Darkantra
2008-06-14, 11:01 AM
The end of the Last War brought about the end of the greatest country and the most thriving metropolis in the world. Some believe that it was the will of the gods themselves, some believe that it was the dragon Eberron himself, but most believe it to be a weapon of unfathomable power.
Every power had worked on their own secret plans and weapons, objects and spells that would bring pain and destruction on a scale that would dwarf conventional weapons. When Cyre was rendered a wasteland a different fate awaited these weapons; destroyed, hidden, disabled, they were all put to rest, for fear that their use would create a second Mournland.
But weapons themselves, and those prepared to use them, care not for the potential for harm, only the power that can be gained from their use.
The journey starts in the small town of Arcanix, a magical wonder that is awe-inspiring to those not versed in the wonders that the arcane can accomplish. A massive disc of stone and earth that floats in the sky, with towers and other buildings jutting out of it to reach further heights. A small village lies directly below the disc, mostly just a few taverns and trading posts that have taken advantage of the protection offered by the wizards.
For Andy:
You’ve spent the last week trying to work your way into the confidence of the Master Wizards of the tower. For the second day in a row you’ve tried to file for an occupancy in a visitor’s room but now you’re being ushered back to the surface by a pock-marked faced youth, who seems to scowl at your efforts to be admitted to Arcanix. He himself is an admitted full member, but he has delighted in trying to stall the process while claiming to be showing you around.
The sun is dipping down to the horizon, and the wizened clerk has already shuffled you out of the Forms Office. You’ll have to return tomorrow to fill out the same forms yet again. The young man giggles to himself as he takes you to the entrance platform.
“So old man, I hate to say it but you’d better give up, the Masters just told me that your forms have gone missing again.” He laughs to himself, “What are the odds?”
For John and Rob:
As part of a deal to travel with the caravan from Xandrar to Passage you have been helping the regular guards keep watch over the caravan for the last week, though you’ve seen only other travelers and the occasional wild beast on the road.
The caravan is owned by Maston d’Orien, an older man that seems used to the road and a column of figures, and his second in command, a shifter named Krellig, who keeps the whole thing running. Over the last week you’ve all seen a younger man, his left arm carrying a blackish purple dragonmark, following the two around like a dog at heel and paying great attention to how the caravan is run.
Maston has called for the caravan to hitch up and stay for the night at the small cluster of building underneath the towers. After walking away from the caravan Maston is met by a man in blue robes. They shake hands and walk away between the few buildings, the young Orien boy in tow.
Several of the drivers and hands spend time that should be spent stabling animals and securing tarps goggling at the towers. They start to work quickly though, as someone starts walking up and down the line growling and giving the distracted men swift kicks to the arse to get them moving again. As he finally makes it down to your group the shifter, Krellig, is limping slightly from all the booting.
"All right you lot, we’re staying the night here and setting out before mid-day tomorrow. You can do whatever you want but don’t expect Maston, me or the Orien kid to hold your hands if you do something stupid, we’ve got business with the wizards tonight and we don’t have time to waste on getting sellswords out of the lock-up."
He looks up at the towers and then down again to spit.
"Bloody wizards, just have to show off." You hear him mumble, "All right, you lot should get rooms at the Miscast Cantrip, decent enough place, but don’t get too drunk to get up in the morning. Any questions?"
The shifter obviously doesn’t want to talk to you anymore, and stands with his hairy arms folded over his chest in impatience.
Every power had worked on their own secret plans and weapons, objects and spells that would bring pain and destruction on a scale that would dwarf conventional weapons. When Cyre was rendered a wasteland a different fate awaited these weapons; destroyed, hidden, disabled, they were all put to rest, for fear that their use would create a second Mournland.
But weapons themselves, and those prepared to use them, care not for the potential for harm, only the power that can be gained from their use.
The journey starts in the small town of Arcanix, a magical wonder that is awe-inspiring to those not versed in the wonders that the arcane can accomplish. A massive disc of stone and earth that floats in the sky, with towers and other buildings jutting out of it to reach further heights. A small village lies directly below the disc, mostly just a few taverns and trading posts that have taken advantage of the protection offered by the wizards.
For Andy:
You’ve spent the last week trying to work your way into the confidence of the Master Wizards of the tower. For the second day in a row you’ve tried to file for an occupancy in a visitor’s room but now you’re being ushered back to the surface by a pock-marked faced youth, who seems to scowl at your efforts to be admitted to Arcanix. He himself is an admitted full member, but he has delighted in trying to stall the process while claiming to be showing you around.
The sun is dipping down to the horizon, and the wizened clerk has already shuffled you out of the Forms Office. You’ll have to return tomorrow to fill out the same forms yet again. The young man giggles to himself as he takes you to the entrance platform.
“So old man, I hate to say it but you’d better give up, the Masters just told me that your forms have gone missing again.” He laughs to himself, “What are the odds?”
For John and Rob:
As part of a deal to travel with the caravan from Xandrar to Passage you have been helping the regular guards keep watch over the caravan for the last week, though you’ve seen only other travelers and the occasional wild beast on the road.
The caravan is owned by Maston d’Orien, an older man that seems used to the road and a column of figures, and his second in command, a shifter named Krellig, who keeps the whole thing running. Over the last week you’ve all seen a younger man, his left arm carrying a blackish purple dragonmark, following the two around like a dog at heel and paying great attention to how the caravan is run.
Maston has called for the caravan to hitch up and stay for the night at the small cluster of building underneath the towers. After walking away from the caravan Maston is met by a man in blue robes. They shake hands and walk away between the few buildings, the young Orien boy in tow.
Several of the drivers and hands spend time that should be spent stabling animals and securing tarps goggling at the towers. They start to work quickly though, as someone starts walking up and down the line growling and giving the distracted men swift kicks to the arse to get them moving again. As he finally makes it down to your group the shifter, Krellig, is limping slightly from all the booting.
"All right you lot, we’re staying the night here and setting out before mid-day tomorrow. You can do whatever you want but don’t expect Maston, me or the Orien kid to hold your hands if you do something stupid, we’ve got business with the wizards tonight and we don’t have time to waste on getting sellswords out of the lock-up."
He looks up at the towers and then down again to spit.
"Bloody wizards, just have to show off." You hear him mumble, "All right, you lot should get rooms at the Miscast Cantrip, decent enough place, but don’t get too drunk to get up in the morning. Any questions?"
The shifter obviously doesn’t want to talk to you anymore, and stands with his hairy arms folded over his chest in impatience.