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Thread: Cyre Blue (IC)

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    Default Cyre Blue (IC)

    New Cyre Music

    When Prince Oargev's letter reached you, it also came with the promise of transportation to bring you from the small salvager station of Salvation on the edge of the Mournland back to New Cyre – though it's not quite as comfortable as you might have liked. There are no lightning rail stations or passages through the small 'town', and so you're reliant on more mundane transportation.

    The horse drawn carriage rattles down dusty, uneven streets after days of travel that brought you to your Prince's abode. For those who have visited before, the town is much the same as last time, albeit the tent city in the southeast seems to have grown since you last you came. For those here the first time, the permanent buildings display a mix of facades – some Brelish, and some echoing the architecture and fashions of Cyre, though with a gaudy fragility resembling that of faires – a temporary measure meant to look close to the original, without truly managing to embody it.

    Prince Oargev's manor, once owned by the master of the village before it was handed over to the Cyrans, sits on the southern edge but as a three storey building it can be seen from almost anywhere in the cluster of buildings. Rolling through the town you see little in the way of new buildings being constructed, and the attitudes of those who you pass is muted and passive. Outside one building, a woman sits half curled on her porch, weeping into a blanket, and the stony face on her partner beside her says that this isn't the first, nor will it be the last time, that such a display of utter despair and hopelessness bursts forth.

    The town centre holds a well from which a line of people are queuing to draw water, and some look up as you pass, though most keep their faces forward – they're alive, but it's hard to say if they're truly living. The edges of their eyes are drawn sharp by their drawn-taut skin, their gaunt expressions, but their actual gaze is clouded by thoughts that occupy their minds entirely Noticeboards surround the edge of the town centre, plastered with messages freshly written and others faded with age and elements; some are requests with offer of payment, some are offers of support or advertising skills, and some are pleas for help to find their lost loved ones. Monuments to the dead and countless trinkets or keepsakes surround you on small shrines, and even if each one represented only a single dead Cyran, it's still not a drop in the bucket for how many you have all truly lost.

    A gnome stands outside the manor, apparently awaiting your arrival. When you step down from the carriage she consults her pocket watch and nods approvingly, her loose raven-black hair fluttering at the motion. “Four minutes early. Very good, very good.” No time had been specified in the letter – indeed Oargev had specified you could arrive in New Cyre at your own pace, rather than his own timetable – but that doesn't seem to have affected her expectations. “Duvamil Sparklegem, or Duvi for short. Majordomo to his Highness, I handle much of the day to day running of New Cyre as well as handle matters in his absence. He'll want to see you now that you're here. Come along then, let's not waste your haste!”

    She waves you inside, beckoning you to follow as she keeps a crisp pace beyond what you might expect from her short legs, yet she seems to exert no effort in maintaining it. The interior of the manor is a similar mishmash to the town itself: Brelish decorations interspersed with signs of Cyran items of art, history or other value, and at least one painting you're pretty sure you recovered on a previous expedition. Duvi blazes a trail along velvet carpets, leading you through halls. Without stopping, and without panting despite the pace she's maintaining, she asks “His Highness is currently in a small meeting but it's connected to the job he has for you, so I'll announce you. Do you have any preference for names? Titles? Epithets? Or any other questions before we arrive?”

    Spoiler: Prince Oargev's Letter
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    To the recipients of this missive,

    Word has reached me of your exploits in the Mournland, and I happen to find myself in need of capable people who will serve the needs of the Cyran cause. If you could make your way to my manor in New Cyre at your earliest convenience, I hope that we can discuss the proposition in more detail. Please rest assured that this is not a charity job, and you will be compensated handsomely for a successful mission.

    Enclosed with this document are sufficient funds to cover your travel expenses to New Cyre. Might I recommend Chila for your carriage driver? She has the best sense of humour.

    Tomorrow in Cyre,
    Prince Oargev ir'Wynarn.

