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  1. - Top - End - #61
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    Default Re: DrK Slumbering Tsar IC

    Skynir listens to Dr, Constantine’s lecture with rapt attention. Now Doctor, were the people of the region convinced that their soul’s resided in their hearts, or that all souls resided within hearts?

    The Shaman’s eyes twinkle with curiosity at the Bloodrager’s grim certainty. Your people seem to have such an interesting relationship with this land. You make it sound like you’re resentful for what the Army of Light did. Isn’t your tribe thankful that the Army of Light created the Desolation? Surely it’s a crucible for forging strong warriors, warriors stronger than those from more comfortable lands. Do your people wish they too could live comfortable lives in a verdant expanse? Would you rather give up your strength for an easier life?
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  2. - Top - End - #62
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    Roger first goes to help getting the wagons and the animals into Finn's Livery, make sure they are provided good care and, finding a payment in chips is required up front, starts to arrange that one...
    Last edited by u-b; 2022-05-07 at 04:37 AM.

  3. - Top - End - #63
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    Timoshko eyes the doctor with suspicion. After a moment (and slightly more encouragement), he judges the man's intentions legitimate and nods once. "I am Timoshko Saverin: First Fang, son of Oshkarl: our Prime Seer. My grandfather was Grimten, likewise the First Fang in his time. His father was Sern: Chief of Duskprowlers. His father was..." It quickly becomes apparent that oral tradition is a key component of Timoshko's upbringing, and that his clan (if perhaps slightly inbred) takes their heritage extremely seriously. He trivially recalls some 30 generations of warriors, seers, chieftains, and other men, each with a title of some import.

    One of the other caravan members passes by the conversation a few times, and on the third pass grunts "Aye, you still goin' lad? Ain't been that long since the war! What are you on, the 40th generation now?" Timoshko silences him with a glare, before grunting at the interruption. "I have seen the passage of 26 seasons, and have begotten 8 heirs. If my eldest proves worthy, he may sire his own as soon as next spring." Clearly, the Duskprowlers don't wait overly long to produce offspring, and raise them to produce their own quickly. "Now, I was speaking of Kordrick: Seer-sorcerer of my 32nd ancestors generation. His father was..." It's a good thing the distance is significant, as it takes about half of the trip for Timoshko to perform the recitation. "As I began, in the age of War, Sendrick Saverin was our High Priest. He oversaw our coven when Tsar fell, and led us into both isolation and rebirth in the caverns south of the Desolation. He personally repelled four parties seeking to impose their way of life on our people..."

    For the final three generations, he includes a short litany of their accomplishments in life, justification for their position as near-mythological figures. If they are to be believed (and Timoshko certainly believes them to be true), his people have, if anything, mellowed dramatically in the last few hundred years. Having established a large colony and a wide "hunting" area, they have been less driven to expel existing occupants from farmsteads and their own homelands, preferring instead to raid the villages and leave the occupants living for future raids. Perhaps "tribute" might be a more accurate term.

    Finally, as the caravan rolls into view of the Camp, Timoshko is faced with Skynir's questions. He frowns thoughtfully. "Your questions, and the thoughts they beckon are a trap. A game of words intended to confuse. Perhaps I would prefer a life of ease and luxury, who would not? -but such things are folly themselves. The surest way to destroy a people is to remove their struggle. A people without trials is a people with no control over their own lives- much less the land they inhabit. I would surely not relinquish my strength and so doing damn my kin to their own extinction."

  4. - Top - End - #64
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    Azvigo, after dutifully sharing a nip of his whiskey with anyone who fought the giants, sits back and watches the Desolation pass their group by. The meandering hills of ash could be considered beautiful, despite the stark and yawning shadows they cast. The half-orc puts on a smile with the others, listening once more to the stories they tell.

    Of course, it's the cannibal - honestly, he should probably be more shocked that they have a cannibal in their midst - who is the most open to sharing. It doesn't help much that Doctor Constantine and Skynir seem to hang on Timoshko's every word. Azvigo lets out an audible sigh. There are more tales of blood and emptiness than there are stars in the night sky, but the base recitation of names and deeds of the Duskprowlers seems enough to engage the current audience for a long while.

    It is only when the Camp is nearly in sight and Skynir challenges Timoshko that the explorer perks up once more. "I wish I could agree with you, my friend," the half-orc says with expansive jollity. "But control's an illusion no matter what you do. You can struggle and grow strong all you like, but one day fate or the gods or whatever you believe in will throw a trial at you that there's just no walking away from. Whether by blade or time's passing, we've all got an end coming for us. And there's no real way of telling anything that happens 'tween now and then. So why not live the way you want to, on your own terms?" Azvigo shrugs. "Think about it."

