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Thread: CotCT 5e IC

  1. - Top - End - #1
    Troll in the Playground
     
    Amnestic's Avatar

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    Default CotCT 5e IC

    It is the 30th day of Abadius, a Starday, with rest and recuperation from work on the horizon. Korvosan winters are always a mixed blessing. They rarely reach sub-freezing temperatures and earnest snowfall in the city is a rarity, and the cold does help alleviate some of the worst smells – especially those in Northpoint and Old Korvosa. On clear winter days, it's almost refreshing, and the sea breeze washing over the city fills it with a new sort of life. On the other hand, a winter rainfall is sure to drive everyone indoors as the icy chill clings to slicing darts of water that fall from the sky. A concerted rainshower in winter can drive the city to a standstill until it passes, and they are not infrequent.

    Today, at least, you're spared the worst of the weather. Clear skies with not a cloud in sight greet you, though a frosty chill may drive you to cling close to warmth and wrap your cloaks a little bit tighter. It's impossible to miss that the streets are not those of a normal clear winter's day though. A persistent undercurrent of unease has run through the city streets and up through the gutters for months. The cobblestone streets are a bit less active, traders hawking wares a bit quieter and subdued. Most blame it on the poor harvest season, itself a victim of poor weather conditions, but in the dark corners of the slums there are mutterings of something else. More than a few Varisian Harrowers claim the cards predict ill for the city, though the great churches of Abadar, Pharasma and Asmodeus assure the populace that they have naught to fear – if they offer right prayers in worship, and perhaps a sacrificial tithe.

    Loric, Small Home, Thieves Camp 'District'

    Tannery shifts are long and hard at the best of times, and unlike some industries you're busier than ever in the cold months – though if you expected this work to result in any greater pay you find yourself perpetually disappointed. Sebastian Crispin, the tannery owner, has a seemingly endless stream of potential workers who'll slave away for coppers, and in that regard the only difference between you and them is your tenure.

    It's still barely past dawn as you prepare for another grueling shift. The rickety wooden shack in the Thieves Camp does little to keep out the cold, and you might almost be glad for the relative warmth of the tannery, even if the smell leaves something to be desired. Just as you reach the door to your tiny home on the eastern shore of the Jeggare river, you spot a yellowed piece of parchment, folded over, that seems to have been slipped under or through your door during the night. Inside the fold of the parchment is a Harrow card – the Queen Mother – and the parchment itself carries a message.

    I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him.
    Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.


    As the words settle into your mind a brisk gust blows between the gaps in your front door, chilling you to the bone. Lancet Street is in the midland district, near Citadel Volshyenek, sandwiched between Warehouse Way and the docks. On foot from your home it would be little more than an hour to get there, so you have plenty of time if you left immediately, but a tannery shift does beckon if you wanted to spend time ruminating there – though the smell would follow with you into the city. Tenure might, if you're lucky, buy you some leeway with Crispin, in that he will still let you slave away there even if you miss a day of work. That's more than some get. The rickety wooden walls that box you in creak and bend at the boreal winds that roll over your home, a reminder that even this much is fleeting and easily stolen.

    Creissus, Kroft Branch Manor, Midland District

    When the fourth daughter of the Kroft family, Selena, invited you back to their branch manor for the night it was a hard offer to turn down. It had been an engaging evening, with the young Kroft laughing at all your jokes, listening enraptured to your tales, and taking you to bed once the night had truly fell. For a few moments you might have even believed that she cared about more than simply spiting her Father by dallying with a disgraced noble.

    Granted if it was a deception, she played her role whole-heartedly, and it's nothing but a cynical mind (and knowledge of their family drama) that would make you question it. Noble manors are spared from the worst of the cold, and you awaken to a roaring fire with Selena still beside you, her apparent interest in you not diminished at all in the morning light. It's well past dawn by the time you stir, and a breakfast spread is already laid out beside the bed for you both to enjoy.

    As you take breakfast (no sense passing up a free meal, after all), a rapt knock-knock-knock is heard on Selena's bedroom door. With confirmation from your lovely partner, a servant enters bearing an envelope. “Apologies for the interruption my lady.” The servant notably does not look at or address you. “This letter was found in the entryway this morning.” Your partner in nocturnal dalliance nods quietly but gestures at the servant to hand it over. She looks at it, furrows her brow, and then waves the servant out of the room. Puzzle still creasing her delicate cheeks, she leans over and drops the envelope in front of Creissus. “It's addressed to you?” It seems almost impossible for that to be the case, since the invitation had been rather spur-of-the-moment and you'd told no one.

    Sure enough, however, the envelope bears your full name - Creissus Walrun Ornetto IV – in neat, if not particularly professional, handwriting. With a (clean) knife included in your breakfast spread you easily slice open the containing paper and a small folded piece of parchment and a Harrow card – the Courtesan - fall into your lap. Unfurling the note, it reads:

    I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him.
    Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.


    Selena lets her noblewoman's grace slip for a moment, asking with her mouth half full of toast and raspberry jam, “What does it say?” To her credit she doesn't try to sneak a peek. At least not that you see.

    Shadi, Laughing Wave Inn, North Point District

    “I got nothing for ya.” The answer was as predictable as it was repetitive. The third person today who doesn't have any leads on Lamm. None that they'd share with you, anyway. The building was the oldest surviving inn in mainland Korvosa, and despite (or due to) its age – its sagging steps and rounded table edges – it still remains a popular destination for people from wall walks of life. It was the only structure not razed by Shoanti when they drove back Chelish settlers hundreds of years ago, and it's this ageing cosmopolitan inn that you'd hoped would have someone willing to talk to you about your ongoing search. You can't tell on its own if it's dislike of the Shoanti or fear of reprisal (or a combination of both) that has people's lips sealed. Shrugging, the man you'd hoped would be an informant pushes away from the table to find someone else to drink with.

    It's barely past noon, which means you've got a lunch crowd to contend with, but it's still less busy than an evening or tomorrow. That (relatively) quieter atmosphere was something you may have hoped would make people a little more forthcoming, but instead the opposite seems to be the case – they clammed up, hard, when there was any concern they might be overhead. Settling back into your antique seat, the question of where you go next is still fresh in your mind. Leads were thin, perilously so.

    “Here sweetie.” A barmaid with the professional gentleness of someone who makes most of their money off of making friends places a fresh tankard of ale in front of you, along with a small plate of reefclaw pasties. “Someone seems to like you.” Half-covered and pressed beneath the tankard is a folded slip of paper, which when unfurled reveals a short message, and a Harrow card – the Teamster.

    I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him.
    Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.


    A look around the inn room has no one giving you the time of day, save for a few glances with clear hatred and disgust for you in their eyes. They are unlikely to be the source of the note. The barmaid hovers for a moment in case you have any further requests. If she's curious or has any other information, she doesn't volunteer either way.

    Scipio, Old Korvosan Flat, Bridgefront

    "Thank you sir, you've done me a great favour.” The middle-aged man holds out a hand to clasp in gratitude. It might be difficult to take it, because the news you gave him is not positive. The man's husband has been stepping out and breaking their marriage vows – an all too common tale that you find yourself investigating these days. Some take such news poorly, some take it well, some take it violently – those are the hardest. Behind you are the days where real crimes cross your desk. Instead now you're faced with a seemingly never ending stream of infidelity and missing pets. But rent isn't free, and unless you want to find yourself back on the street you need any paying customers you can get.

    After seeing him out you settle back into the thick cushioned but heavily worn chair behind your desk, shuffling papers aimlessly. There was something in the air that set the hairs on the back of your neck aflame. It makes you restless, but without any clear fix. It's barely past noon. Plenty of time to get some more work done, but the bouncing in your leg won't stop, so your eyes don't focus on anything in front of you. Tap tap. The noise comes from behind you. Odd. Neighbours making noise? Local kids playing pranks? Tap tap. It happens again. Light, but precise, with a clear rhythm. You move to the shutters that serve to keep some of the cold out and open them, allowing a blast of the wintery air into your home and office. The sudden motion sends a small flock of pigeons that had been roosting nearby into the skies, cawing in a mix of fear and frustration. Delicately placed on your the outer window sill is a folded piece of parchment, inside which you find a message and a Harrow card – the Inquisitor.

    The message reads simply:
    I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him.
    Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.


    Lancet Street is halfway across the city, near the Korvosan city guard citadel, a location you knew well, once. It's an hour or so walk, so you do have some time yet until sunset to prepare or deal with other business in the meantime.

    Aubin, Temple of Sarenrae, Heights District

    The turreted temple of Sarenrae stands apart from the other buildings nearby, giving it fair space to absorb the sun's light and warmth, though even on today's clear skies the sun seems a bit more distant, a bit chillier, a bit less welcoming. The white marble was not inexpensive to import to Korvosa, and nor is its regular cleaning, but the constant foot traffic of the masses and generous offerings from wealthy patrons means that even this smaller temple (dwarfed by that of Abadar) more than supports itself.

