They All Fall Down IC (solo Eberron for Noedig)

[OMG PONIES]

Kolare's Apothecary


http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2010/6/2/1275492871943/rock-star-hotels-trashed--006.jpg

Darkness. Light begins to creep in, and the silence around you is broken by the small sounds of life in a big city. As you regain your senses, an unmistakable stench fills your nostrils. Even here, in the birthplace of perfumes and potions, the smell of death is wholly unique. It invades your senses, fighting out everything else. It overpowers all other scents, from the subtle floral fragrance of the high-end perfumes to the pungent sting of the swill that serves double duty as perfume and drink of choice for the callgirls of Sharn. A particularly strong one, Harlot's Hornet, sneaks into your nostrils and reminds you of your mother...if only for a moment.

While some might balk at the stench of death, you soak it in as a commendation of your most recent victory. It had been months of preparation, selecting appropriate targets from each house. However, the gears were now beginning to turn--Esmerelda d'Cannith lay at your feet, dead by your blade. As per the requirements of the ritual, you have removed the skin of her face, and you now clutch your gruesome mask. Beneath the corpse lies the Draconic Prophecy, traced in chalk.

Esmerelda's blood spills over the twisting outlines of the Prophecy like wine over a silk tablecloth, soaking in as it goes. As it reaches the part of the Prophecy that resembles House Cannith's Mark of Making, the chalk outline begins to glow. The glow intensifies to a white-hot flash, and when the light subsides, a creature of pure fire stands before you. You can barely make out a somber face among the creature's flaming frame. Without a word, the creature dips one of its tendrils of flame into the girl's blood, badly singing the body. It walks to the wall and writes three words: Chosen, Cyr and centuries.

It stands silently for a few moments. Finally, the creature speaks softly and lowly in Draconic, among crackles of fire and rushes of hot air. "So it begins," the creature whispers in a powerful gust of wind, "the first House is the Door. Cannith is one of these words; to unlock it requires the Key."

Your heart pumps loudly in your chest, beating out a count of the seconds. Lub dub, tick tock. The job wasn't easy, and it wasn't quiet--witnesses were bound to show up soon.

[Noedig]

Dax looked down at his blood spattered clothes. The room was in shambles.
"Messy. Probably loud too." He stood a moment, trying to decide if he should scrub the three words off of the wall. He shook his head. There was no time.

Looking about, he spied a window. The sun was down, blanketing the city in darkness. He strode over and opened the window. He was eight stories in the air, and he could barely see the base of the tower from here.

"Perfect."

Dax took a feathered pin from his pocket, affixed it to his tunic, and leaped out the window. He let himself fall for a moment or two, and then activated the pin close to the ground, in order to minimize the time he was floating gently down through the air. He backed into the shadow of the tower, and shifted the weave of his tunic from his nobles outfit to a beggars. He also changed his physical appearance as well. It wouldn't do for a lord to be seen covered in blood. A cursory scan didn't reveal anyone on the walkways. Someone would eventually discover the dead woman. He had to be elsewhere, quickly. The first step done, he sped off into the darkness.

[OMG PONIES]

"Nice trick, missah..."

The disembodied voice emanates from a nearby pile of garbage. "But why take a face like ours?" it continues. Looking around, you can't quite tell where the voice is coming from, until your eyes settle on the trash heap and find a pair of eyes staring back from within. The eyes pierce you, feral and intense. "Why you be jumpin' outta windows, missah? Doorknob broken?"

[Noedig]

Dax chuckles. "E'ry sec'n'-story-man go' his tricks. Good bit a plunder, what with rich mucky mucks a comin' an' goin'.

I'm going to roll Bluff, because I think it's appropriate given the situation.
[roll0]

[OMG PONIES]

The pair of eyes blinks slowly, and the disembodied voice lets out a grunting laugh. "Heh. If'n you got goods, you won't mind partin' with some to remind me I forgot you, missah." An expectant hand emerges from the trash heap, palm up toward the sky. The hand is covered in fur and bears long, uneven claws.

[Noedig]

Dax grimaced, but reached into one of his pouches all the same. He drew out five golden coins and placed them in the open palm.