    The caravan's arrival at the Camp itself does give the half-orc some pause as he surveys their new surroundings. The fellow swinging from the gibbet admittedly isn't a great sign, but then again this is a blasted wasteland so it's not far off from his expectations. Having most everything he needs save some hot food and a comfortable bed, Azvigo cheerfully defers to the rest of the group to see what, if anything, they would like to do.
    Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2022-04-27 at 11:30 AM.
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  5. - Top - End - #65
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    The Doctor is rapt with attention as Tim regales him with his long lineage, he was fascinated by the verbal tradition, and that he was able to memorize such a long and distinguished lineage, truly, it was impressive, and he was scribbling down everything as fast as he could! This would provide a much needed established time line for these parts, not to mention the opportunity to cross reference genetic markers and the like, now....to get the man to provide him some blood....maybe he could just wait for another encounter.

    As Tim finished, he nodded with appreciation "Thank you, that was very impressive, do you mind if keep this information for my notes" he asks in earnest.

    Turning to Skynir, he frowns "I believe they thought everyone did, as it was the root cause of the fall of their civilization." he said matter of factually, ignoring that Tim was within earshot.

    And with that, he follows Roger into the Sip of Blood looking for something strong.
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  6. - Top - End - #66
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    Once back with the caravan, Hastur grew increasingly taciturn. As it often does, combat reformulated his opinions of his companions a bit. Overall, they were more adept than his initial impressions. The doctor's proclivities seem to tend toward amoral more than immoral. A scientific mind that just wants to know and damns the consequences may be worse in the long run, but Hastur had grown a little less wary of the man. Timoshko is formidable, as he had gauged, but he is an attack dog - perhaps a rabid attack dog, and would need careful dealings. He could certainly prattle on about his ancestors. Roger provided the quiet competence he expected. The other three fared well, Izzy survivng that blow was no small feat, Azvigo was practically a kyton with that whip (though a giant might not have been the ideal target), and Skynir basically turned the battle with his magic. Azvigo also shared his whiskey, which made for a long stride into the dwarf's heart. All and all, he knew he was better off than he thought himself this morning, but he could not shake that perpetually looming expectation that he was going to die in this wasteland.

    Hastur stands in the Camp, a mad cluster of tents and a decrepit tavern to his right, a mud hut to left, and a gallows - occupied - ahead. "How is it possibly worse than I imagined?" he mutters and shakes his head. He burrows deep and tries to place a positive spin on it - maybe the corpse has been there for a long time? Wait... would that be better? Is it better if the corpse is fresh and hangings are routine occurance, or if they simply leave it up until it needs to be replaced and has been swinging for months? In the Camp, maybe frequent hangings are a good thing. Maybe that is the only way to keep the vestiges of civilization ensconced in this place. He stared at the hanged man in silent contemplation for about a minute.

    "I need a drink," Hastur scowled as he went to see the trove of decadent luxuries assuredly waiting for him beyond the doors of "The Sip of Blood."

  7. - Top - End - #67
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    A single nod confirms his consent to the doctor's request. "Of course. I am proud of my heritage," he vastly understates.

    Quote Originally Posted by 3SecondCultist View Post
    "... one day fate or the gods or whatever you believe in will throw a trial at you that there's just no walking away from."
    Timoshko snorts in amusement, but manages to keep his peace as the archeologist finishes the thought. His gaze takes in the outskirts of the Camp with detached calculation as he continues. "Of course the trials come. I face one right now." He raises an eyebrow. "How better to face such trials; having grown fat and soft with opulence, or with hard-forged strength to overcome?" Perhaps even more surprising than concerning, it increasingly becomes apparent that despite substantial vestiges of primitive tradition, Timoshko's people are not blind ideologues.

    He follows most of his companions through the doorway of the Sip of Blood, inclining his head only slightly to ensure no unnecessary bruises.

  8. - Top - End - #68
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    A smile tugs relentlessly at the corners of Skynir's mouth but he manages to be the master of his own face as he responds to Timoshko. No trap, friend. You just seem to be a fellow with great certainty towards his world and I'm just an outlander on a desperate quest for an interesting conversation and perhaps a chance to increase my knowledge. Perhaps a life of luxury is folly, but perhaps avoiding extinction is folly, perhaps we're all neatly planted turnips dreaming we're warriors. Without considering things what chance do we have to avoid folly, or better yet, live well?