    It's here that you find yourself again, for the noontide rituals where the sun is at its highest point. It's also when the most people attend, even on a working day like this. Your leads on Lamm have come up short so far, regrettably. While guards may know his reputation and those who dwell in the darker corners of society may know him personally, his actual location has been remarkably difficult to deduce, not helped at all by the news that he supposedly moves establishments on occasion to keep the guard off his case.

    You're cramped in a pew alongside countless other worshippers as the priestess delivers a sermon and leads prayer from the altar. It's familiar, perhaps reassuringly so, given how lacking in direction you otherwise are with your chosen task. The prayer comes to a close and the priestess calls for you all to rise for a hymn in your goddess' honour. All is as it always is, the rote rituals promising order to your life, but when you pluck the folded hymn sheet an additional piece of parchment falls out, along with a Harrow card – the Cricket.

    Even as the music begins to swell around you, the parchment bears a wholly different message to one of worship and praise for the Dawnflower:

    I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him.
    Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.


    No one looks to you as the hymn continues, save the occasional curious glance as to why you're not also participating, but it's not that unusual for some to hold back, so their eyes quickly move on.

    Pogdan, Bank of Abadar, North Point District

    The Bank of Abadar serves the dual purpose as a religious church for followers of the Master of the First Vault, and also as an actual bank, offering services to the entire city of Korvosa, including those of different (and sometimes even opposing) faiths. Sneer as the Asmodeans might, their coin inevitably finds its way here regardless. It is here that you spend much of your days, diligently carrying out tasks for your god. Due to the lower foot traffic in the winter seasons you find yourself in one of the back rooms of the bank to sort incoming post that arrives from a steady stream of couriers.

    It's a small room that might be cramped, were it not for your small size. The steady stream of people coming and going to bring the sorted packages and letters to elsewhere in the bank means it would never really get quiet, but this isn't helped any by your sorting partner, the perpetually cheerful and even more perpetually chatty halfling Abigail. She is by all counts your junior, being half your age and having only joined the church last year, but you wouldn't think it with the confidence (and speed) with which she never stops talking. She can talk enough for the both of you, even without any real responses. It might be a problem but when her mouth stops moving her mind seems to as well, and invariably she does work better when chattering away. After a while though it becomes almost a meditative white noise, the kind that might lull you to sleep. It's only when she suddenly breaks her breathless speech that your mind is brought back to the conversation.

    “-and so then I told Shiri that Vexi had told Welt who'd told – ah!” Her shock is clear. “Pogdan, this one's for you! Look!” She waves a sealed envelope at you in such a way that you can't look, before finally stopping her frantic motions to let you take it. The handwriting's neat, but you've seen enough letters to know this wasn't done professionally or by any artisanal pen. Probably not a noble or official letter, at least. Slicing the envelope open, out falls a small folded parchment and a Harrow card – the Winged Serpent. The parchment itself carries a short message in the same pen as the address:
    I know what Gaedren has done to you. He has wronged me as well. I know where he dwells, yet cannot strike at him.
    Come to my home at 3 Lancet Street at sunset. Others like you will be there. Gaedren must face his fate, and justice must be done.


    “Well? Well? What does it say? Is it a marriage proposal? A duel? A duel OVER a marriage proposal!? Oh Pogdan I knew you were daring but that is going too far! Just wait until I tell Shiri all about this.”

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show

    I wouldn't expect such huge posts every time from me, but I wanted to set a big introductory section with you separate. We are slow burning this start a bit, give you guys some time to establish yourself in Korvosa, get a bit of NPC roleplay in as you move towards the mysterious Lancet Street home. Feel free to take your time with it, expand upon things.


    Spoiler: Harrow Cards
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    The common association of Harrow Cards is fairly common knowledge. A DC7 Intelligence (Religion) check gives this, and those with any significant Varisian connection rolls this with advantage.

    Spoiler: Queen Mother
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    Bearing the image of a Fornian, an ant-like humanoid, this Queen is the personification of knowledge, who is fond of the powerless, the underclass, and those who will show her obeisance.


    Spoiler: The Courtesan
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    A three-eyed devil holding a mask covers this card. It represents political intrigue and the superficiality of social niceties.


    Spoiler: The Teamster
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    The teamster card holds the image of a muscular half-orc, working as a beast of burden for a gnome that rides atop it. It represents a external force that drives the subject on even past their normal limitations.


    Spoiler: The Inquisitor
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    This card bears the image of a robed man, finger pointed in accusation as his book of law overflows. It represents an immutable object that cannot be deceived or influenced.


    Spoiler: The Cricket
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    The card holds the image of a Grig, a tiny fey creature that appears as part elf, part cricket, though in this case it's more cricket than elf. It represents quick travel and the reward at the end of one's journey.


    Spoiler: The Winged Serpent
    Show

    It represents the couatl, the bridge of understanding between the towers of knowledge and judgement.

    DMing:
    Iron Crisis IC | OOC
    RHoD IC | OOC
    CotCT IC | OOC

    Playing:
    ToNG IC | OOC
    MoMiWoM IC | OOC
    OotA IC | OOC

  2. - Top - End - #2
    Ogre in the Playground
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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter
    AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 12 | CURRENT 12 | HIT DIE: 1d10 | CURRENT: 1d10
    INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13
    ACTIVE EFFECTS: None.
    CONDITIONS: None.


    Ignoring the questioning, perhaps accusatory looks of his fellow parishioners, Aubin tucked the hymnal sheet, it's hidden message and concealed Harrow card, into a vest pocket behind his tabard. Taking his tricorne from the pew beside him, he placed it atop his curls, and precisely the right angle to conceal his gaze, and moved passed the heavy throng of worshippers. Feeling vindicated in his prayers, he stepped outside the temple and looked towards the sky, placing two fingers on his lips, he kissed them in thanks before pressing them to his heart, intoning a devotional to the Dawnflower herself.

    He then turned north and east, following Hillcrest, where it cut towards the walled Acadamae, the massive dome of the Hall of Summoning expanding above the walls from it's central position. Banners held the university's heraldric symbol, seven stars atop a porticullis, itself supported by imps, draped down the wall in an ostentatious display of wealth and political power. He moved quickly along the street, watching closely to ensure he wasn't followed from his devotions, he was a man of habit, and though he varied those habits, if discovered they could lead his foe's underlings to him. He still hadn't decided if the letter was a valid, or if he had overplayed his hand, and Lamm was aware of his efforts to pursue him, dangling the carrot to lead the old mare to slaughter. Still, it would be best to exercise caution, as he thought his feet led to to the Academic Way, a mixture of academia, literary, and bodegas where bearded and coiffed students would discuss the politics of the day, making bold claims of the future and the myriad ways they could change them, while slowly being molded by the administrators of the university to become the very thing they hated, members of the establishment, cogs in the machine, as he, himself, had once been. Still, the mwangi coffee was strong, it's aroma sharp, and bitter, and the scent of baking, a varisian rye and barley, was enticing and made his mouth water.

    Determined now that he needed a noon day meal, he turned south and east, towards Harborview South and Warehouse Way, towards Whisper Home. It was Madame Zeraznia's brothel and while a noonday dalliance was not out of the question, it was an establishment known well to him, and able to shield him from Lamm's underlings, if only because of his defense of the property during the riots some years ago. Zeraznia was a friend, though caustic and bitter, he trusted her more than most, if only because beneath her powder and her wigs, she cared for her girls, and would defend them against all comers, and she had never, in the years that Aubin had known her, lied to, or deceived him, her blunt honesty a charm in this city.

    He walked into the common room, smiling at Contessa, the courtesan who greeted the clients, doffing his felt hat, he swept it low, a smile, and a rakish gleam in his eyes. "Would that I had the time my dear, the merest flash of your smile and a man's heart sets to hammering against his ribs. Would a man be able to procure a plate of cheese, cured meats, and a lovely bottle of red, to pursue his thoughts and contemplate the coming night's debaucheries?"

    Spoiler: Out of Character Actions
    Show
    OOC: Basically at this point, I am going to spend some of my afternoon pursuing gossip, trying to gather information and determine the type of establishment at Lancet Street, whether it is a private residence, a shop, a warehouse, something else. And then information on it's owner, and, or, any activities that may be occurring thereabouts.

  3. - Top - End - #3
    Titan in the Playground
     
    3SecondCultist's Avatar

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah
    Human Stone Sorcerer
    HP: 10/10, AC: 13
    PP: 14, PI: 14
    Active Effects: None
    Conditions: None
    Concentrating: —
    "Fa droma kul sosmo," Shadi murmurs to herself as she surreptitiously hunches over the mysterious letter, reading it front to back once and then again to make sure she's read the Taldane idioms correctly. Finally, it's looking like she has a lead. Near a fortnight in, and this is the first solid message she's gotten about Lamm. She does not allow herself to seriously consider the fact that this might be a trap. Ignoring the summons would be worse than getting ambushed, it would be an admission.

