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Please remember: If you are doing something that some of the party wouldn't know about, put it behind a spoiler, labeled for everyone who would know what's going on.
Also, try to avoid telling us what you're thinking, if possible. Describe your emotions and reactions, and talk to the players about your thoughts, but please don't force people to role-play with your thoughts that they wouldn't know anyway. If you don't say it to them, they shouldn't know. :)
You have not slept well, with every bump and sound reminding you, and your insides, that you boarded an airship departing Sharn late last night, having pulled some strings to get you aboard the House Lyrandar airship The Colossus of Stormhome bound for Sylbaran in the Eldeen Reaches. A bit of luck, it seemed, to be able to go straight to your destination rather than forcing you to take the lightning rail up to Passage in Aundair, and then charter a House Orien Coach down to Sylbaran. The whole journey would have cost upwards of 250 galifars and taken two more weeks of travel. This was strikingly easier.
A bell sounds, likely for the cooks to begin preparing the breakfast.
As is your nature, you have not slept, but have laid in bed since the House Lyrandar airship 'The Colossus of Stormhome picked up its passengers and cargo last evening in Sharn. You assume the other warforged in the room has not either. You have journeyed with the rest of the entourage from Sylbaran on the airship for the last two days, bound to escort an archeological artifact discovered in Xen'drik by Morgrave University. Apparently it was originally from Sylbaran, and now Breland was returning it.
A bell sounds, likely for the cooks to begin preparing the breakfast.
As is your nature, you have not slept, but have laid in bed since the House Lyrandar airship The Colossus of Stormhome picked up its passengers and cargo last evening in Sharn. You assume the other warforged in the room has not either. You have journeyed with the rest of the entourage from Sylbaran on the airship for the last two days, bound to escort an archeological artifact discovered in Xen'drik by Morgrave University. Apparently it was originally from Sylbaran, and now Breland is returning it.
Two weeks ago you received word from your old friend Aemon Graham that he was coming through Sharn with a Xen'drikkan artifact bound for your home in Sylbaran, and wanted you to accompany him. Late last night, amidst a flurry of people loading and boarding the House Lyrandar airship The Colossus of Stormhome, you packed up your belongings and checked out of the Broken Anvil where you had been staying and joined your friend on board the ship, bound for the last place you wanted to go.
A bell sounds, likely for the cooks to begin preparing the breakfast.
You lie in the darkness of the cramped quarters full of bunk beds that you entered late last night. A small ever-burning lantern hangs by the door, its hood allowing just a crack of light to permeate the darkness of the room. You share the room with several others.
You have journeyed with the rest of the entourage from Sylbaran on the airship for the last two days, bound to escort an archeological artifact discovered in Xen'drik by Morgrave University. Apparently it was originally from Sylbaran, and now Breland is returning it. It has been an uncomfortable experience, and you have slept restlessly in your bunk amongst all the others in the room. You don't know why Jutta admonished you to join in on this journey, yet here you are.
A bell sounds, likely for the cooks to begin preparing the breakfast.
You lie in the darkness of the cramped quarters full of bunk beds that you entered late last night. A small ever-burning lantern hangs by the door, its hood allowing just a crack of light to permeate the darkness of the room. You share the room with several others.
It was only yesterday that Renef came to you and implored you to leave town, heading for Sylbaran in the Eldeen Reaches. You carry a small package he pressed upon you, admonishing you to give it to Cham Laringfass d'Ghallanda at the Ramblehouse in Sylbaran. Last night you scrambled to gather your belongings, only just making the late departure of the House Lyrandar airship The Colossus of Stormhome. You were crammed into a small room full of bunk beds, along with several other passengers.
A bell sounds, likely for the cooks to begin preparing the breakfast.
War Reparations, he thinks to himself. They return bodies that died on their land, items that were stolen when territory was lost. But how much damage can they actually repair? The memories of war remain fresh as ever.
He shakes his head, a movement he has seen humans make to "clear their head"s, but it produces no effect. Catalyzer sits in the dark, thinking of all the things he has done, and having no idea how he can ever make up for them.