    The Speaker for the Past nods along with Azvigo's statement, intrigued by the Archeologist's perspective, even if he's not fully in agreement with it. You speak well, my charismatic friend, but have you considered that rather than being an illusion, control lies else to where you think it? Rather than control being something one has over one's fate, have you considered that control is one's capacity to choose what one wants to think? Even magic that affects one's thoughts can only affect a person if their will submits to it. Our nature as being of mind, of spirit, supervenes on physical reality.

    Listening to the Doctor's response to his inquiry a look of equal parts fascination and satisfaction simmers across his face. Thank you, Doctor Constantine, I hope if there's more you know about the history of this region, please don't keep it a secret.

    As the caravan arrives at Camp, Skynir casts his eyes across the motley assortment of structures and allows himself an earnest chuckle at Hastur's comment. Perhaps you're just an eternal optimist, my friend, but I'm with you on the hunt for a drink. Azvigo's Whiskey went down smooth but surviving this dust requires lubrication. Let's look for something distilled though, we should trust just fermentation when human hygiene practices are standard. Besides, Seeing some of the ruins here in camp has given me an idea, and I've got a proposal for you. With that, he walks with the Templar into "The Sip of Blood", everready to blast anything served to him with Purify Food and Drink
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  9. - Top - End - #69
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    As you wheel into the "Camp" you certainly garner attention as the misbegotten scum, villainy and adventurers who call the Camp home pauses to look at you. Some peering from their rough looking shanty houses. Others tilling dusty and dry looking straggling vegetables or tending to a few scrawny goats behind some thick wire fencing. The main square is a hard-packed dirt yard and serves as the central focus of the hamlet. Its main feature is a bent, old gallows, crudely constructed and leaning with age. Dangling from this by a frayed rope is a desiccated corpse, its broken neck askew and its leathery face frozen into a rictus grin beneath empty eye sockets. Occasionally crows alight to peck at it. Nailed to its breast is a sign bearing the word “Cheater.”

    Nearby a haggard looking man dressed in near rags with a cart laden with debris and sieves and pans looks at you, “Don’t cheat at cards while you’re in the Camp. Leastwise not unless you can whip everyone else whose playing. The last feller who done it is still swinging in the breeze.” He pauses to laugh a hoarse laugh as he see's the caravan of goods. “You can’t use gold or silver in the Camp. You’ve got to go to the moneychanger and trade it in for ‘bits’, coins made out of iron. That’s all that will spend here.”

    The words tally with what many of you have heard of the camp. That the blacksmith who's smithy lies just ahead of you on the main square (#7) is the de facto ruler of the city. He takes iron ore from the wastes and makes them into iron bits which are the only currency used in the Camp. None really know much of the urser's past or history and all who are aware seem to think he has always been here... But you can hear him working away, the ting of metal upon metal ringing out from the squat stone-house.

    The first order of business though is tending to the wagon and the horses, Finn's Livery being the only place to leave them. An adobe house in very poor repair fronts a fenced paddock. A few
    broken down nags munch on the sparse grass within. A large barn of faded planks stands next to the crumbling adobe with a sign painted on its side in large pink letters stating that this is Finn’s Livery. The large paddock is heavily reinforced with stout wood and large nails and three heavy set if haggard looking horses clip the dusty grass looking tired and wary. as you approach the aforementioned Finn (or Finnaeous) staggers out, the scrawny elf clad in heavy working leathers and reeking of cheap rotgut brandy. He looks at Izzy blurrily, "what are ye wanting lass. I only got the 2 nags. The rest went with them fancy looking Bad Gater's and Gurg's crew up north to cut through." He giggles slightly, eyes unfocused, Yep, all them ogres and Bard’s Gaters is surely dead. But the critters out in the Desolation don’t eat horses so much. They prefer to eat what the horses is carryin’. I expect my stock’ll start tricklin’ back in a day or two.” As Izzy waits for some sense one of the half dozen or so tough looking handlers, his one a chubby and weather beaten human woman of middle years with a thick cudgel intervenes. "No point you speaking with him now miss. He's been in the cups since dawn. You be getting yourself to the Urser (she points to the smithy which is only 30ft away) And you get some iron bits and its 1 bit a day per beast, and another 2 scrapes (1/10th of a bit) "Fer the feed."