    The edges of her fingers curl up and tighten around the edges of the accompanying card as she studies it further. The significance of the card's drawing is not lost on her, and neither is the relationship between the half-orc and the gnome on its back. Whoever gave this to her believes her to be the beast of burden, destined to be pushed about by greater forces. The obvious comparison to the half-orc isn't exactly flattering either; she did not know to be ashamed of her body while among her own people, but here scars and proper musculature are not something most 'desirable women' possess. She's learned much in her three years among these pale-skinned devils.

    The young woman's face hardens further as she takes in the stares from the throng of the midday rush. Though she knows better by now than to rise to the bait - even when stares turn into words - sometimes trying to ignore them only makes them angrier. By turning away, she somehow thinks she's better than them, above them. Everything incenses the small-minded, those who miss the woman for the Plateau. No matter what she does, they will come for her sooner or later.

    It's a trap, and one she has no intention of getting herself caught in.

    Quaffing down the ale and stuffing her face with the admittedly delicious pastries, Shadi is likely quite the sight to anyone sitting nearby. It isn't that she is lacking in an understanding of table manners - working in Varisian kitchens has taught her the points of what the locals consider 'proper etiquette' - but in this instance speed outweighs decorum. Smothering a grin at a scandalized gasp from an older woman nearby, the former champion slams down her payment with an extra silver piece or two for the barmaid's trouble. It probably isn't her fault that she works in this rat-hole of a neighborhood.

    Besides the cryptic note, there is nothing of value here, she concludes. Best keep moving while the sun still shines.

    Stepping outside, Shadi shrouds her bare shoulders in a cloak and pulls up the hood before heading down the streets of North Point towards the address on Lancet Street. She tells herself that it's to protect her ears from the cold, rather than to hide her features from passers-by.
    Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2021-08-24 at 08:56 AM.
    Spoiler: My Profile
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    Quote Originally Posted by Zeno Desaqqara View Post
    You divine bastard.
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    Winner of Total War: Rise of Kingdoms (Ironfang Republic)

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    "The philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it."

  4. - Top - End - #4
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    DruidGirl

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC


    HP: 10/10 Concentration: No Active Conditions: No

    Podgan does not mind his tiny workspace, and he doesn't even mind sharing his room with Abigail; she talks ceaselessly, but none of it matters. It doesn't make her uncomfortable that he has little to say, and anyone walking by doesn't have reason to remark on the silent little man lost in the world of numbers.

    Calling him daring is the closest thing to an insult she's ever offered him, though.

    He stands abruptly. "Abigail, I must go. I need to speak to a parishioner." Podgan does not lie when he can avoid it, and this is not a lie, either. "The matter of a man's soul hangs in the balance." This is also true.

    He does take the time to tidy up his work and mark his place and send a note to Father Cowper. The price of this orderly mindedness is that Abigail pesters him with questions the whole time, but Podgan is by temperament as a silent and solitary as an oyster, and in rare form this afternoon.

    On the way to Scipio Arquetius's home, he rehearses what he intends to say. In his imagination he is always more eloquent than he seems to be in the moment.

    I wanted to share this with you because I know we both feel the same way about him. I know I cannot rest while he lives. I know it is a sin, that the Law belongs to Abadar and to his representatives here in life, and to take it into my own hands is a grave crime against my vows. As your confessor I should not show this to you, should not lead you into temptation with me, and so I compound my sin.

    But I must have this. If this message is anything but a tasteless joke at my expense, I must know.

    If this be a sin, I will make my life before and after this sin a monument of repentance; I will live the rest of my life in quiet obedience. But in exchange I must have this.... this holiday from reason, from justice, from good order. An I can see Gaedren Lamm bleed, I will burn the rest of my life as a tribute with a glad heart.

    And there is no one else I can ask to accompany me.


    When he knocks on the door, however, every single one of the words flee, and instead he thrusts out the note gracelessly. "Look."
    Last edited by TriciaOso; 2021-07-06 at 12:11 PM.

  5. - Top - End - #5
    Orc in the Playground
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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Scipio Arquetius - HP: 10\10 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None

    "Take care."

    Scipio holds the man's hand in return and nods understandingly - but that's as much compassion the former guard is capable of showing, hiding whatever feelings he might have behind a façade of stern professionalism; he closes the door after his latest client and sits uncomfortably at his desk, trying to keep his mind busy with the paperwork but still way too nervous - something nibbling its way through all the thoughts Scipio is trying to bury it under.

    He starts reading some of the notes he took of his latest case, the evidence and testimonies he found of infidelity; a sudden pang of loneliness makes him grunt, quite bothered by how carelessly his client's husband had thrown away his relationship. He shakes his head and his mind spontaneously digs up memories of his time at the Acadamae, his fling with Cara and his own desire of that becoming something else, something more serious - her betrayal, being used by her still hurting. Painful memories rarely travel alone, however - Gaedren Lamm, how he was manipulated by that rotten scum and how he lost everything he had; a craving he knows all too well comes immediately after, the desire of sleeping the dreamless sleep only the Shiver can give him.

    Tap tap.

    The flow of thoughts comes to a sudden stop when Scipio hears the light tapping at the window and stands up to check what it is; he frowns when he finds nothing except a message and a tarot - the Inquisitor, half-recollecting that the card is associated with strength of mind and purpose. The message is however way more interesting than the tarot, however; Scipio's hand starts shaking, his eyes twitching from barely contained rage. He sits and reads the message again, his mind racing to all the possibilities behind those few words.

    Knock knock.

    The sound of someone knocking at his own door makes Scipio jolt out; he draws a dagger and slowly and cautiously goes to the door, opening it to see out of his flat none other that Pogdan, his own confessor. Before Scipio could say anything the priest gives him a note that he reads dutifully and when it becomes apparent it's the same message delivered to him, he says nothing and just shows the banker the Harrow card he found with a silent question in his eyes.
    Last edited by Bunny Commando; 2021-07-06 at 10:48 AM.
    "Rabbit has Brain. That's why he never understands anything."

  6. - Top - End - #6
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    DruidGirl

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC


    HP: 10/10 Concentration: No Active Conditions: No

    "So. Both of us," Podgan says. How many others?

    He looks thoughtfully at the cards. Both the Inquisitor and the Coatl are icons of Lawful justice; is it blasphemy to read these omen as a tacit approval from the god who rescued him and Scipio both from the clutches of Lamm in the first place? Or at least a gesture of indulgence?

    Probably.

    "I must attend this meeting," the priest says, looking sad and scared and under that, determined. "Will you come? It is wrong to ask. But will you come?"
    Last edited by TriciaOso; 2021-07-06 at 12:11 PM.

  7. - Top - End - #7
    Orc in the Playground
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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Scipio Arquetius - HP: 10\10 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None

    "It might be a trap." Scipio answers while reading the note again, his word filled with doubt and suspicion. After a while he sighs and says to Pogdan "Even if it is not a trap, Gaedren Lamm has done much already to hurt us - would not be better to try to forget he exists? Put everything he did to us behind our backs, not giving him another chance to make us suffer."

    The former guards gives the note back to Pogdan and goes back to his desk, seemingly uncomfortable with the whole situation and trying to find some kind of solace in cleaning the mess he left "Better people than us tried to put and end to Lamm, sir. They all failed. I do fear that if we go down this road, we'll lose everything."
    "Rabbit has Brain. That's why he never understands anything."

  8. - Top - End - #8
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    DruidGirl

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    HP: 10/10 Concentration: No Active Conditions: No

    "Perhaps you have grown wiser than I," Pogdan says sadly. He stares at the cards. "For all you say is true, and correct."

    "But in truth, I suffer every day he breathes the air of this city. He will never stop hurting me until he is dead. And whoever aims to do this, I must help them."
    The tiny figure framed in the doorway turns away.

    Like all novice priests, he was rotated through different specialties, and shoved in an old trunk he has scale mail and old dagger to remember his brief stint as a vault guard. He should prepare himself.
    Last edited by TriciaOso; 2021-07-06 at 12:10 PM.

  9. - Top - End - #9
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
    BlueKnightGuy

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC


    Loric the Tanner

    Human Monk
    AC: 16 HP: 10/10
    PP: 13 PIv: 10 PIs: 13
    Conditions: --

    Waking to the chill of dawn, Loric pulls himself up from the modest mat of straw bedroll laid out beneath him. Wrapped around him is his cloth cloak, it and the tiny shack alike doing little for the cold. It is not an unfamiliar cold. Night on the desert is as freezing as the day is scorching.