Without a word, Engineer #3 makes his way down the length of the cabin and heads towards the galley and the upper decks beyond.
When the bell rings, Thalmor makes a quiet groan, and turns his legs out of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He pinches the tip of his beard, twisting it, and then looks around. He blinks, and rubs the sleep from his eyes, which then dark towards breakfast. He grabs his stuff, and with a heavy thump, his broad feet plomp onto the ground. His eyes darting here and there, Thalmor is armed, he frowns at the floating contraption they are on, avoiding the looks of any of those who might be bunking in this device.
He grumbles inaudibly, and with further heavy footfalls, exits the room to get whatever vittles these airship masters might have scrounged up.
Engineer #3 Mk. II exits the cabin in the dark, and moves through the storage compartment in the next room over, before climbing the steep stair out of the hold. The ship creaks sleepily around them as they move through the darkness. Turning right, they enter the common area.
The room runs the width of the ship, almost forty feet wide at this point. A table and chairs lie just in front of them, with cabinets of loaves of bread and other sandwich fixings against the left wall. Another steep stair directly to the left of the door heads up to the deck, chockablock with boxes and barrels strapped in behind the stair and hanging from the rafters over the cabinets.
Beyond the table, a counter juts out from the left wall, full of other cooking utensils and some foodstuffs.
To their right, a couple of bodies lie wrapped up in bedrolls on the floor in front of a padded wrap-around bench built into the walls. They snore softly, while above them a hammock lays empty.
Another counter juts out from the right wall; it is kitty-corner, and offset just enough from the one on the left to allow passage between them. Light from the portholes along the walls letting in the deep blue of early morning glints off bottles and other drinking utensils.
Beyond the two counters, in the dim, they could just make out the light of the lit stove of the kitchen, a recognizable silhouette standing in front of it.
Roderik d'Deneith turns and smiles. "Good morning, Engineer. Sleep well?"
A groan emanates from one of the bedrolls on the floor, and the groggy voice of Kurst Grath, Roderik's younger brother croaks out. "It is way too early for your Khyber-spawn puns, brother." He rolls over towards the wall. "Engineer, please throttle him and his happiness so I can sleep."
Thalmor makes his way out of the cabin, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and moves through the storage compartment in the next room over, before climbing the steep stair out of the hold. The ship creaks sleepily around him as he moves through the darkness. Ahead, he can make out quiet voices talking...likely the warforged that left the room a bit before him speaking in low tones with someone else.
As Catalyzer lies there contemplating, the other warforged swings out of their bunk, grabs their duffle and leaves the room. Several minutes later a dwarf who was in one of the other bunks groans and rolls out of his bunk. He thumps to the floor, and gathering his belongings, glances around the room before heading out as well.
Thuurvi stretches, shoulders popping, and cracks her ankles and toes and neck in succession. She sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose a little. She puts on her breeches and boots quietly, noting her lower bunkmate Thalmor is already up, and heads out to the mess area, sipping a bit of water from a waterskin, and chews a small piece of dried ginger. She yawns hugely, displaying distinct canines on top and larger tusklike ones on the lower jaw. Her stomach growls to answer her yawn as she rubs her eyes.
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The gentle swaying of the airship did little to calm Tuk's dreams....
Tuk was back training in HalfHome, facing the large automaton once again....and once again it malfunctioned. Lying on his back, he watches as first the Training Master, then other Tuks came flying to his aid. Somehow, all 272 Tuks who came before him rushed out of the shadows to leap upon the out of control construct.
In horror, Tuk could only watch as the mindless thing slowly crushed his cousins in it's hands, or beneath it's monstrous feet, of flung them to dash against the ground.
The muddy ground held Tuk fast, so that he could not go to their aid!
Finally all were dead but him, and the construct loomed over him....a doom he could not avoid. A large foot slowly raised and Tuk was chilled by the shadow it cast upon him....
....Tuk sat up in his bunk, eye's wide, breath hard in his chest as if he'd actually been pressed into the ground and crushed. Taking a deep , steadying breath, he shook his head, his damp locks splatting against his neck and cheeks.