    As Izzy is dealing with the horses most of the others walk towards the Sip of Blood tavern trying to ignore the skeleton dangling in the square nearby. This old structure appears to have been rebuilt several times. The bottom third of the outside walls are of stacked fieldstones and apparently remain from the original building. Above that the walls and roof are a mud-splattered wattle and daub construction with numerous chinks through which tiny plumes of smoke escape. The placard above the door depicts a pointy-fanged fellow about to take a drink of some dark, red liquid in a mug...

    Hastur, the Dr and a few of the others head inside the doors to be greeted by a tavern that consists of a large, L-shaped common room with a small kitchen and living quarters in the northern
    wing. A menu on the wall sells assorted drinks and meals of roast pigeon, horsemeat, turtle soup, and coyote, along with whatever stale breads and overripe vegetables remain from the last caravan to pass through. The Campies gather here to eat, drink, and smoke their foul local pipeweeds prodigiously. A constant stuffy haze fills the room from dawn until nightfall when the establishment closes.

    As you enter the half dozen locals turn to stare at you all. In the corner a tough looking trio of flat eared and orange skinned hobgoblins half rise, hands briefly reaching for swords and axes at their hips before they catch the eye of one of the barely dressed wenches who shakes her head. A large orc hobbles towards you, leaning on a crutch. Never a looker to begin with, his head is now hairless on the left side with a missing eye and ear and massive scarring there also. His right arm ends in a stump above the elbow, and his left hand has only a thumb and two fingers. His left leg ends in a ragged stump just below the knee, long healed, but with exposed bone at the end. His tone is rough and scratchy from the scars. "It’s best to stay inside after dark and not test the spirits. This whole place was a battleground once, and the dead rise at night and take anyone they find wandering around. But... eh, you want drinks you are welcome, you want a smoke I've plenty of good pipeweed. But only the Bender brothers got rooms in the Coach House, for a price mind. You look new in town, you got Iron to trade? If not you better go see the Urser. he always open."
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    Timoshko grunts at the first man to speak, saving his words for someone more deserving. In the haze of the "town's" tavern, he snorts derisively. After summarily dismissing most everyone in the room, he turns to Constantine. "To this 'urser,' then, I suppose," he grumbles, nodding his head toward the door through which they entered.

    Other than making sure no one gets close enough to reach his coin purse, he ignores the rest of the room's occupants, and returns to the street, following the tink of labor.

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    Roger nods and goes to see the Usurer to get some 20 local bits, considering how he has 4 beasts and will need some to care for himself. The protectionism was not a good sign for the market conditions here, but he was inclined to start by abiding the rules.

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    Just noting here in case it's relevant: Roger still has scent active throughout the evening, complete with bonuses, so will notice how anyone and anything smells here at the camp.
    Last edited by u-b; 2022-04-30 at 01:09 PM.

  12. - Top - End - #72
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    Hastur frowned at... well, everything. The man was hanged for cheating at cards. Real money is no good here. The meats - well, turtle is okay, but the rest - pigeon, horse, coyote - all basically prison food. The common is basically lousy with monsters - hobgoblins and an orc - in another place...

    But this isn't another place. Hastur breathed deeply as he worked again to accept that fact. Having to move to this local unregulated currency stunk, but he knew that there wouldn't be other options. This Urser was probably going to abandon the Camp someday with a cartload of currency that actually mattered and upend this fictitious market he created. Still, what choice did Hastur have? At least the orc, or most of one anyway, was kind enough to lend some useful advice. "Thank you for the tips. Right. To the Urser then." And the dead roam about at night... yes, everything is awful.

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    Armed with information from the dreary looking Sip of Blood or the Stables most of the weary caravan looks across the square to the north side where the stout looking smithy stands. Approaching some of the locals lingering in the gallows square smirk happily, glancing at their stalls with collections of junk or small and stunted vegetables or dry and stringy meat. One calling out to Hastur “The Sip of Blood Tavern is run by a vampire. His name’s Lucky Bjorc and drinking other people’s blood is how he stays so lucky. I’d stay away from the sangria if I were you.”...

    Another nods to the smithy “The Usurer’s in charge of the Camp because he was here first. No one alive was around when he came here. He’s a lot older than he looks. Don't cause trouble or you'll be joining the last one who did...” The last comment is punctuated by a gobbet of brown spittle hawked in the direction of the body rattling in the dusty wind. Beyond the smithy as you approach it is the remains of campfires. Midden pits and tent stakes show that this is a regular campsite that was recently abandoned. An inordinate amount of garbage and stinking wastes show that the inhabitants were giantkind (#5). To the other side is a strange looking building, and one obviously older than much of the camp. This building is unlike any other in town. Of tightly fitted mortared stone, it is obviously ancient but has weathered the years well. It consists of an octagonal building with a conical roof, also of stone. A stout wooden door—not the original—opens towards the Common.