    Changing out of the only slightly warmer set of clothes he reserves for sleeping in (to keep the worst of the smell off of them), he puts on his street wear. Only a brown shirt and pants, with his dark grey street cloak pulled tight over his shoulders for warmth. It is made from wool he sourced himself.

    Something feels different as he walks to the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then he detects the sensation of something beneath his boot. Paper, between his worn and tired bootsole and the dirt floor. Reaching down, Loric raises the envelope to look at it in the light cast through some of the cracks in the shack's wall.

    Plucking the mysterious card from the letter, he turns it over and examines it. Harrowing is a local tradition, one he knows little about. Could the card represent him, or represent the sender? He runs a finger along the card's surface, tracing the insectoid queen upon it. Or... a sign from the beetle god? Opening the letter, he reads. The words linger in his mind, like the ringing of a bell that lingers after it is tolled. A small smile creeps onto a weary, weathered expression as heat builds up in his core, heat burning in spite of the chill wind that causes all of his hairs to stand on end.

    It is the feeling of a predator that has finally spotted his prey.

    Sliding the letter into the pocket of his pants, Loric takes up his walking stick. The familiar grip feels hungry in his hand, but light without the weight at its head. Still feels so light after all these years. He begins his march down to the tannery. Sunset is a day away, and he has mouths to feed. He stops to pat each of the two sheep fenced next to his yard on the head. The already scabby grass in their enclosure is getting too thin again, and it will soon be time to move them to the other side of the shack, which means disassembling the enclosure and moving it over. He will need to obtain another bag of feed soon to supplement their grazing, once he has the copper.

    This time, before he goes, he digs up his 'bug out' bag from behind the shack. Torches. Dried food. Rope. A shovel. Just in case. But not the blade. That remains in its resting place. Carrying it all upon his back beneath his cloak, walking stick at his side, he looks somewhat like an old hunchback trudging through the ragged outskirts of the city towards the tannery.

  10. - Top - End - #10
    Orc in the Playground
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    Scipio Arquetius - HP: 10\10 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None

    "Being right and making things right are quite different, sir." Scipio shakes his head ruefully "I owe you. I'll come, if nothing else to keep you safe." the former sighs and stops trying to sort the piles of papers he has on his desk; he waves to Pogdan to stay put and goes to another room of his small flat; after five or six minutes he comes back, armoured and armed "It still might be a trap, so you should arm yourself, sir. Then I would say he should try to find who lives at this address, make some questions around."
    Last edited by Bunny Commando; 2021-07-06 at 12:31 PM.
    "Rabbit has Brain. That's why he never understands anything."

  11. - Top - End - #11
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    DruidGirl

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    HP: 10/10 Concentration: No Active Conditions: No

    He should not feel better to have led Scipio into temptation with him, but in truth, he does very much.

    "Yes... I have some arms. Not much, but I can be cautious. I trust your skill to investigate."

    A quick trip back to his quarters, and he cuts an odd little figure in his scale mail and shield; rather like an armadillo. So little of him remains to be seen. He moves slightly awkwardly, but not as much as you might expect; the noise of it clinking and scraping is the real problem.

    Spoiler
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    Last edited by TriciaOso; 2021-07-06 at 12:18 PM.

  12. - Top - End - #12
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    Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV

    Human Bard
    AC: 14 HP: 10/10
    PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12
    Conditions: --
    Concentrating on:
    Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 3/3

    Creissus woke up that morning with a satisfied smile on his face. He spent the first few moments of the morning planting warm kisses on the Lady Kroft and basking in the petty victory of conquest. The glory didn't last long, however, when the reality of his situation sunk in. This woman didn't truly care for him. She was just another young noble lady flaunting disobedience to aggravate her family. Rather than let this realization sink his mood, he shrugged, kissed her again, and decided to simply enjoy that he got to enjoy himself and partake of the low hanging fruit of a high noble family. There were worse entertainments, worse beds, and worse bed company to be had in Korvosa, and he had wined with, slept in, slept with, and regretted many of them in the last few years. No matter her motives, I would rather spend the night with young and beautiful Selena Croft than wake up next a ugly understudy sleeping on the play house floor again.
    When it came time for breakfast, there was a quick battle of wills between over indulging in the best meal he'd had in a week and maintaining manners and decorum. Propriety won out, and Creissus ate slowly, but thoroughly. He even took the time to coquettishly feed Selena a bite of toast, then use the excuse of errant jam to share a particularly sweet kiss with her. Crease wasn't putting particular effort into wooing the young lady Kroft- no matter who he took to bed, they all got the full experience, full of flirtation, romance, and adoration. He just didn't have it in him to go into any heated relationship half-hearted.

    Then the mail came, and when Selena passed the letter to him he was even more surprised than her. For the few seconds it took him to open it his face showed open, genuine confusion. It wasn't until the Harrow card fell out that his features shifted to intrigued, with one eyebrow raised. He picked the card up between two fingers and turned it to face him, smiling as the three eyed devil of the Courtesan smiled back at him. Whoever chose to contact me in such a curious way certainly knows me well enough to pick the perfect card. Slipping the Harrow into an interior pocket, he turned his attention to the letter with interest.

    It took all his considerable skill to maintain his features as he read. The very concept of revenge on Gaedren Lamm was music to his ears. When Selena asked him about the contents, he took the briefest of moments to whisper a prayer of thanks to Calistria for this opportunity before folding the note into a paper bird and neatly sailing it into the flames. What story should we weave her to assuage her interest? OH! I know! One of flattery, romance, and valor. Yes, she'll eat that up and ask for seconds. He assumed the features of a man enraged as he turned back to Selena.

    Dearest Selena, I will spare you the precise details of this attack on your person, but let me summarize for you so you can understand the depths of my adoration and what I must do. A low life rogue, a detestable drudge, a scurvy ridden rival of my artistic talents has caught wind of the beautiful music you and I have made together. In an attempt to lessen our innate connection, our amorous entwinement, our noble and vivacious enjoyment of one another, this mangy dog has sent a letter filled with insults and implications against both your honor and mine. I simply could not stop myself from hurling his hellacious lies into the flames. His features became resolute and determined. It is now clear to me that I must take my leave, hunt down the rapscallion, and put my rapier through his wicked tongue before it can slander you even one more time. I care not for his comments on my own person, but I cannot abide his slurs against the unassailable countenance of my precious Selena Kroft! I will not sully your ears with details on this wallowing pig, rest assured that I will ensure he never writes or voices further lies against you! He reached out and took both her hands in his, looking deep into her eyes. I only ask that you give me some small token, that I may wear it when I vanquish the toad from the streets of Korvosa forever more!


    Spoiler: OOC
    Show
    Deception for that big, fat lie to an impressionable young lady- (1d20+7)[23]. Assuming she buys it, Crease will make a quick exit and head to scout the location. I simply didn't want to move the scene on from a contested roll. I almost hope I roll like crap because it would be hilarious to be chased out of Kroft branch manor holding his pants with one hand and warding off thrown objects with the other.
    The Bear is Back.

  13. - Top - End - #13
    Troll in the Playground
     
    Amnestic's Avatar

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    Loric, Tannery, Thieves Camp 'District'

    The Thieves Camp district is a bustle as always. Though filled with outcasts of society – Shoanti and Varisians who can't find acceptance in the larger city – they find a place together on the edges of society, and in so doing create a bond that often transcends origins. It's a truth that when individuals have nothing they often pull together to help one another, and in so doing receive help in turn. Despite the name, the culture is far less cutthroat than that of mainland 'civilised' Korvosa.

    Mostly, anyway. There's always exceptions, and Sebastian Crispin is one of those. A man of some sixty years, he's a miserable miser whose ownership of the city's largest tannery has brought him not inconsiderable profits, buoyed by his use of cheap labour of societal outcasts who struggle to find work elsewhere. His money means little, however. It doesn't scrub free the smell of dung, urine and worse that pervades the tannery's building, it doesn't get him accepted into noble society, nor does it buy him the affection or attention of his wayward children, and it's these facts that have driven the business owner further and further into negativity.

    From behind his desk at the front of the tannery (the furthest spot from the worst of the stench) he barely gives you a second look as you enter, instead leaning long over his desk, peering at his books with eyes that have begun to fail but that he refuses to purchase glasses for, lest they cost him some of his precious coinage. Beyond the room you can hear work already being carried out, likely by those who slept in the building and had no other place to go.

    Creissus, Kroft Branch Manor, Midland District

    Perhaps despite her better judgment, the Lady Selena does seem to believe you. She gently blushes and waves her hand at you, half-embarrassed and half-enticed by such a eloquent and elongated explanation. With a soft titter, she says “Oh you. Keep going like that and who knows what might happen.” Hands in yours, she glances back to the bed at the suggestion of a small token, but sighs wistfully instead of urging for it. Vanquishing dastardly foes probably takes priority over a mid-morning tangle in the bedsheets. With the slightest hint of regret in her motions, she turns away, gracefully sashaying her way across the room to the windowsill, where a number of flowers sit in pots and jars. They're a varied bunch, and at least a few of them are clearly magical. Perhaps a hobby of hers, perhaps simply she collects them because they're pretty. Another day you might get the chance to ask.

