal art' to specific as “I've always wanted to steal Margrave Rienhold's opera gloves”. Give me a window into your character.

And list three other NPCs your character is connected to, either through love/hate/rivalry/contact/blood. Be creative with these for they will be my main tools at first.

Recruitment will be open for three weeks, until May 11th. Any questions, please ask! Look forward to some interesting characters

Ok, here is a thread where we can hash out this 'duo' idea.

Should I introduce you to each other using your aliases you are using in my games or what? Either way, say hi and get to know each other a bit. IF we start a game, you'll be hanging out alot...

Anyway, I have a few vague ideas for games.

1. Each of you would be from rival nations (say Chelix and Andoran or Molthune and Nimtharis) and are forced to work together to overcome a greater evil.

2. Members of a monster hunting guild that take jobs to capture/kill/defeat dangerous beasts all over the world.

3. A duo run of an AP?

Anything here strike a fancy and if you have your own ideas, please feel free to share it! Even if not an idea for a game, maybe some character idea or some game theme you'd like to see explored.

Let's figure out something fun...

For dotting

Discussion for the game!

For dotting

For Discussion!

Connac Aevell is dying. The famed adventurer and leader of the legendary ‘Band of the Black Banner’, whose exploits are sung in both rowdy dockside taverns as well as royal courts throughout Avistan is dying. The stealer of the Amber Bead of Magnimar, Seducer of the Samsaran Princess of Nambutu, tamer of dragons has been laid low.

It was not old age that claimed the man, but some unknown hand. A dagger in the night and a fleeing shadowy figure are the only clues you know. Distraught you kneel beside the old man as he dies.

His last words, gasped and choked out are ‘Get the Band back together’. It can only mean one thing, reunite the nearly mythic Band of the Black Banner, heroes of so many adventures. They separated many years ago of course and went to unknown fates, but their names are familiar to you, from Connac's many stories and songs.

Mestra, a teilfling nicknamed the Devil of Riddleport, master thief and burglar who has snuck through palaces and dungeons throughout the world. The immoral and wise-cracking rogue stole priceless heirlooms from brides, jeweled scepters from liches and jailhouse keys with unequaled aplomb.

Amanandar Thyrlen, a sorcerer of strange visions and powers. It was his magic that allowed the Band to travel to distant planes and planes. Rumored to have portents of the future, more then once his seer-like skills had saved the band (and entire kingdoms). More famously, he also shattered the Blood Chain of Nidal, freeing hundreds of slaves.

Thragrim Stoneblood, a dwarven warrior whose acts of sheer strength and will are legends. Skilled with axe and fist alike, few could withstand his righteous fury. His toppling the Lighthouse of Black Rock is a favorite among sailors, while the time he strangled a tiger with bare hands a popular bit of lore in Vudra.

Farnese Caladriel, half-elf priestess of Shelyn. Renowned for her redemption of the Vampire Lord of Shadowbrook, she was often the selfless moralist of the group. It was she that drove out demons in the Mwangi Expanse, broke a curse on the Trade Master of Absalom and cured a chillbane plague in Karlsgrad. One of Connac's favorite yarns was Mestra staying behind to rescue a harem full of slaves while single-handling holding off a squad of devils.

Their greatest triumph, defeating the Red Priest of Windswept Wastes, is still wrapped in mystery. While Connac's tale always evade the question, they broke up years ago, scattered to the four winds. Even the Banner itself is lost. Gathering up these adventurers will be a legend itself. Who knows where time, curiosity and ill fate have taken these brave souls...

You are bound, by Connac's last words, to fulfill his last request and find and gather together his old friends. Your relation to Aevell is up to you be it offspring, former lover or doting butler, as long as it is deep and meaningful. This quest will take you to all ends of Golarion and maybe beyond.

Stats: 25 point buy
Starting Level: 5
Races: All core races without question. More unusual races on a case by case basis. Connac Aevell's race is left unknown so don't let that constrain you.
Classes: All Paizo classes, including Occult, are allowed. (Solo game so crazy builds are not as big a deal).
Unchained: Rogues and Summoners must be Unchained, Monks and Barbarians may be either.
Wealth: Standard ½ WBL Hit Points: Full HP at first level, half after that.
Traits: Two traits, no flaws.
Background Skills: 2 background skill ranks per level.
ABP: We will be using Automatic Bonus progression

Party Balance: While this will be a solo game, NPCs will be provided so do not feel constrained to play any particular class.

Recruitment will be open until Wednesday March 1rst. Any questions, please ask! Look forward to some interesting characters.

The wind was blowing out of the north, wet and cold. A storm threatened, black clouds rolling in heavy with rain

Maya has no time for that though, she, like the crowd around her, was fixated on the city square of Isarn. The square, the sight of so many mobs, riots, and proclamations was today the home of several Final Blades. The spindly silhouettes of the guillotines were familiar to the people, who viewed them with a mix of respect, fear and awe. Even the most bloodthristy spectator gave the machines a wide berth, instead pressing close tot he parade of wagons rumbling onto the cobblestones. The men driving the wagons cursed and whipped by horses and crowd, trying to get their cargo to the imposing blades. Due to the pressing and active hordes of people, this was no easy task.