    The smithy itself is the only other decently constructed building in town. This simple plank building is nonetheless of the finest construction in town (other than the well house—Area 8). A well-crafted stone chimney rises at the southern end, which boasts a well-fitting door facing the Common. The opposite end sports a pair of sliding double doors that likewise face the Common. During the day, these doors are open revealing a well-equipped blacksmith’s workshop within. The other half of the building consists of the smith’s dwelling. A sign above the double door depicts a gray coin and an anvil.

    The smith himself is working the bellows and the anvil as you approach, his back towards you as he bends over the small anvil hammering a glowing bar of black iron into you realise horsehoes. Although for those in the craft (anyone with 3+ rank in Craft) its obvious the smith is well practiced and skilled. Despite the forge the smithy is rather chilly and to Roger smells dessicated and dry.
    This man is tall and lean with a great hooked nose and a wide mouth full of seemingly too many teeth fitted tightly together. A shock of pale hair covers his head and watery blue eyes look like two mirrors revealing nothing of what goes on inside the head behind. His face is heavily lined and he looks ancient from his time here in the camp He stops hammering as you approach and nods




    "Greetings to the camp. You all come to me in the end. You'll be wanting some iron chips..." he gestures to large stout chest near the door and a pair of scales. "The Camp only accepts Iron Chips, I make the chips. 5 crowns gives you a chip and spends well in the camp." (that is to say 5 gp = 1 ic and in camp 1 ic = 1 gp of Pathfinder prices). "No-one trades anything else here, I make the rules." Nodding he seems happy for you to change the money yourselves, the chest i open and if you have a look you can see Iron chips and shards (1/10th of a chip, i.e a sp) in one half and a smattering of gold and silver from various local nations in the other half. Above the scale on a rafter there is a old and withered looking crow that caws as you approach and seems to watch you intently with its beady eye.
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    Roger nods and changes 100 gp for 20 ic, some of the later in shards. "Understood. Speaking about the rules, will you introduce us to the rest of the relevant ones and the authority under which you make them?"

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    Having been rerouted already to the 'Urser' a person whom the Doctor was very intrigued to meet, he took everything in stride as they moved towards the money changer. The campsite, and refuse from giants raised an eyebrow, but not much else.

    The old Well was interesting, and he hoped to inspect that at a later time, just the fact that it was still standing from before, meant a world of possibilities.

    Nodding as the strange old man spoke to them, "And do you perchance have a doctor in this locale?" he says, as he exchanges some money with a raised eyebrow, there was extortion, and then there was extortion.

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    "And is it one chip for five crowns?" Hastur asks as he begins his exchange all his coins into 41 iron chips. It was smart - he had to admit that - collecting the universally valuable coins so the (mis)fortune seekers would all wind up dead in gods-knows-where with these worthless iron chips. Somehow, this felt like the end of the line - exchanging his mortal coins into those of the land of the dead.

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    Good Gods, Skynir thinks to himself as he hears some of the rumors floating about camp, they serve sangria at the Sip of Blood!? Where the hell do they get the fruit from?

    He takes note, and some small comfort, at the quality and construction of the well house, and keeps his eyes peeled around the camp for any stone, not currently in use, that might be shaped by magic. As he walks through the township he keeps his eyes open and doesn't let any potential pickpockets get excessively close. Arriving at the Urser, Skynir listens to the smith's spiel and considers the man's words. Brutal exchange rate, at least he seems pretty laid back for an autocrat.

    He trades some coins for iron and, when the party is ready to leave the smithy, presents his stone-shaping plan to Hastur.

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    Izzy takes a sharp intake of breath when she finds out the exchange rate and the cost for housing horses.

    "I'm going to have to find a way to make being here profitable, quickly," she comments to the others after exchanging 150gp for 30 bits and promptly handing 6.6 of them over for a day's food and stabling for the horses. "If everything here's that expensive I'll be out of funds inside a week."

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    "Lovely," says Azvigo with a lazy grin while looking around the Camp. The collected spit, blood, and other bodily substances down in the mud do an excellent job rounding out the corpse in the center of these 'civilized' spots. The traveling bard keeps to himself, drawing his long cloak around his shoulders as the group enters the Sip of Blood and stopping only to ask the barman to reserve a few more ales for his party upon their return.