    She returns to the breakfast table holding a small bottle, perhaps as tall as her index finger, and half as wide. Inside is a tiny white flower set in some dirt. The entire flowering bulb of the flower is surrounded by a small bubble. “A Bubble Lily. Beauty encased in a delicate cage, that will pop and shrivel if the greatest of care isn't taken in harvesting its nectar.” Subtlety was not one of Selena's strong suits. “Take good care of it. For me.”

    With the token of her affection safely stowed away, you can make a quick exit from the manor, and begin your path towards Lancet Street. There's lots of time left yet before the meeting, and keeping your ears open you pick up on some of the few street-bound people chatting loudly. In this case they seem to be discussing some rumour about King Eodred – specifically that he (supposedly) had a deformed brother who died at birth, and whose remains are still kept in a castle attic, sealed and preserved in a jar of alcohol.

    It's still barely noon by the time you reach Lancet Street, a thin side road off of Warehouse Way, nestled between it and the docks nearby. The smell of fresh-and-not-so-fresh fish waft up through the narrow street of broken cobblestones. The address itself, Number 3, appears indistinguishable from the homes that flank it. A small terraced building greystone supporting a wooden frame. In fact it's almost remarkable in how little there is of note about it. A light appears to be on inside, with some light flickering through the single street-facing window.

    Shadi, Streets of Korvosa

    With the end of the noonday meal the streets are a bit more alive again as people return to work, or move to second jobs, or simply have finished for the day. If there were any hopes that you'd be looked upon more favourably outside of the inn, you're out of luck, as most still give you stares of distrust at best, disgust at worst.

    You're barely a few streets away when a conversation catches your ears between two unruly looking individuals. The words are slurred, indicating no small amount of alcohol, but you can still make it our clear enough, and they're loud enough that everyone on the street can hear them clearly.

    “My brother, he's an apprentice up at the Acadamae, he said they're going to be closing their doors soon if the unrest doesn't get better, might do so for good, cut themselves off from Korvo – Oi, horser, does it look like we're talking to you? Hm?” Regardless of how much or little attention you'd actually been paying them, one of the men begins yelling at you, loudly, aggressively, and begins approaching. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a pair of Hellknights patrolling the roads, coming in the direction of you and the intoxicated man, though they don't yet appear to be paying any particular attention at their distance. They're certainly in no particular hurry to reach the brewing confrontation. Their pace is measured, but leisurely, and their clanking armour is only barely audible from a distance on the city street.

    Scipio and Pogdan, Streets of Korvosa

    You look like quite the pair, though the looks you get are more curiosity than anything else. It's not often that Korvosa sees a chelish man and a blue-skinned gnome walking side by side. Pogdan is, to those who don't know him, quite a novelty, and one that never really seems to be fully accepted as normal. You're not stopped or harassed though. Gnomes (blue or otherwise) get better treatment that shoanti in the city.

    Crossing from Old Korvosa back south, you overhear a group of washerwomen gossiping by the water's edge. The topic, in this case, is the Key-Lock Killer, a serial killer from roughly a decade past who killed nine people before vanishing. Rumour has it that they either worked for an arbiter or actually were an arbiter themselves, and that they're still alive and executing so-called 'justice' in service of the city. Corruption, one calls it. A conspiracy, another says. The third's expletives aren't the sort of words that are shareable among high society, but they all have a good laugh when her curse-filled rant is done with.

    By the time you reach Lancet Street, you're still hours before sunset, but it's not hard to spot another person who is milling around and looking distinctly out of place – that being Creissus, in all his noble finery and gilded glory.

    Aubin, Brothel, Midland District

    Though the brothel offers comfort and safety for your pursuit of information, it doesn't offer much in the way of information over 3 Lancet Street. It appears to be an utterly unremarkable location, with no one knowing much of anything about it – perhaps an indication that it's just a home of someone who's relatively unknown. One lovely lady, on overhearing your interest, mentions that she thinks it's been empty for a year or so. Another thinks it might be the resting place or retirement home of the famous and generally beloved vigilante Blackjack, who has been missing from action for years now. A third suggests that it's the meeting place of a cult of Urgathoa, even now plotting evil against the city, though what evil she doesn't share with you before she's taken into a backroom by another patron.

    It becomes clear fairly quickly that it's nothing but rumours, gossip being spread by intoxicated men and women to their purchased partners. What is clear from this however is that the lack of anything concrete does suggest it's not a particularly notable location, certainly not one that's a well-known meetup spot for any particular group or groups. If it were a safehouse for the Cerulean Society, a smuggling spot, or some other untoward building, chances are at least one of your leads would have given you that knowledge, but it's all a lot of 'I heard this' and 'He told me that'. Nothing concrete.
    DMing:
    Iron Crisis IC | OOC
    RHoD IC | OOC
    CotCT IC | OOC

    Playing:
    ToNG IC | OOC
    MoMiWoM IC | OOC
    OotA IC | OOC

  14. - Top - End - #14
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
    BlueKnightGuy

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC


    Loric the Tanner

    Human Monk
    AC: 16 HP: 10/10
    PP: 13 PIv: 10 PIs: 13
    Conditions: --

    Passing through the streets - in as much as the dirt paths can be called streets - of the Thieves' Camp, Loric pays a nod of acknowledgement to those he recognizes as he passes. Many of them come from different lands, from outside cultures, with little in common. But there is also a respect here that does not exist between those in the city itself, with its infertile stone streets and self-obsessed people.

    Oftentimes, Loric would assist the other 'thieves' with the odd task. Fixing a fence, collecting wood for a bonfire, the sort of simple honest work that Khepri smiles upon. And they repaid in turn - it was his neighbors who helped show him how to build the jigsaw sheep enclosure without any nails. This is a good place. One where violence seldom troubles his heart. But now, now things have changed. The soft eyes of a diligent worker drone doing his part are gone this day, replaced by eyes of stone, cemented in purpose.

    He is a man of few words. Entering the festering interior of the tannery, Loric passes old Crispin without a word. A brief nod, maybe. The sad old miser probably doesn't notice or care. Into the back, with the other workers. His eyes fall upon the station where the boy used to work. Loric still doesn't know the boy's name. For all the many words he had spoken, his name was never one of them. Walking past, he sets his bag, cloak and walking stick near his own station and takes out his tools.

  15. - Top - End - #15
    Orc in the Playground
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    Scipio Arquetius - HP: 10\10 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None

    The former guard doesn't talk much these days, even less so with his thoughts focused on Gaedren Lamm, so he's not of much company to Pogdan during their walk. When they finally arrive, Scipio waves his hand to tell Pogdan to stop, then nods slightly pointing at the strange figure just outside the address they're looking for "What do you think? Trouble or ally?" he whispers, eyes trained on Creissus "Doesn't look like the kind of people Lamm preys upon, but doesn't look like someone who would mingle with him either."
    "Rabbit has Brain. That's why he never understands anything."

  16. - Top - End - #16
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    DruidGirl

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    HP: 10/10 Concentration: No Active Conditions: No

    "There is no one Lamm does not prey on," Podgan says simply.

    "I think we may meet any sort of person here tonight."

    He does not approach either, merely whispering up to the tall former guard, an odd pair indeed.
    Last edited by TriciaOso; 2021-07-08 at 08:43 AM.

  17. - Top - End - #17
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    purepolarpanzer's Avatar

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    Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV

    Human Bard
    AC: 14 HP: 10/10
    PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12
    Conditions: --
    Concentrating on:
    Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 3/3

    Standing across the street from 3 Lancet Street, Creissus tried to act casual while observing the building. However, his attention span only lasted so long before he grew bored of staking the building out. He began to regret not staying for another tumble with Selena, and a lazy grin stole over his features as he remembered their entwinement the night before. After a few moments of reminiscing he shook himself and looked about. Well, he had hours to go and there was little to do here, so he took one last look at 3 Lancet Street before turning in place and heading across the city towards the Bard's End. He couldn't remember if his tab was paid up there, but he had coin in his pocket and his guitar slung over his back. Rather than spend the time doing something practical, he decided to go eat, drink, sing, play cards, and swap tales till the sun neared the horizon. Then he would return, his interest renewed.

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show
    Crease has a poor passive perception, so I'm just having him not notice Podgan and Scipio. Feel free to stop him or follow him if you wish.
    Last edited by purepolarpanzer; 2021-07-07 at 08:57 PM.
    The Bear is Back.

  18. - Top - End - #18
    Ogre in the Playground
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    Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter
    AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 12 | CURRENT 12 | HIT DIE: 1d10 | CURRENT: 1d10
    INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13
    ACTIVE EFFECTS: None.
    CONDITIONS: None.