Involuntarily, he flinched as one then another warforged rose from nearby bunks and moved above decks....he was glad the dim light kept his shameful reaction hidden.
With a sigh, he rolled his neck, trying to free the tension there from his nightmare. Hopping onto the wooden deck , he gathered up his bandolier and weapon belt and made his way above decks, giving the half-orc from the nearby bunk a good headway...
Shortly after the half-orc woman emerges, a halfing with a wild shock of red hair emerges. If any notice him, he nods politely , then makes his way to the gunwale, hopping up on a convenient box, gazing out into the empty air, his focus many miles beyond the vista before him.
Engineer stands against the wall, trying not to take up much space in the cramped quarters.
Roderik laughs jovially at his brother and Engineer #3 Mk. II. "Absolutely, get over here, you can help fry up some tomatoes. We're on our own this morning, the lords and important folk are having breakfast up in the main galley."
Thalmor stumbles grumbling into the room and sits at the table, pulling out a ledger.
"Let me get you an ale, Master Thalmor." Roderik says, pulling out a mug and a craft of beer from a storage locker. "I was told you would be joining us on our trip home. Welcome." Condensation drips down the sides of the craft, wettening the table as Roderik plonks it down, a dark brew slopping over the sides.
Thuurvi wanders in, chewing on a bit of ginger, to see Roderik, whom she is familiar with, serving beer to a dwarf she's never seen before.
"Thuurvi, good morning. Kurst!" he barks, kicking at the lumps on the ground. "Rise and shine!" He addresses Thuurvi as he heads back to help Three. "Would you like some fried tomatoes and eggs with a couple of rashers of bacon?"
A halfling with a wild shock of red hair emerges and nods politely, then makes his way to the stairs to the deck of the ship.
With a groan, Kurst rolls over as Jacynta enters the room. "Sovereigns be damned. I'm getting up."
Thalmor looks up nods, and a nearly imperceptable movement at the corner of his mouth under his bushy beard betrays his pleasure at morning ale, "aye, lad, much obliged." and he grips the handle of the mug, taking a draught of the dark liquid. The foam catches here and there on his face, and he wipes it off with the back of his sleeve. He looks up, satisfied, and with a gravelly voice, adds "not bad for a morning brew, at least," He rubs his brow a moment and then returns back to his ledger.
"Roderik, that would be wonderful. My stomach is regular as a clock, even if I didn't sleep well," says Thuurvi, hovering vaguely near the cook area and then wisely taking a seat. "I would help, but spoons and knives tend to fly around me at times," she says by way of explanation. "Are they discussing the artifact up there in the lofty halls of the blessed gentry?"
Thuurvi waves her flame-colored braid at Tuk, her fingers a contrasting tattooed black. "Fellow redhead, morning...ah, I guess he's not going for breakfast just yet. I'll be the honorary halfling and eat his as well if he doesn't come back," says the half-orc.
She sips at her water and amuses herself by dropping crumbs from the tabletop, which skitter away in every direction, wafted by the barely visible forces that surround her--their other evidence being her twisted shadow that curls past her seat, of course.
"Unlikely," a man belches, entering the room after Jacynta. He smiles at the young halfling fondly, hugging her. "Good morning, my dear. So glad you could join me again."
He crosses to the table with Thuurvi and Thalmor seated at it, and tosses a leather journal on it, followed by a quill, jar of ink, a handkerchief, several coins, a loose bit of paper, and a mouse, which promptly scurries off the table into the detritus around the edges of the room. "Oh dear, how'd that get in there?" he chuckles, pulling out a mug from a shelf behind Kurst, who was still lying on the ground, his elbow over his eyes.
"My name is Aemon Grahame, if you please," he says sitting down and pulling the craft of beer over to him. "I am the scholar who found the artifact in question. Artifact -" he scoffs, pouring the beer into his cup, only to find it has only a few drops left. "Odd, that," he says, looking inside the craft as if there might be some still hidden in its depths. "It's a pillar. A stone -" Roderik hands him another craft of beer, "- thank you. A pillar of stone. A stone pillar. Apparently, it comes from the town of Sylbaran," he says, brandishing his now full cup in salute to the room in general. "So...reason to celebrate."