Maya, of course, didn't have to worry about such trivial things. Her and the rest of the newly minted Radical Bench formed the new government of Galt and so rated seats on the scaffolding itself, both to impress on them their new authority as well as remind them of the fate of so many Galtian governments before them.

Next to her were the leading lights of the new governing body. At her right was Jisnart Remer, the Provost General, the leader of the group. A strong, forceful man, he had made a name for himself by breaking the power of the druids in the Boarwood. A middle-aged man used to action and violence, he had also showed a deft use of the crowds in his rise to power.

Right of him was Brecca Kolnen, a young financial wizard and mastermind. He had gained an education in Absalom but had been bribed back to Galt with promises of power and riches. Kolen was a quiet, retiring type with twitchy jerks of the head. He turned a pimply face towards Maya and smiled. She guessed he was attracted, and though his new position deserved the same in return.

Past the smiling Brecca is Angele Retes, a woman older then Maya and looks it. Long blonde hair, obviously a wig, wreathes her thin shoulders. She wears an out of date dress, overly decorated with finery and pearls. She is a former Senator, raised up as patronage for her help to Remer and helping his rise to power. It was her that had quieted the Senate during the coup and had personally voted for the Provost General's title and rank. A veteran of Galtian's politics, she was smarter then she appeared and had deep roots.

To Maya's left, she could hear the wheezy breathing Rulner Demix. The once famed artist and architect had been retired for Maya's entire life. Someone Remer had brought the aged lion out of retirement to add a hint of the old glories of Galt to the new regime. While some labeled this reactionary backsliding, most thought it was a good sign. Still, with his age, Maya wondered if the coughing old man would die right here, even before the executed.

As if in direct contrast, the man next to Demix was young, standing ramrod straight. Fully armed and armored Zegrun Cinli was the new Master of Guard and Armies. A foreign adventurer, he had met Remer during his fights with the druids. A master tactician and leader of men, his firm hand had helped turn the rabble following the Bench into a fighting force. While not nearly as harsh or brutal as Remer could be (Maya shivered at the memories of burned keeps during the coup), Cinli had a pointed view of life that usually revolved around stabbing something until it was dead. Maya did note the fine purple cloth of his uniform and emeralds on his swordhilt however. Not just a man of war....

Last, near the edge of the platform was Amar Moreue. Painfully thin, he looked very cold on the rough wooden platform, wind whipping his cloak dramatically. Maya felt he planned it that way. He was the Radical Bench's public face and ideologue in chief. A former lawyer turned rabble-rouser, Moreue had the gift of oratory that could turn a crowd into his plaything, to be turned to violence or good. No mere speaker though, he had a first-rate mind, capable of turning the high flown governmental concepts into simple ideas for the common folk. It was also rumored he had a spy network of bards and prostitutes in every tavern and brothel in Galt, carefully measuring thoughts and feelings. He had served several governments before , although this was his first time at the highest levels.

Maya's reverie is broken as the sealed wagons creak to a halt. At a nod from Cinli, guards step forward and open the wagon. As the figures are pushed roughly out the crowd erupts into jeers and boos. Only a few weeks ago they were the masters of the land, rulers of Galt. Now they were just more cattle for the slaughter. They were the old Revolutionary Council, as well as some of their strongest supporters. Maya didn't recognize many of them, but she did spot Korran Goss, the big shouldered man who had once presided over this very same scene. For a moment he stares directly at Maya, and she is struck by how...broken the once gifted demagogue looks. Then he is pushed along and the moment passes. As the former rules are lead up the rough wooden steps, Maya hears a voice.

Besides her, Demix says, his voice a chattering stutter. ”Quite a spectacle, eh? Would make a good painting or tapestry.” He says it as if he can see the interplay of colors on paper or cloth in his mind. ”Although it has not been an uncommon sight. Who wants art of such a commonplace thing as the fall of a government?” Maya notes he keeps his voice low enough that only she can hear.

Enjoy. I hold the right to retcon if something occurs to me. Let us hope for a good game! Any questions?

OOC Thread!

Welcome to Recruitment for Hand of the Living God, my homebrew solo game. In it you will play a Razmiri agent in the River Kingdoms.

You are given one task, simple in concept but vast in execution. It is to infiltrate, undermine, and eventually overthrow that motley set of realms and help prepare the way for the rightful invasion by Thronestep. Whether you choose brute force, skillful intrigue, political blackmail, commercial strangleholds or any other manner of under-handed or violent means is up to you.

So yes, you will play a Razmiri agent, so Evil characters may apply. I will not discount other alignments but I'm looking for an aspiring agent who want to, for whatever reason, promote the Razmiri kingdom and presumably move up the ladder of Razmiran politics. I'm keeping character guidelines wide open for all those ideas that don't fit into other games. You can be as greedy, selfish and ambitious as you like! In fact, it is encouraged.

Recruitment will be open for 3 weeks, until December 17th!

See all the stuff below for more details for what I am looking for in applicants.

Ok, that is everything! A lot of information, I know, but it should help you apply with the best character possible and eliminate surprises. If you have any questions, comments and such, please ask below. I will be following this thread closely, and feedback should be swift.

Again, recruitment will be open for 3 weeks, until December 17th!

For discussion!

For dotting