    Paying a few coins for his midday lunch, Aubin orders a last bottle of red from Zeraznia herself before departing the Red Pillow, and making his way towards Lancet street. An unassuming residence set amidst the leaning tenements that surrounding it, shadowing the narrow streets, several blocks before he arrived at the location, he wandered through a small apartment, subdivided to provide cramped, but serviceable living quarters to the dispossessed, those with little but the rags on their backs and the hope of a dream held firmly in their mind. He sighed, these poor migrant workers, their wages going to fill the coffers of some wealthy landowner, who built this building for as little funds as possible, to rent it to those who could afford nothing else and didn't wish to live in the Camp.

    During his time wearing the Nail, he had been ordered to raid similar hovels, dragging families into the streets, so mothers and fathers could be questioned over countless heresies. Some, simply, for offering prayer to own's own gods, or believing in a philosophy that differed from the Order, accusing others of heresies, chaos, and barbarism, all while disguising one's own cruelties beneath a veneer of devotion, and a rigid adherence to a hellish code. He shook his head, pushing down against the rising anger, and it's accompanying wave of guilt. There! A single, narrow door, which led to a canting rooftop, the buildings pressed so tight, one could step across from building to building, while remaining hidden from view by the overhanging balconies, and the press of the structures to either side of the street.

    He moved along, ducking beneath hanging wire where occupants had their clothes out to dry, stoops, chairs and table tops indicated someone's rooftop dining from the previous evening. He smiled, and took a seat, turning his attention towards 3 Lancet, to observe the comings and goings, perhaps guards were stationed around it, hoping to catch conspirators, Lamm's enforcers perhaps? He narrowed his eyes, there were two, conspicuous for the vast differences between the two, one, much smaller, and walked with the ambling gait of a man wearing some sort of rigid armor, the other, taller, broader.

    They seemed to be conversing with one another, Aubin pulled the cork from the red, spitting it to his right, took a long pull, and set in for an afternoon of watching, before the arranged meet time.

  19. - Top - End - #19
    Titan in the Playground
     
    3SecondCultist's Avatar

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    Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah
    Human Stone Sorcerer
    HP: 10/10, AC: 13
    PP: 14, PI: 14
    Active Effects: None
    Conditions: None
    Concentrating: —
    Shadi lets out a thunderous sigh as the men approach. She's done her best to stay inconspicuous, but in this city of narrow places there's nowhere to turn. Looking about in vain for an alley to retreat down to get her out of this, she's forced to conclude that the only way forward is through. For better or worse, she's going to actually have to talk to these ignorant drunkards. She grumbles minimally that it's usually for worse, these days, but she's never let that stopped her before.

    "I greet you," she fumbles in Taldane, immediately suppressing the urge to reach for the cloth-wrapped bundle strapped to her back. "I am just passing through to meet a friend. I apologize for intruding."

    Lowering her head, Shadi tries to walk on right past them towards her intended destination, hoping that her speed and size can make up for the obvious failings of her words. Though she avoids actively touching either of them or even brushing up against them accidentally, her bulk makes the matter a bit more difficult and she realizes that she's going to have to squeeze through them. Whether they bar her way now is entirely up to them.
    Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2021-08-24 at 08:57 AM.
    Spoiler: My Profile
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    Quote Originally Posted by Zeno Desaqqara View Post
    You divine bastard.
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    Winner of Total War: Rise of Kingdoms (Ironfang Republic)

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    "The philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it."

  20. - Top - End - #20
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    DruidGirl

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    HP: 10/10 Concentration: No Active Conditions: No

    "Oh, he's left," Podgan says. "Perhaps he had nothing to do with our business at all." Or perhaps he had concluded the same from their wariness.

    He feels patently absurd; his crossbow over his back is as tall as he is. "I'm not sure what sort of people we will meet here, Scipio. Probably desperate, vengeful men."

    He knows his own capabilities well; he is not going to be the one to strike a deathblow. He doesn't even eat meat! All his magic is oriented to heal and support; Abadar is a faith for an organization, not a lone hero. "I hope we can find some we can trust." The next time, he promises himself, he will not stand mum on the sidewalk.

    So when he picks up someone in his peripheral half-hidden among the tangles of the rooftop, he waves, despite feeling like an absolute fool.
    Last edited by TriciaOso; 2021-07-08 at 08:59 AM.

  21. - Top - End - #21
    Orc in the Playground
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    Scipio Arquetius - HP: 10\10 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None

    ---------------

    "Hm. Might be so, but it seems way too much of a coincidence to find such a fellow at the very same address we're headed." Scipio gently and slowly strokes his beard, seemingly mulling over what he just saw; Pogdan's comment on the kind of people they would probably meet makes Scipio grunt in approval and answer with a smirk "As we are, sir. As we are."

    Scipio seems about to move, when the priest waves his hand at someone on the roof; the former guard frowns and looks up, where a drinking Aubin has sat and seems to study the figure of the former Hellknight. After a couple of moments the chelish man says to his confessor "Seems like that fellow is on a stakeout. You park your behind on a vantage point and just observe. Do you know him, sir?"
    "Rabbit has Brain. That's why he never understands anything."

  22. - Top - End - #22
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    Amnestic's Avatar

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    Loric, Tannery, Thieves Camp 'District'

    The tannery is one of the warmer places to be found in the city – by design. Temperature and humidity control is important in the curing process. Crispin may be a money-grubbing snake but he's not stupid enough to jeopardise his income for the sake of saving a few coppers on heat. Spend money to make money, as the case may be.

    Quietly you begin work, the knowledge that in order to make the sunset appearance you'll have to cut your shift “short”, working a 'mere' 7 hours instead of the 8, 10, or sometimes 12 that Crispin demands of his ever rotating shift of workers. Conversation is thin in the tannery. People don't want to open their mouths too much given what you're working with, and those that might want to speak are often kept from doing so by the grueling work and exhaustion. Still, there's a little chatter, and the prime topic of the day seems to be King Eodred's supposedly ill health. Two of your colleagues trade words over how no Korvosan monarch has ever died of old age, nor produced an heir after being crowned – a historically true situation that has been dubbed the Curse of the Crimson Throne, though how much truth that aspect has is another matter entirely.

    Giving yourself the appropriate amount of time (if you walk swiftly) to make it to Lancet Street, you pack up and head out through the only proper exit – the front, where your boss resides. “Where do you think you're going?” The wheezing voice of Crispin calls out to you as you pass him. He doesn't look up from his numbers. “Your shift isn't over for another three hours.” He says it matter-of-fact, as if reminding a child, but with the slight undercurrent of a threat attached to it. You both know how long your shift lasts, and at best he's extending a slight lifeline as a way of exerting power over you.

    Shadi, Streets of Korvosa

    “Nah nah, I don't think so horser, think you stepped in the wrong neighbourhood, think you need to be taught a lesson. See we don't want you hear, none of us do,” The drunkard casts his arms around, gesturing to the few people nearby, even as the clanking steadily gets louder. Whether he thinks it won't affect him or if the booze has simply addled his hearing isn't clear, but he seems to not pay attention to the fact that most people seem to want nothing to do with him, or the oncoming Hellknights. “So get out of Korvosa! Go back to bedding animals like the rest of your dirty kind!” He tosses a glass bottle at you, but his aim is wide and he misses even without any actual motion from yourself. The glass shattering breaks the stupor of any onlookers who immediately move away, not wishing to be caught up in what comes next.

    The drunkard pulls back to launch another projectile – a stone tile – in your direction but is stopped when a black gauntleted hand grips his wrist. A voice projected from beneath the horned helmet booms forth. It's flat in tone, in such a way that it barely sounds human. It is less a person now holding them back, it is the force of the law itself.

    ”Attempted assault witnessed.” The second knight at their side continues: ”And confirmed. Per Korvosan Code 24, you are being detained.” The man curses, and swings a fist directly at the obsidian armoured man that now holds him in their steely grip. The punch does nothing. It clangs pointlessly against the solid plate, and at best only serves to injure the man's own hand. ”Assault of an enforcement official. Korvosan Code 373. Loss of offending limb and one year hard labour.” With very little effort the Hellknight drags the drunkard over to a nearby table and slams their arm down against it, before unhooking an axe from their waist. Fear fills the drunkard's eyes as the gleam of the razor-sharp axe reflects the winter sun, but fear of the inevitable does not stop it arriving. ”Sentence issued.” ”And confirmed.” The axe slices through air, then flesh, then bone, before finally lodging itself in wood.

    A great deal more alcohol would need to be imbibed to stave off the pain the drunkard now feels, and his scream is a testament to this. He struggles to get away, flailing as a mad animal caught in a trap, but even without his right hand the grip on his wrist does not relent. His associate is frozen in place, which may be for the best. Fleeing would likely only make his situation worse – as it stands now he's merely an accessory to attempted assault, and will at most suffer a week or so in prison before release. Running from the law would add magnitudes of sentences on top of that.

