cameronpants
2011-09-01, 01:20 AM
In the early repeated Prophecies of Dragon-kind there were themes of sadness, self-destruction, and a unified sense of woe. The tens thousands of men, women, and children foretold to die in the Great Wars were each named down to the syllable, their names scripted on the flesh of their surviving comrades, until they would turn on each other and spread the death e'en further. Violence would beget violence, wars repeat as often as days do change, and nothing could subvert the Prophecies of Dragon-kind from being but accurate stories of death, devastation, and doom of all of Eberron.
Though the Prophecies are not only spoken and scripted- they are lived. A handful of individuals in the world at any given time are said to be chosen- are said to be Scions of a new, darker age- the flagships of an invasion of peace and temperence- but only if they can rise to the call and confound the threads of time.
Early in the final unscripted Prophcy do three threads of Fate meet.
[Clocks]
The shimmering towers of Sharn seem too tall for the countryside surrounding it. They seem out of place- almost as if they were tacked on as an afterthought, a sudden split-second decision to erect a massive city on the bluffs of the ocean. It comforts you at a deep, wholly satiating level.
You've made it this far- across the continent of Khorvaire without many altercations or encounters. You've come here at the behest of your new brethren to meet with a man about an hourglass. (see PM for translation)
[Fallon]
It was the second warm meal you had that day that sat in front of you. You sat at the patio of your uncle Evidra's, watching the sun glint freshly off the crenalations of the towers to the west. The Old Moon inn, two levels and several streets below, had a bustle of people moving about the front door. It was distracting yet unconcerning though your uncle seemed indignant that they would be so loud this early.
"Damned traders and honeymooners, I tell you. The lot of them should rent something run by 'Slag."
Durrin Evidra eyes you ponderously. "You remember what we talked about, kiddo?"
You nod your confirmation, eyes falling to your lunch plate.
"Well, today's the day. I think I've got you a job, junior."
[Jack]
"Brigand! Scoundrel! Adulterer!"
The large man whom you know only as Red lumbered after you up the busy street of Underlook. His face was crimson, and he was tossing the errant civilian out of his way with callous ease. You assumed he was chasing you as soon as he roared up on his heals and smashed the card table you were playing at. You decided discretion was by far the better, stronger, and more handsome part of valor and scampered away. His thumping footsteps and accusations of several not-very-kind infractions of several city's laws convinced you that, yes, he was indeed in pursuit.
"By the Host, when I get my hands on you, I'll--" (When someone gives you a line like that, you just have to interrupt, right?)
[Xephos]
Standing before you, forming a loose semi-circle at the mouth of the alley, are four soldiers wearing tattered remains of Cyran military garb as makeshift bandanas and sashes.
"'Oy, Grimjaw, this'eres was a Captain in the legions of Breland some odd years ago, inny?"
"Doubtful, look at his face, Kin! He's nothing but a washed-up loser!" (Look to PM for circumstances.)
[Four to start, more to follow for other players!]
Though the Prophecies are not only spoken and scripted- they are lived. A handful of individuals in the world at any given time are said to be chosen- are said to be Scions of a new, darker age- the flagships of an invasion of peace and temperence- but only if they can rise to the call and confound the threads of time.
Early in the final unscripted Prophcy do three threads of Fate meet.
[Clocks]
The shimmering towers of Sharn seem too tall for the countryside surrounding it. They seem out of place- almost as if they were tacked on as an afterthought, a sudden split-second decision to erect a massive city on the bluffs of the ocean. It comforts you at a deep, wholly satiating level.
You've made it this far- across the continent of Khorvaire without many altercations or encounters. You've come here at the behest of your new brethren to meet with a man about an hourglass. (see PM for translation)
[Fallon]
It was the second warm meal you had that day that sat in front of you. You sat at the patio of your uncle Evidra's, watching the sun glint freshly off the crenalations of the towers to the west. The Old Moon inn, two levels and several streets below, had a bustle of people moving about the front door. It was distracting yet unconcerning though your uncle seemed indignant that they would be so loud this early.
"Damned traders and honeymooners, I tell you. The lot of them should rent something run by 'Slag."
Durrin Evidra eyes you ponderously. "You remember what we talked about, kiddo?"
You nod your confirmation, eyes falling to your lunch plate.
"Well, today's the day. I think I've got you a job, junior."
[Jack]
"Brigand! Scoundrel! Adulterer!"
The large man whom you know only as Red lumbered after you up the busy street of Underlook. His face was crimson, and he was tossing the errant civilian out of his way with callous ease. You assumed he was chasing you as soon as he roared up on his heals and smashed the card table you were playing at. You decided discretion was by far the better, stronger, and more handsome part of valor and scampered away. His thumping footsteps and accusations of several not-very-kind infractions of several city's laws convinced you that, yes, he was indeed in pursuit.
"By the Host, when I get my hands on you, I'll--" (When someone gives you a line like that, you just have to interrupt, right?)
[Xephos]
Standing before you, forming a loose semi-circle at the mouth of the alley, are four soldiers wearing tattered remains of Cyran military garb as makeshift bandanas and sashes.
"'Oy, Grimjaw, this'eres was a Captain in the legions of Breland some odd years ago, inny?"
"Doubtful, look at his face, Kin! He's nothing but a washed-up loser!" (Look to PM for circumstances.)
[Four to start, more to follow for other players!]