    On the other hand, the smithy elicits a low whistle from the adventurer who has been to many a shop like this and knows a bit about trade (if not metalwork in particular). Azvigo makes no attempt to hide his interest in the masonry and the apparent care with which the building was constructed, in such open contrast to the rest of the Camp. The half-orc gives a toothy grin when the Urser explains the hilariously lopsided rate of exchange and he spots some of his new companions' discomfort.

    "Well you've got quite the set up here, my friend," he says, "but I wonder, how many crowns do you have in your shop at any time?" Azvigo then reaches into the hidden compartment sewed into the bottom of his backpack and empties it onto the nearest countertop. Between wads of thick cotton balls spills out a veritable stream of white-gold coins, platinum pieces numbering precisely one hundred.

    "If we're going to die here, we might as well do it with a bit of comfort. I know I'm not long for this world either way." He chuckles darkly.

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    Azvigo is going to be a big spender here. I'll spend 1000 gp for 200 iron crowns, assuming there is enough in the smithy.
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    Timoshko raises an eyebrow, but keeps the rest of his thoughts to himself. As his companions empty purse-fulls of actual coin into the open coffer, he reluctantly follows suit with 10 gp. He glares unhappily at the crow, and returns to the street without a word to this "Urser."

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    The Urser seems calmly disinterested in the exchanges only looking up as Azvigo pours out a huge mound of gold. A dry "You are confident then... or looking to end your life in the wastes? If so merely head out, Someone will bring the chips back I'm sure.." At the query from the doctor he nods through the open door to what looks like a mound of mud built around a fallen tree (#13). An old, artificial mound rises 20 feet into the air here. Its sides are badly eroded from weathering, and a gaping hole opens in one flank beneath a heavy stone lintel. It has the look of an old tomb about it other than the garland of wildflowers and herbs hung around the door frame. "Mama Grim tends to the injured when they arrive. The gravekeeper to those who no longer need help. Although she is..." he pauses to consider his words "Unusual but a native to these lands."

    He nods without a smile as you trail out and once more back in the gallows square. Behind you (#9) A collection of crumbling adobe buildings, lean-tos, and tents surround a patch of surprisingly healthy and bountiful garden. The mud-brick adobes are of obviously ancient construction and have many gaps in their walls and roofs covered by stretched animal hides and blankets. A male human and a young femal half elf both dressed in faded leathers roast meat on an low fire as a pair massive heavily muscled dogs roam nearby.
    Thanks to Emperor Ing for the nice Avatar

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    Hastur was about to leave after participating as a dupe in this scam, but then he thought to ask something of the Urser. “You’ve been here a long time, probably have a sense for what’s out in the wastes. Any where particularly dangerous to avoid? Any where on the relatively safer end to explore?”

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    Roger pays 4.8 iron bits for stabling and feeding his animals, then proceeds to get a solid first impression about the state of affairs here at The Camp. He enters The Sip of Blood Tavern, orders a good meal and a good drink and asks if nobody minds if he magics himself up after the road. He says he would be willing to share the news from the south after he's done with the meal.

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    Ears of the City x4. Counts as 24d4 hours of actively gathering info on the following topics (1d4 hours on each of 24 topics, taking 10 each time for a total of 25):
    Places and people at 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 on the local map
    Places and people 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 on the local map
    Gurg and Gorg, Tsar, The Dead Fields, Ashen Waste, Orcs, Goblins
    Six most recent trips into The Desolation, whether successful or not, by anyone

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    Time to make a good impression, Skynir thinks to himself. With a shrug and a nod to his compatriots, he strides over to where the human and half-elf are cooking. He looks up and down at the buildings, burgeoning plant life; the dogs, and the people. Good afternoon-hey, cute-looking pooch, we were hoping to introduce ourselves to Mama Grim, do we need to make arrangements or is it alright if we head on in?

    Provided no resistance is proffered, the half-elf continues confidently toward the entrance to the most auspicious building amongst the collection and holds open whatever door or flap covers the portal to allow his companions to come with him; with a bow of his head as if to say, after you.

    Hello? Mama Grim? It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Skynir Elkhart, and these are my traveling companions. We just got into town and thought the polite thing to do was introduce ourselves around camp. You've got such a vibrant garden outside, you must have quite the green thumb to nurture it in this climate. We were hoping to hear more about the services you offer locals and wanted to make sure to let you know that if there's anything we can do for you, please don't keep it a secret.