    To what the little credit the Hellknights have, they do not leave the man bleeding out. His sentence isn't death, after all, and one immediately begins administering aid to staunch the bleeding so that they can be hauled away for 'processing'. The other turns to you, and without a hint of emotion – no glee or malice – simply says: ”Continue on your way citizen. Do not cause trouble.” He need add no more to the statement. Law – Korvosan Law - has been enforced, for all to see.

    Thankfully, no further interruptions are met on your path to Lancet Street, though you're not the first to arrive, spotting two others – a human and a gnome – already there.

    Creissus, Bard's End Tavern, South Shore District

    Change in Korvosa is as regular as the tides, and Bard's End is no exception to this. Situated in the picturesque and much-desired South Shore district, the enormous tavern sprung up on prime real estate and quickly established itself as one of the places to be for those seeking entertainment of song, stage and stanza. Boasting three separate floors of entertainment (ranked in ascending level of fame, from the cellar to the first floor) it is never empty of both accomplished and would-be bards plying their trade for fame, fortune and fun.

    Alas, your status as a persona-non-grata among much of polite and impolite society means that your own songs are restricted to the cellar stage, even if you are, perhaps, capable enough to warrant the ground floor. Certainly your infamy precludes you from the coveted first floor stage, where the real money makers and money spenders reside. The cellar does always have the most lurid rumours and stories however, and this afternoon your table's topic of talk is the many (supposed) affairs that King Eodred has pursued with attractive artists, performers and debutantes who visit the castle, much to Queen Ileosa's immense displeasure. Some of those you play cards with even suggest idly that they should aim for a night with the old man, and that whatever favours he has to offer would be worth the idle wrath of the Queen, while others warn them off such foolishness, though even they start to see some wisdom in it as they get deeper into their cups. Royal favour can open a great many doors, after all.

    The afternoon otherwise passes as calmly as a rowdy tavern full of competitive bards is ever going to get, and before long sunset is on (figurative and literal) horizon, for the appointed meeting time.
    DMing:
    Iron Crisis IC | OOC
    RHoD IC | OOC
    CotCT IC | OOC

    Playing:
    ToNG IC | OOC
    MoMiWoM IC | OOC
    OotA IC | OOC

  23. - Top - End - #23
    Ogre in the Playground
    Join Date
    Sep 2017

    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter
    AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 12 | CURRENT 12 | HIT DIE: 1d10 | CURRENT: 1d10
    INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13
    ACTIVE EFFECTS: None.
    CONDITIONS: None.


    Aubin regarded the small figure, as he lifted his face and waved a hand towards his location. The brow over his scarred eye arched in curiosity, had these been Lamm's men there would surely be some sort of bravado, a display of aggression, and the pounding of feet up the stairwell behind him. Instead, a curious look, and a timid wave, interesting indeed. The former armiger rose to his feet, swaying only slightly, and tipped his large tricorne hat by way of acknowledgement, before grabbing the bottle of red in his left hand, and descending to the street. Moving, once again, through the pungent, oppressively damp stairwell, he descended into the street, still shaded by clothes lines, balconies, and lean of squalid tenements over head.

    He walked towards the pair, a drunken swagger in his steps, perhaps overplayed, but to have them underestimate him would be to his advantage if they were to cross swords. The smaller man, though on closer inspection he doubted him man indeed, for his skin was a blue-grey, wrinkled and thick, like a farmer's calloused palms, he wore shoddy, worn clothes, however something in his movements seemed stiff. Ahhh, he came armored, as though expecting trouble. His companion, a hair taller than Aubin himself, was a narrow shouldered man, with a hawkish, chelish face, his dark clothing adorned with pouches and straps which could contain any number of weapons, or devices, of which he may need to be wary.

    Aubin himself approached, wearing sturdy buckles shoes, hose, and a navy doublet, over which a leather jerkin fell to his knees, buckled about the waist by two overlapping weapon belts, on held a rapier on his right hip, the other a device that would be unfamiliar to most. A dark wood handle, with brass fittings and a striking plate. Across his chest a bandoleer, like Scipio's, but instead of pouches, a number of loops that held small thumb-sized parchment wrappings, sealed with wax. He regarded the pair with a stern eye, one of which was scarred as if by a duelling blade years past, dark curls framed his mustachioed face, he smiled broadly, bowing without taking his eyes off of the pair.

    "Good gentlefolks," he spoke quietly, "it appears I am not alone in by curiosity about yon domicile." He nodded towards the entryway to 3 Lancet, "And you are both too ... cultured ... to be in the employ of one Mister Lamm, so I can only assume you are here for interests, both personal," he raised the red to his lips, draining the bottle, before tossing it into a nearby refuse pile, "and shared." His right hand moved to his tabard, and from beneath it produced a harrow card, which, once turned, revealed a playful grig, the Cricket, to those familiar with the Varisian symbology.

    "Allow me to introduce myself, I am Marcillus Aquillonius, Viscount of House Eriador. And with whom do I have the pleasure of sharing this refuse strewn alley?"

    Spoiler: Out of Character Actions
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    OOC: I have no issue if Scipio, being an Artificer, instantly recognized the flintlock pistol. I believe they are rare enough to be somewhat of an oddity to the common citizenry.

  24. - Top - End - #24
    Titan in the Playground
     
    3SecondCultist's Avatar

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah
    Human Stone Sorcerer
    HP: 10/10, AC: 13
    PP: 14, PI: 14
    Active Effects: None
    Conditions: None
    Concentrating: —
    Shadi doesn't flinch at the insult of 'horser' anymore. She's lived in this city for near on two years now, and it's a word she hears thrown at her almost every day. Even the thrown bottle doesn't faze her; it's obvious his aim is off, and the sharp symphony of broken glass is a report she's equally familiar with. The Shoanti-in-exile gives the layabouts a flat stare, as she begins to loosen the muscles in her back and legs. She'll need to be limber for what comes next.

    For the briefest moment she closes her eyes and reaches out, feeling the network of mortar and paved stone expand beneath her feet. Beneath that is loose brick and topsoil, the churn of centuries. And beneath that is an expanse of shale rock, the very shelf that Korvosa is built upon. Slowing her breathing, she prepares herself to draw it all in, to put on her second skin and show these two what it really means to get in a fight.

    Then the Hellknights step in, and Shadi freezes.

    She's seen them before, of course. It's impossible to hail from the Storval Plateau and not know of the Order of the Nail, the iron-mailed fist of the law. When she first left her home, she didn't believe that the Chelish really worshipped a horned devil. But her doubts were wiped clean when she witnessed a troop intervene at student protest outside the University. Evidently some edict from Egorian had been passed which curtailed resources from non-Academae teaching personnel, which had resulted in a number of resignations of popular professors on campus. The University-going public had been... less than fond of the rank favoritism shown to the diabolist school, and the protests followed predictably. At the time, Shadi didn't know about any of that: all she saw was a crowd of angry faces, and a line of figures in spiked plate mail with great weapons. "Savagery must be quelled," they had said, "in the land, home, and mind." What followed after was nothing short of brutal - she had never seen violence launched simply against those just trying to speak out. In that moment she had decided that she hated them; hated their armor, hated their devil-god, and hated their words most of all.

    But it's easy to say such things in private, and harder to act on them when the moment forces itself upon you. Now, standing in the lane looking at steel-clad silhouettes of law made manifest, she cannot help but quail. The severed arm itself has little to do with it - she's seen worse, inflicted worse and taken on similar injuries - but the way the act is being carried out. As if he is not even a person, just a mistake that needs correcting. She forces herself to nod as she walks away in perfect silence.

    By the time Shadi arrives on Lancet Street, she has largely collected herself. The adrenaline is gone from her, the colour in her face and twitching of her fingers that scream to fight or flee. Instead the Shoanti focuses on what is ahead, which are two more individuals. Pulling her hood and cloak closer to her, she finds a place nearby and leans her massive bulk against the wall to wait for the allotted time. Beneath the cloth wrapping, the hilt of the greatsword digs itself painfully into her right shoulderblade, but she ignores it. At first she wonders whether the small and large one are here for the same reason, but then they seem to get embroiled in a conversation with a third man who looks like one of the night-men that she's heard rich women in this town pay good money for.

    Ah, it's probably unrelated.
    Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2021-08-24 at 08:58 AM.
    Spoiler: My Profile
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    Quote Originally Posted by Zeno Desaqqara View Post
    You divine bastard.
    Currently Running:
    - Tales of Neutral Ground

    Winner of Total War: Rise of Kingdoms (Ironfang Republic)

    Loser of Total War: The Final Hanrui (Elda Hafnar)


    "The philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it."