He takes a long pull from the mug. His skin is a soft red-chocolatey hew, very warm, and has clearly seen the sun. His hair is a lovely dark shade with bits of grey, a large swoop of his forehead bald. He has a neatly trimmed goatee that has gone almost completely gray. He has to be almost 60, but has a likability about him, despite his gruffness, and a playfulness that belies his age.
"Kurst." Roderik exhorts. When nothing happens, he barks. "Custennin!"
Kurst lurches up, entangled in his bedroll, his white legs on display under his nightshirt. "I'm up, I'm up!" he grumbles.
Tuk exits out of the hatch onto the main deck, dropping it shut again after him. He hops up on a crate and enjoys the beauty that is Khorvaire passing beneath him.
The sky is a light steel blue, and the air is crisp. Clouds can be seen mixing with the sky, gray but dormant. The airship is a long one, over a hundred feet easy, stem to stern. At the rear of the ship, the quarter deck rises up fifteen feet, and the pilot can be seen up there, as he commands the most impressive feature on display: the enormous ring of fire that encircles the midship, the elemental that makes flight possible.
At the opposite railing stands a middle-aged man, dressed in warm velvets, his cinnamon hair curly. He too stares out over the expanse over 1,000 feet below you.
A door in the center of the quarter-decks opens. After another minute or so, a voice pipes up. Turning, Tuk realizes someone else has joined them on the deck and is addressing the man.
"You know," the newcomer, a slightly younger man with honey-colored brown curly hair sighs, "this is when you're supposed to say something."
The older man doesn't move but stands a bit straighter.
They stand in silence for a while longer. Then the older man looks down on the planes beneath them, and sighs.
"You look good."
The younger half-elf snorts, "I aim to please, Sasik. I like to look good for you."
They stand in uncomfortable silence for another minute. The old man coughs. "How's Mother? I haven't seen her since..."
"I wouldn't know" the younger man replies, looking at his boots. "We...don't talk anymore."
The older man finally looks at the younger one. "Really? I thought -"
"No. She doesn't talk to me either. It's not just because of your marriage..."
Sasik turns away in frustration.
"It's not because of your marriage. I don't know why she cut you off, but she's done the same to me."
"What on Eberron could she be mad at you for, Dalin?"
After a beat, the younger man sighs in deep frustration. "I don't know. She keeps getting upset at what we're doing with the business. She's...got these ideas, these ridiculous ideas that we're doing more damage than good with the mage-breeding. Seems to feel it has become..."
"Unnatural?" At a nod from Dalin, Sasik whistles. "Does...does she still follow the Wardens?"
"Yes. Of course." Dalin rebuffs, before realizing that Tuk is on the deck with them. Their conversation turns to whispers before they depart, heading into the main body of the quarter-deck.
Thuurvi narrows her eyes at the mouse, then turns her attention to the newcomer, and lifts a blackened hand in greeting.
"Aemon. Thuurvi Muth-la-Zash, a Jhor'guuntaal of the Reaches, although my family was originally from the Marches. I was sent here by one of the myriad annoying Druid factions of Eldeen. So how is it that a Xen'drik pillar winds up in the Reaches of all places? Were there Giant colonies established in the past?"
She leans across the table slightly, her curiosity piqued.
"A jogun - I'm sorry," Aemon leans forward, stroking his goatee, "a jo...jogunt -"
"Jhorgun'taal" Kurst grunts, pulling on his pants, his tongue trilling on the 'r' in Jhorgun'taal. He looks remarkably like his brother if his brother needed a haircut, hadn't slept all night, and was two drinks in. "It means 'born of..." he stops pulling his pants up and closes his eyes for a second, thinking. "...both bloods', or something like that."
Next to Kurst in the other bedroll on the floor, another man stretches and yawns, his mustache curling up at his cheeks. "'Two bloods'."