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    Knowledge Nature to Identify the plantlife: (1d20+6)[18]
    Diplomacy: (1d20+11)[29]
    amazing avatar of my favorite character, Gheera, by Pesimismrocks

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    Uninterested in the locals, but keenly interested in the safety of his companions (if for entirely selfish reasons), Timoshko follows silently alongside Skynir. He doesn't exactly strike the most inviting image, but he knows to assess a situation before acting rashly, despite what some may think. He simply listens and watches, his face a bland mask of inexpression as his more talkative companions take point on the introductions.

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    If applicable: (1d20+11)[21] perception
    and (1d20+5)[14] sense motive for any untoward hunches (includes -2 drawback for this woman surely coming from a different culture than he).

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    The good Doctor huffs at the response, it wasn't what he was hoping for, either way though, perhaps there was something that could be done. He followed Skynir, oddly silent, hopefull this Mama Grim wasn't all she was supposed to be....or maybe he could....no, not yet.
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    Azvigo offers no final comment to the Urser's jab, choosing to leave his smithy with his iron crowns and a little smile. He falls into place easily right beside Skynir at the front of their band, tipping his hat to any passers-by but keeping a hand at his belt near his whip. The half-orc's golden gaze flits around with something that might look like gaiety, but any experienced adventurer recognizes is actually patient observation. He catches Timoshko doing very much the same before looking away quickly; probably not best to dwell on how he shares his first instinct with the resident cannibal.

    Approaching the low mound and the looming entranceway within, Azvigo ducks his head beneath the stone ceiling and pushes aside an errant vine or two in order to see comfortably. His eyes adjust to the darkness instantaneously, the overcast outdoors blending with the black and white vision he's used to when raiding old tombs.

    "Thank you for your time," he says after Skynir has finished, pointing to himself by means of introduction. "Azvigo Douglass. I was hoping to purchase a few healing potions for our group to use collectively. The ruined city is a dangerous place, and we need all the help we can get."
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    Quote Originally Posted by Zeno Desaqqara View Post
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    Izzy didn't see any particular need to go and see the doctor after her earlier ministrations seemed quite effective, so she decides finding employment is more of a priority.

    She goes to The Sip of Blood with Roger, and purchases an extortionately priced bottle of common wine. After pouring herself a glass, she asks about the best ways to earn iron in these parts.

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    As you finish the exchange with the Usurer he shakes his head sadly. "New to the camp eh..." he starts, pausing to shake his head. "There is no safe lands. The ash wastes lie in the SE and are filled with the camps of the dead and the winds of dust. The SW is the dead fields where the dead do not lie easy. Above the crossroads lies the most savage of desolation. the chaos rifts are a rent in the earth and the boiling lands suffered the full effects of the dark magics... None are safe. If you want safe I'd suggest turn your carts about and head back to Bards Gate. Do not approach the city, none who have tried that in the past 30 years have come back, well save Skeribar and he lost half his company..." He smiles and watches them all leave. "Thanks fer the gold Good luck you survive to change the iron back eh..."

    --

    As Roger and Izzy head to the tavern the others head to the small walled garden on their way to the ugly mound of earth and marsh. Reaching the half elf and human Skynir asks of mama Grim and both shake their heads pointing at the log and mud hump a bit further south. "If you are ill keep on to the lump of trees there my friend. We work for Skeribar, he's the most savvy of the rangers here. We work for him and can guide you in the desolation." As she speaks the dogs nearby lift their heads slightly and growl before the young man motions and they drop back down chewing on strange bones that you cannot recognise.

    The woman continues, "The wastes are dangerous for the new. Ask that most recent caravan from Bard's gate. They were foolish hiring Gurg rather than speaking with Skeribar but they liked the look of the big oaf, little did they realise that knowledge is power here." She leans forward, "I can offer some advice for free to you and yours. The worst of the Desolation’s horrors are in the Boiling Lands where Nature has been warped and twisted beyond recognition. We go there the least because of the great dangers involved. However, we have made some progress in the Ashen Waste and have cleared out many of the most dangerous encounters. It has the most potential for successful adventuring and could probably be cleared of dangers with a concerted effort. " Pausing to offer Skynir, Tamishko, Azvigo and the Doctor a drink of water she draws a rough quadrant map. "The camp" she says, gesturing at the south, "Tsar, the City of Darkness, no one goes there and lives" she says pointing at the west, "And the Boiling lands, the chaos rifts, the ash wastes and the dead lands" she adds going clockwise.