  25. - Top - End - #25
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    DruidGirl

    Join Date
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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC


    HP: 10/10 Concentration: No Active Conditions: No

    Podgan blinks up at the human. "I am Podgan, a priest of Abadar and this is..." He pauses, realizing that maybe Scipio doesn't want this man to know his name.

    "This is my friend." He shows his own Harrow card, like a shibboleth.
    Last edited by TriciaOso; 2021-07-10 at 09:55 AM.

  26. - Top - End - #26
    Ogre in the Playground
    Join Date
    Sep 2017

    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Aubin D'Ambrosio, Hellknight deserter
    AC: 15 | HIT POINTS: 12 | CURRENT 12 | HIT DIE: 1d10 | CURRENT: 1d10
    INITIATIVE: +4 | PASSIVE PERCEPTION: 11 | PASSIVE INSIGHT: 13
    ACTIVE EFFECTS: None.
    CONDITIONS: None.


    Aubin nodded, "Well then Factor Podgan, it appears that we may well, both, be acquainted with one Gaedren Lamm. A man of dubious moral character, who preys upon the disenfranchised, the oppressed, and other such victims of misfortune." He paused, a slight scowl obscuring his, rather congenial face, "I am sure that even the Master of the Vault would agree that such an individual is a rot in our shining metropolis, one which must be excised for the benefit of our fellow citizenry. A thought which has occurred, no doubt, to the mysterious author of letters, seemingly delivered far and wide."

  27. - Top - End - #27
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
    BlueKnightGuy

    Join Date
    Apr 2013

    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC


    Loric the Tanner

    Human Monk
    AC: 16 HP: 10/10
    PP: 13 PIv: 10 PIs: 13
    Conditions: --

    Throughout the day, Loric toils passively, quietly, as he has done every day for years now. The scraping of the leather, the white noise of gossip in the background, even the stench all wash over him and off of him as a duck sheds water. Accepting this role has given him a kind of peace, a stability. But now that there is something else, some of it eats at him. A little bit of his coat of armor has fallen off. A little bit of the mask chipped away, reminding him of what's beneath.

    This isn't peace. This is hiding.

    The internal voice chastises him, his passive expression cracking with a twitch of the brow. He frowns at the work before him, but does not justify the doubts with a response.


    Until it comes time. Picking up his bag in a motion that feels so out of place among the clockwork, he shifts it once more beneath his cloak and takes up his walking stick. Any other workers of long tenure might see reason to whisper about this, too- the silent man who has been here every day precisely on time, worked every day precisely until told it was finished, suddenly getting up to leave early. As if a stone dropped into a river has caused the streams to diverge.

    He walks out into the room where Crispin awaits, predictably detecting the oddity. Loric stops, looking at the old man in the eyes. He slowly walks towards the desk. In the years he has been here, Loric has spoken to the old man once, perhaps twice. He opens his mouth and breathes in as if he'd been forgetting to do so for some time. His heavily accented words are awkward, those of a man no longer accustomed to interacting with other humans: "I have vitally important business at 3 Lancet Street. I request early leave to do so." The asking is a formality, the words barely a question. He will do it regardless. But not burning bridges would be preferred.

    Who cares what a sad old man thinks.

    Spoiler: Rolls
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    (1d20-1)[3] Persuasion to ask permission.


  28. - Top - End - #28
    Orc in the Playground
    Join Date
    Sep 2020

    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Scipio Arquetius - HP: 10\10 - Conditions: None - Active Effects: None

    ---------------

    Scipio, hands on his hips and head slightly tilted, listens intently to the exchange between Pogdan and Aubin; it seems quite clear that he's much less trusting than the priest and when Pogdan introduces him, he greets the newly met Aubin with a nod and nothing else - he doesn't say anything, he doesn't show any cards, he doesn't even confirm or deny that he knows anything about Gaedren Lamm. Even though the former watchmen doesn't show any open hostility towards Aubin, he doesn't seem quite keen to accept whatever the other's saying at face value and his inquisitive gaze goes from the former Hellknight countenance to the pistol he carries and back.
    "Rabbit has Brain. That's why he never understands anything."

  29. - Top - End - #29
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    purepolarpanzer's Avatar

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC


    Creissus "Crease" Walrun Ornetto IV

    Human Bard
    AC: 14 HP: 10/10
    PP: 10 PIv: 11 PIs: 12
    Conditions: --
    Concentrating on:
    Bardic Inspiration- 1d6 3/3

    Crease both loved and hated the Bard's End. Out of the taverns that knew him by sight or reputation it was by far the most welcoming, and it was always full of his kind of people. Bards, actors, musicians, playwrights, scoundrels one and all, and they would even loan him money or buy him a drink on their tab if they were doing well. It would be his favorite place in the city, were it not for his abysmal standing with the management. While he was free to be a patron there as long as he could beg, buy, or barter his way into an evening's entertainment, he was relegated to the lowest stage in the building, where, in his own mind, only riffraff and has-beens played. It didn't for a second come to him that his vagabond lifestyle might make him riffraff, or that his sullied reputation had relegated him to a has-been. He just silently promised himself every time he crossed the threshold that one day his fame and skill would reach a point where any amount of infamy he had accumulated would not hold him back from preforming on the grandest stage of the entire place.

    After buying himself a drink and a hearty lunch, he sat down to play cards with some out of work and off duty actors he had been in a play with some weeks ago. Exchanging rumors and tales, he took every bit of juicy gossip and stored it in his mind in case it became useful later. Few people recognized the value of excellent gossip, but it could strike sharper than a dagger in the right moment or time. Creissus played conservatively, fully cognoscente of his current lack of employment. Still, he couldn't help but place a significant bet on his weakest hand of the day. The other players folded, and Creissus scooped a healthy pile of coins into his purse, taking his leave before anyone could look at his cards and realize he had an abysmal hand.

    While walking back across the city towards Lancet street, he was tempted to play his guitar as he walked, but since his host had so obviously attempted subterfuge, he realized it may be rather gauche to show up with an entourage of fans at his back. Instead he whistled, occasionally singing under his breath, and weaved his way around and between people. The entire way there he fantasized about the different ways he could take revenge on Gaedren Lamm, with his whistling growing particularly vigorous as he envisioned some of the more violent ones.
    The Bear is Back.

  30. - Top - End - #30
    Titan in the Playground
     
    3SecondCultist's Avatar

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    Default Re: CotCT 5e IC

    Shadi, Who Was Skoan-Quah
    Human Stone Sorcerer
    HP: 10/10, AC: 13
    PP: 14, PI: 14
    Active Effects: None
    Conditions: None
    Concentrating: —
    The woman from the Kallow Mounds is about to tune out the droning completely before she catches the very unmistakeable sound of a name. 'Gaedren Lamm'. Shadi's ears perk up and she starts to actively pay attention to what's being said by the man to the two others. For the time being she's kept her cloak and hood wrapped around her, but anyone even halfway looking sees the chalk-white tribal tattoos, the rattling bone necklace and years of training bound up in scar and muscle. Though she can only make out every second or third word, Shadi does hear mention of a letter.

    So I am not the only one. That is no surprise; the missive did tell her to expect others. She was rather hoping that she would be the first one here - the better to appraise the others who have it in for Lamm - but it's not too important. If they can help, then she will be willing to work with them to bring the lowlife down.

    But Shadi's ruminations are interrupted by a peculiar sound, one that brings her back sharply to home. Whistling, sharp and pointed in the brush to track game, to mimic birdsong or give signals over long distances. She was so surprised when she first heard it in the lowlands, but here they don't use it for anything useful. The Varisians use it for music, which befuddled her at first. The tune on the air now isn't one she's heard of, but she has to admit that whoever is behind it knows their way around a note.

    When the whistler rounds the corner, the warrior sizes him up. Thick-set with clothing even more useless than the other ones', carrying a thin blade and a red hat that would mark him out as a target for near half a mile. It takes everything she has not to scoff. She really hopes that this one is a spellcaster or just another passer-by; she would not like to have to protect him in a battle.

    Stepping away from her wall perch, Shadi closes the distance to the new arrival less than two heartbeats after he strolls into sight. Though she's only a few inches taller than him, her bulk provides enough of an impression that it looks like she's trying to loom over him; she isn't of course, but the city was not made for folks of her stature. Besides, she's not about to shrink down and pretend to be smaller than she is for the sake of some stranger who's strangely good at whistling.

    "Are you here for Gaedren Lamm?" She asks in accented Taldane in lieu of any kind of introduction.
    Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2021-08-24 at 08:58 AM.
    Spoiler: My Profile
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    Quote Originally Posted by Zeno Desaqqara View Post
    You divine bastard.
    Currently Running:
    - Tales of Neutral Ground

    Winner of Total War: Rise of Kingdoms (Ironfang Republic)

    Loser of Total War: The Final Hanrui (Elda Hafnar)


    "The philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it."

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