Without another word, Dax turns and walks off into the darkness, inwardly fuming at the wretched little creature. He takes a circuitous route home, checking every now and again to ensure he was not being followed. When he finally reached home, tired and annoyed, he made a mental note to never use that particular face again, and to more damned careful about changing in the future.

[OMG PONIES]

No tail. While there are always people and/or creatures of various ilks behind you in Sharn, all of them had the same distant stare on their faces...looking at where they're trying to get and ignoring where they are. As you return home, the three words written in blood flip through your mind. One of them is the start to your rise to power. But which one? And what is the "key"?

[Noedig]

Dax slept fitfully that night. In the morning, he put on a different face and some nondescript clothes and took his morning walk. He spent his time walking trying to pick up any news of a certain murder, to see who had heard of it, and what was being done about it, and the suspicions of who the murderer was.

OOC: I'll take 10 on a Gather Information, for a total of 20.

[OMG PONIES]

You don't pick up much of anything--whoever was investigating this murder was doing a good job of keeping it under wraps so far. This is Sharn, though, and news travels faster than a teleporting xeph. While it is still quiet, you could either begin the preparations for your next victim, or you could investigate The Key more. Either way, time is currently on your side (though you don't know how long that will last).

[Noedig]

Back at home, Dax poured over what texts he had regarding the Prophecy, and this mysterious 'key'.

"Hmm. A trip to the University may be in order. Wonder if they'll let me into the library?"

[OMG PONIES]

Morgrave University Library

http://static.tumblr.com/mgli1kb/pqVliktgm/library.jpg

The hustle and bustle of the University is perfect for Dax--there are so many people of all ilks floating around that you don't draw much attention. The library, however, is worlds apart. As you enter, complete silence falls around you like thick snow. Your heels don't even click on the marble floor as you make your way to the attendant's desk. A small gnomish woman, clearly a grandmother but perhaps a great-grandmother is immersed in the grimoire she's reading. She beckons you to come closer without lifting her head; her beckon becomes one raised finger as she finishes a passage. But a few seconds later, she silently closes the grimoire and looks at you over the rim of her small, rounded glasses. She doesn't speak, but you suddenly hear her in your mind:

Hello darling, what can I help you find today?

[Noedig]

"Just a bit of idle fancy. What do you have on the Draconic Prophecy."

[OMG PONIES]

The librarian clenches her eyes tightly and jams her bony fingers in her ears as if your speech is many decibels louder than it is. Her nostrils flare with anger as you hear her voice in your head.

If you could please keep the volume DOWN; this is a library, after all. Now, just think it--are you looking for historical accounts, interpretations of meaning, fiction about the Draconic Prophecy...

She continues listing possible categories telepathically until you think one back to her.

Sorry for the delay--life's been a little crazy. I intend to get this up and running at a normal pace again.

[Noedig]

"Interpretations of meaning, please."

[OMG PONIES]

The wizened old librarian smirks and you hear her titter with laughter. Certainly, dear, she thinks to you, that's the entire Pendragon wing. Head North from the Gattersby collection past the stacks, and you'll walk right into the middle of it.

Following her instructions is easy enough thanks to the clear labels on everything, with magical arrows that seem to leap off their signs and skitter along the floor to point you in the right direction--silently, of course. As you pass through narrow corridors crammed full of books to the ceilings, you enter into a large chamber filled with streams of sunlight.


http://www.bridgemanartondemand.com/lowres/140/main/48/604296.jpg

The various tomes lining the walls encompass all shapes and sizes, and their contents are as varied as their appearances. Some speak of the Draconic Prophecy as the herald of a coming Messiah. Others describe it as a foretelling of the end of the age. The occasional contrarian decries it as complete bunk, while the more conspiracy-minded attempt to connect it to the other great mystery of Eberron: the Day of Mourning, when the great nation of Cyr was reduced to the charred Mournlands it is today. One thing is clear from your studies and today's visit: nobody quite agress on exactly what the Draconic Prophecy means, if anything. A mighty mahogany desk sits in the middle of the room, with a single drawer marked "Index."

Do you continue to skim through the books, consult the index for a more specific search, or do something else?