"Help yourselves." Roderik sets down a couple of plates of bacon, fried tomatoes, toasted muffins, and bright butter. "Omast is right. It is 'two bloods'. Actually, correct me if I am wrong, my lady, it means 'child of two bloods', correct'?" He gestures welcomingly to Jacynta to sit and join them.
"Um . . . colonies might be a strong word, but there's certainly evidence of Giantish construction, just up Blademark Hill. Well, Bloodmarch Hill, most people call it. Sorry, but did anyone see another halfling come through a minute ago? With red hair?"
Engineer #3 efficiently cooks the food for those in the galley, unconcernedly using large fingers deftly in place of lore traditional utensils.
"I do not recall any areas within town where such a pillar might have resided. Are there any clues or indications of such that you know?"
"Yeah, he hopped on up to the deck, and didn't even acknowledge that we were hair twins," drawls Thuurvi. "Apologies for the term--I should be mindful that 'colonies' has all sorts of implications. Bloodmarch Hill, a colorful name. I'm sure I've walked it but don't recall that particular moniker."
She turns back to Aemon, amused. "Yes, Roderik has it. 'Child of two bloods'. The Shadow Marcher orcs took in many humans long ago when none else would have them, and the admixture is a mark of pride in many parts of the Marches." She says this while availing herself of a plate. "Tak, Roderik. I get so hungry when I'm off my beauty sleep schedule," she says, and begins to tuck in food at a steady, relentless rate.
Tuk watches the royals leave, letting himself smirk a bit, glad in the knowledge that even royalty have their issues with family. That bit about mage-breeding caught his attention, though. "Hah, bet they didn't want to let that slip!" he thought to himself.
He allowed himself a few more minutes of reflection, watching the countryside below scroll by, then the aromas from the common room began to sneak up through the deckboards.
A grumble in his stomach reminded Tuk of a saying that his grandfather, Tuk, the Elder used to quote often, "Feed yer tummy, feed yer life". This was usually said as an excuse to eat an enormous second breakfast!
Chuckling, his thoughts brighter, Tuk turned and returned below decks to see what was cooking...
The hatch opens and the red-haired halfling returns, looking much more convivial than when he'd passed through earlier.
"Greetings, all! " he declared from the ladder, "My apologies if I was abrupt earlier, I seem to be averse to sleeping on an airship! Tuk Nimbleguts, 273rd of that name.....at your service!" he says, holding onto the ladder with one hand, and delivering a sweeping bow with the other.
Thalmor stops writing for a moment, and takes a swig of ale, watching the warforged cook. He nurses the ale as he listens to the half-orc woman chat with the others, his face stoic. His gaze seems to be resting on a particularly interesting piece of wall detrius.
The trance is broken when the energetic halfling comes down the ladder. Thalmor snorts, and a little bit of ale comes out. He wipes it away, roughly, and shakes his head, and then returns to his ledger.
Thalmor's body language and facial mannerisms give you the impression that he is midly interested and listening to the discussion of the strange pillar from Xen'drik, but otherwise clearly wants to be left alone.
Thuurvi nods at Tuk and Thalmor, but she's all about the bacon and tomatoes. "Mmph. Spilled your guts?"
As Kurst and Omast rise and put away their bedrolls and the hammock, Roderik grows a little subdued at the talk. "On Bloodmarch hill the only real evidence of anything is the remains of the...foundation...of a citadel that once stood there. I don't think it was giant-made, however. I'm pretty sure it was made by man before it was destroyed."
"Destroyed?" Aemon queries, drinking from his mug again. His ears perk up at Engineer #3's question and he grabs a muffin and slathers on a thick helping of butter. "I don't think the pillar is psionic in nature, or arcane. Mind you, I'm no expert. I will say it holds power. Of what kind...I cannot say." He looks around the table, picks up the plate of bacon, and peers under it before setting it down again. He calls to Engineer #3 Mk. II in the kitchen, "I say, what are you called dear fellow? And do you have any preserves hidden back there? Fig perhaps?"
Omast disappears back into the ship through the door everyone came out of, and Kurst steps into the kitchen with Roderik where they converse quietly with one another, laughing occasionally.