    Continuing she taps the last two she hasn't described. Most of the fighting occurred in the Dead Fields, so there are a large number of undead and a minimum of treasures. The great encampments of soldiers were in what is now the Ashen Waste. That is where we have discovered many valuable treasures in the past. The soldiers went off to die and left their valuables behind in their camps where they still lie unclaimed. We have established safe havens in the Ashen Waste. If you see a grove of healthy trees growing in the wastelands, it is a sign that our sanctuary is near and can provide respite" As she finishes she shakes her head. "I speak too much, Skeribar would be cross with me. Come back if you have iron to spend and want a guide now. Off you go Mama Grim is there" she gestures to the mound.

    Approaching that you head there between a strange pair of towers painted charcol grey with a red skull painted on them (#10) and a large ramshakle wooden structure where a gnome watches you with a sinister smile as he puffs on a pipe (#11). Reaching the Mama Grim's (#13) an old, artificial mound rises 20 feet into the air here. Its sides are badly eroded from weathering, and a gaping hole opens in one flank beneath a heavy stone lintel. It has the look of an old tomb about it other than the garland of wildflowers and herbs hung around the door frame. As you approach there is a large growling from within the barrow and a hulking creature a giant creature resembling a massive wolverine with toothy snouts, long, sharp claws, and reddish-brown pelt appears followed by a tall emaciated women that you realise is enormous as she straightens to some 9ft tall. Mama Grim is a swamp hag with baggy greenish brown skin and sickly, jaundiced-looking eyes. Her hair is a massive tangle of greasy black locks into which she has tangled bits of feather, bone, and assorted detritus. She looks at you as you approach, particularly Skynir and Konstantine as they speak with her.



    Oh yes, Dearie, the Desolation is dangerous, but it’s just the doorstep. Beyond the threshold lies the truly dangerous. The ruined city is far from abandoned, and those that abandoned it are far from forgetting it. You be careful out there, Dearies. Such pretty young morsels like you would make a fine meal for those that guard secrets not meant to ever see the light of day


    ---

    In the Sip of Blood the one legged, one armed orc greets you again, one of the wenches speaking as he mumbles with his tongueless mouth. "Ah, you got your Iron. Please be seated, have some wine, have some ale. Finest in the camp. better than the swill them Bender Brothers will be selling you." He gestures Roger, Izzy and Hastur to a booth offering a poor stew of stringy chicken (or rat) and stunted root vegetables in a salty watery sauce to go with the drinks. Roger settles in and starts chatting casually, making sure to speak with some of the locals in the bar or the barely clad young wenches that ply their trade around the tables as they explain some of the rambling things the tongueless

    “He says, ‘It’s best to stay inside after dark and not test the spirits. This whole place was a battleground once, and the dead rise at night and take anyone they fi nd wandering around.’ That…oh, that was just a scratch.”

    “He’s saying that for 50 iron bits he’ll let you rub his lucky rock.”

    “Um…I think he’s saying ‘Beware the Black Beast in the Pit.’ Either that or ‘There’s blackened beef on the spit.’"

    “There’s something alive at the crossroads. It only appears at the stroke of midnight. It can grant you your every desire, but the price is steep. Don’t bargain with the thing that comes in the night at the crossroads if you value your soul.”

    “Don’t camp at the crossroads out in the Desolation. There’s still a lot of restless spirits who haunt that road leading to the Black Gates, and they don’t take kindly to visitors.”

    “There’s something out there in the Desolation that hunts in the night. It devours travelers and even comes to the Camp sometimes in its hunts. It looks like a giant wolf, and seeing it means your death!

    I’m not surprised Gurg is dead. I think Clantock was trying to do him in. Gurg and his bunch were running Clantock and his mercenaries out of business. I saw Clantock myself consorting with some winged devil outside of town one day. When they were done talking that devil took off and flew out into the Desolation. Clantock didn’t see me and it’s none of my business. I just think it’s strange, that’s all.”
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    Daemon

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    Default Re: DrK Slumbering Tsar IC

    Hastur found the Urser’s answer completely unhelpful. He follows most of the others toward Mama Grim, but gets sidetracked by the female half elf working under this Skeribar. The young woman is the first person to provide useful intel about the desolation. “This is the exact sort of information I’ve been looking for! A concerted effort to clear it of danger is exactly in line with my own mission - I would love to hear your thoughts and Skeribar’s on this matter. What manners of creatures live out in the ashen wastes? How have you gotten anything to grow here? And how much to contract your services?”

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