Riflestorme's page

You stand in the bustle of Ravenwood, a large trading town with walls of stone and lively locals. The sun beats down warmly as you pace the town's cobbled streets; each of you are here for different reasons, yet perhaps not so different after all.

Two dwarves, weary from travelling, search for a tavern to rest their weary legs. One carries a plethora of axes and armaments, and each guard he passes he sets on edge. His companion, taller by and inch, walks alongside his fellow. Although less armed, he bears an air of experience about him that only years can tell.

From the shade of a stall's eave a man watches the scene before him. Unnoticed just outside the throng, he searches, but for what is his to know. This man is used to being invisible; so used to it, in fact, that he can blend into the shadows without a second thought.

Percection checks, everyone. Only open the spoiler if you pass, and post your dice roll using the "dice" format (below).

A cool night breeze wafts through the only window of the basement level in the abandoned farmhouse outside of Ravenwood, slowly coating the flagstones of the walls in a thin condensation. Three figures sit at a sturdy oaken table lit by the many candles placed haphazardly around the room; the breeze makes the resulting shadows flicker and dance in the dimness.

The first figure is slender, wrapped in cloak and hood and naught but his wry smile and the hint of pointed ears visible through his coverings. But more than that; there is an unnatural chill about his form, as if malice itself shields him more than mere cloth and steel. The second, a tower of a man, leans against the table studying a hastily-drawn map that lies outspread thereupon, his eyes cold and calculating against the flickering candlelight. His features stern, he reaches for his quill and carefully marks another point on the map. The third figure watches from the head of the table. His figure is hard to discern; it seems that if one were to try to look at him directly they would immediately forget what he looked like, as if they hadn't looked at him at all. Smaller than an average man he sits, his beady eyes overlooking the proceedings and his head covered by a deep woven cowl. In his hands is what seems to be a large, thin splinter of wood, which he holds with decided reverence. Every now and then the splinter sparks, to which the figure speaks a word unknown to men, returning the spark from whence it came.

The figures have met to acquire an item being kept in a vault in Ravenwood; an item that they have striven long to acquire: A key to the Forgotten Halls. A key to power and riches beyond their imagining.