A middle-aged half-elf with a shaved head and crow's feet on his eyes steps through the doorway from the bow of the ship that Omast just went through, followed by a younger female half-elf, her dark brown hair offset by pale green eyes. "We should arrive about an hour before the midnight bell," he says, speaking to her and paying all of you no mind as they head up the ladder onto the deck. "I want us ready to turnaround by midnight so we can arrive early in Fairhaven."
"So tell me," Aemon says, wiping his mouth with a cloth and looking over everyone gathered, "I know dear Jacynta here, I've worked with her before. Are you all from Sylbaran?"
Thalmor seems to wait until the others bore holes into his skull before sighing as he raises his eyebrow at the question. He leans back, putting down the half-empty mug, ”Eh? Nay. I’m a banker. Only been to Sylbaran a few times. An oath was made, and broken” he explains as if that were extensive enough. He watches the others’ expressions carefully when he says the last thing.
Use 1 round of silver-tongued haggler to get +1 to bluff AND sense motive. He dropped the reference to oaths and oathbreakers to see if anyone seemed nervous when he said this. He’s trying to hide that he wants to gauge reactions, too.
"Only been in Sylbaran for a bit. I mainly grew up in Droaam and the Byeshk Mountains." Thuurvi says, after wiping her plate clean with some bread. She doesn't react to Thalmor's prompting save giving him a little 'cheers' with her table knife and a closed-mouth smile.
"My apologies, I think I've seen you around, Three, and Thalmor besides, but I'm usually running off to the woods," she says, a little apologetically.
"Oh, of course. I've met Sara Morninghawk. Three, a pleasure. I'm sure you do fine work." Thuurvi smiles placidly at the 'forged. "What brought you on the airship?"
Tuk hops down from the ladder, not at all discomfited that most ignored his greeting. But he does manage a wide smile for Jacynta.
Taking up a seat at the table, he grabbed whatever foodstuffs were within reach or passed him by, stuffing a prodigious amount of food into his small frame.
He listens to the the discussion as to the nature of the pillar being delivered to Sylbaran, piping up around a mouthful of food, "Giantsh like the ol' sstuff made by th' ol' giantsh, " he chews a bit, then swallows, clearing his throat, "Sorry... I've heard that the giant's of Droaan revere the old Xendrik giant sites....might be mistake putting something like that up in a town so close..."
"Mmm, I suppose that's a fair estimation, Tuk," says Thuurvi, nodding at both his statement and his ability to eat. "But giants are not monolithic, no pun intended. The giants I knew in Droaam tended to be reverent, but there's a spectrum. Not all are--some resent their past. Some are back-to-Xen'drik nationalist or speciesist types, and those are scary indeed."
She taps her plate with her knife and thinks. "I suppose you'd put me on the 'cautiously reverent' part of the scale. I'm not one for enslaving elves, for instance." She makes a face. "Even if they do odd things with their dead. And as for humans putting a town close to somewhere? That's what humans do. Expansionist empires or scurrying refugees, that's how my dear pinkish ancestors like to get into lands they probably shouldn't be occupying."
She shrugs. "Who's really from where they were originally, though?"
"Dragonmarks, Manifest zones, the prophecy, even the Day of Mourning...if you find an ancient pillar in a far off land and return it to its home, what else might happen? How will Eberron change, and respond, and...adapt, to such actions?" He chuckles whimsically, and gestures along the line of the beer mugs...on one end is Jacynta, on the other is Engineer #3 Mk. II standing in the kitchen area, with everyone's mug in the middle in a line. "How will Siberys respond? Or Khyber? What connects disparate people together in our world?"
Thalmor watches as his ale is moved, and opens his mouth, closing it after a short moment. He grabs it, and holds it close, ”lad, some things ain’t for moving. Better to have left them be.” He takes a swig and gestures to the airship and surroundings, ”damn thing shouldn’t exist for one...” He leans forward, ”as for Eberron - “he pauses and looks at Aemon, ”I know her well. She doesn’t like people poking where their noses don’t belong, does she.” Thalmor leans back again and swigs from his mug, this time holding the thing with an almost iron-like grip.