This will be a play by post Eberron campaign, using mainly published material.
Ok, we're full up. Chris Mortika and nightflier are in, make up some characters, guys. I've created a thread in the pbp forum and will begin posting adventure content once some more character backgrounds are sorted out. We're starting with the Forgotten Forge, which is a prologue from the setting book.
Eager to get going
RPG Superstar 2010 Top 16
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Well say that the court costume is a cloak-and-collar, like you'd expect the TimeLords of Gallifrey to wear. The novice barristers wear rose-colored robes. After an inital period of six months to perhaps two years, a barrister is entitled to wear red robes. Seniors wear maroon.
So, forgive my confusion, but are we playing here, or over at Epic Worlds?
My first entry there is copied under the spoiler tags here:
The oak door swings shut behind him, and Thediar's steps echo down the dark marble hallway, bouncing off the wall to his right. To his left is an elegant guardrail of brass and china-marble filagree, and beyond that is sky, still blue in spots, but darkening every minute with dark storm clouds moving in from the west. It reflected Thediar's mood. "I should have expected ... ! By the four winds, I not trained for ... ! They had no right to expect me to ... You know what I think?"
He has no idea what to think. As he realizes that, he hears a roll of distant thunder.
The Boromar Clan did get to its position by tolerating failures. Of course not. "But I trained as a barrister, not a negotiator!" In the room behind the oak door, four men were still discussing matters: Helvig Cooper, a petitioner; a representative of the Coopers' and Barrelers' Guild; Darvin Olivet, a man brought to suit for interfering with the Cooper's business; and Olivet's remaining representation, Thediar's senior partner, the hobgoblin Geiman. Thediar curses as he reaches the bottom of a spiral staircase and starts up. Geiman would have to do his best alone now, as Thediar, thinking to dodge one of the Guild lawyer's traps, had walked right into another.
Of course, Olivet had 'interfered' with business; he was an enforcer for one of the Boromar protection rackets, and interfering was his job. And Thediar had done his, ingratiating himself into Helvig's good graces, and getting him to consider dropping his case altogether. Until that damnable Guild attorney had, in the process of asking several reasonable questions, maneuvered Thediar into conceding, somehow, that Olivet's activities were tied to Helvig's business model. The only thing left, the only strategy that could have worked, was for Thediar to excuse himself and leave the case to Geiman, who'd admitted nothing of the sort. And to report upstairs to the Clan.
He catches sight of the halfling Prains, a Boromar accountant, coming down the stairs ahead of him. "You don't want to up there," says Prains.
"Damned straight I don't, but I need to face --"
"Not today. We're being audited by the authorities."
"The Guard? Don't be ridiculous, Prains. We--"
"The Citadel."
"'Crown and Kingdom'? That Citadel?"
With a pop and a roar of thunder, the clouds break.
And my second entry there.
Thediar doesn't have much of an office: a roll-top desk kept a number of innocent-looking papers and two wells of ink: one indigo black, and the other designed to disappear within a half-hour until treated with a reagent. He goes to the second drawer on the left and pushes it in, perhaps an inch, until he feels a soft vibration. Then he opens the main desk drawer, and removes some of the confidential folders.
He looks around the office for anything else, and decides on a traveling pack and, Sharn being Sharn, a sheathed longsword that's been propped in the corner of the room for as long as he can remember. And he's off.
The nearest cab stand is down two stories and over one of the decorative bridges, in a merchant district. He checks his purse to make sure he has enough coin to buy a ride across town as he rushes down the main stairwell in the courts building, and he's almost too late looking up to see a figure in black robes and hood at the landing below, hoist a crossbow and fire at him.
Thediar rolls to the left and the bolt his the marble staircase behind him, sending brittle chips flying. He looks at the back of his left hand and sees a light scrape start to bleed. By the Host's happy minions, can this day get any worse?
Thediar takes a glance at the assailant as she (she?) loads another quarrel. She looks to be a shifter, exhibiting some lupine qualities, and her outfit is clean and new. "A lawyer and a Boromar to boot," she says, aiming again. "How lucky does a girl get?"
Thediar closes with her, using the papers in his left hand as a makeshift buckler. He draws the sword he's carrying, only to find she's already got one unsheathed. Hers is a long scimiar, decorated with some brass designs on the hilt, and spotless. "This is 'Death-drinker'," she announces.
Thediar's own blade is tarnished and rusty. Even on its best day, it was a plain, workmanlike design, and the steel is probably too cheap to hold a real cutting edge after a few blows. "Well, then, meet 'Gladys.'"
The Shifter's brows furrow in disgust. "Gladys? What kind of a name is that?"
"A trivial name. A sorry name. It heightens the shame and humiliation of my victims." As Thediar speaks, his voice grows deep and resonant. He's begun an oration, and he attempts to keep the woman -- a Daask cultist, by the looks of her tattoos -- entranced by his words. He takes two steps towards her as he speaks, and she doesn't respond. Good.
And with that, he knocks her scimitar from her hand and takes off behind her at a dead run. At least, if the Sharn Watch comes by, I have an excuse for running. He weaves through the foot traffic on this level, mostly businessmen and merchant lords, some accompanied by their private guards, who have turned in his direction, wary of Thediar and his potentially dangerous blade.
He covers the length of the bridge and dares a look back. If the Daask shifter is coming after him --and he has to assume she is-- she's moving with stealth, possibly on the outside of the bridgework. He takes another staircase down to the cab landings, and a private vehicle pulls up to him. "Where might the good gentle be headed?"
"The Cloak and Quill pub, on the north side of the Cornerstone, Mid-" he starts to say, when another crossbow bolt slams into his backpack. The impact throws him into the cab interior, ass over teakettle, and he yells, "Anywhere! Just go!"
The cab disengages from the landing and moves off. As Thediar rights himself, a thick baritone from very close by affirms the order. "Get us clear of the Tower District, sergeant."
Oh, this can't be good. Thediar reassembles himself and looks over to see dwarf in blue-dyed leather armor. "I didn't realize the cab was already spoken for. I'l let myself out, if you'll pardon the intrusion."
The dwarf smiles. "Oh, no intrusion at all. Captain Bendel, of the King's Dark Lanterns." The dwarf opens a compact case, presenting the silver dragon-and-bear crest of the Citadel. "Suppose we have a chat about the papers you're carrying, Mister 'Rosecloak'."
Through the windows, through the storm, Thediar notices that they're descending below the Middle Wards. "If you know who I am, you know that the Dark Lanterns have an agreement with--"
The dwarf's demeanor turns a little rougher. "If you knew who we are, you'd know that we don't give a roper's bum about your little rackets or operations. But Boromar's gotten itself involved in a smuggling operation we care very much about. And you'll hand over those papers."
Thediar knows about the Dark Lanterns, all right. They are the espionage division of the Citadel, and they thrive in Sharn, a city with more than its fair share of secrets. But they are notorious for building up their own power base as well, and these papers would give them leverage over a half-dozen dirty clients. So, Thediar does the only think he can think of.
He leans to his left and kicks the dwarf, hard, in the arm. And falls out the still-open door to his left. The papers go flying, scattered by the winds. And the hapless attorney lands, hard, in a trash heap thirty feet below. As he takes stock of himself, he realizes that his sword is still in the cab, now wheeling back towards him.
He rolls out of the garbage pile and feels his left knee give a little. Obviously, he's taken some damage. He limps into an alley, soaking wet and smelling of ... well, smelly things. He squats behind a cluster of barrels, trying to remain hidden from the Dark Lantern patrol.
"Can this day possibly get any worse?" he mutters to himself.