    [A green wax seal, bearing the heraldry of the Cyran royal family, is inset beneath Oargev's incredibly aesthetic signature.

    DMing:
    Iron Crisis IC | OOC
    Cyre Red IC | OOC

    Playing:
    OotA IC | OOC

    Master Homebrew Index (5e)

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    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    Hallina Dell


    Hallina didn’t mind the rocking, jouncing carriage ride south. Movement, even the slow sort, is better than standing still. And it’s much faster than marching. She hated marching.

    Still, her wineskin and flask have both been empty for days, and she’s itching to get out and stretch. Hours upon hours with nothing but her own thoughts have soured her mood. Conversation has become an ill-used skill, and from what she sees of the town of New Cyre today, it’s a common affliction.

    She’s worked with her traveling companions long enough to trust them – or not to mistrust them entirely – but the last people she was truly open with (while sober) are dead or distant. She’d like nothing more than to alleviate the oppressive silence with jibes and trail games, but each comes with a ghost, and her tongue stills before she can begin.

    Skilled veterans all, the people of this group work well together, but there’s a permeating air of resentment when lives aren’t threatened. She speaks with Drauger and Vrardurz, but not together. Xael’s blade is a thing of wonder, but his zealotry off the battlefield is distracting. She has little use for warforged so long as they do their assigned tasks. Howell ... comes across a little strong. He reminds Hallina of eager new recruits from central Cyre, whose town had never been ravaged. Is he a fool? Is it folly to be so optimistic? She wants him to hold onto that, but she also finds it deeply irritating.

    When the carriage stops, she finally gets her long stretch, and her eyes wander the street for the nearest tavern, noting of its direction and name. The gnome was speaking, she realized, while seeing them into the central hall. When her footfalls were silenced Hallina looked down in wonder, surprised to see carpeting throughout the building. Such grandeur! And now spoiled by the dirt on her boots. She frowned.

    The gone – she’d missed her name – was addressing them directly. “Sgt. Hallina Dell, formerly of the Third Eston Regiment, First Company.” She said it automatically, but there was no longer any pride in the recitation. She steeled herself for the meeting.

    Whatever the task, she could not allow Prince Oargev’s summons give her hope infighting for her country again. Hope, she knew, might well crush her.




    OOC – Curious: Just how did this letter reach us, and where were we at the time?

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    Rather than dampen his spirits, the jaunty bouncing if the wagon only increased Howell ir’Foucault’s jollity. A royal summons! A request from the Prince! the excitement of the ride and the offer ahead was too much to be contained in just a carriage, forcing Howell to slide out the door and hold onto the railing along the side of the vehicle.

    With the wind whipping his hair about, the fire genasi spotted New Cyre when it was little more than a canvas splotch on the horizon. At a distance it was quite reminiscent of Newthrone, similar size, a limited number of real buildings and a spill of tents in every direction. When the team bounced closer, however, it was obvious that there were some unsubtle cultural differences. There’s such thick despair here you could swim through it. None of that ‘we can do this’ feeling of New Galifar. I guess that’s why we’re here. To bring our people a answers and a reason to be hopeful again.

    Arriving at the manor Howell extends his hand his greet to the diminutive majordomo. Ms. Sparklegem, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaint… ah yes, yup, okay we’re already walking? We’re walking. Okay.

    Catching himself with the party’s sudden braking before the Prince’s chamber, Howell looks down at his family’s gilded half-plate, coated with grime from the road, and with three downward brushing motions of his hand, Prestidigitates his ensemble clean.

    Howell ir’Foucault, son of Countess Illyana ir’Foucault and Bishop Graffryd Cassian of Seaside, lately of Newthrone, New Galifar.
    amazing avatar of my favorite character, Gheera, by Pesimismrocks

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    Druager Voss, ‘human’ ranger

    The cloaked figure sat next to the driver, hunched over with his hood down. Purple eyes peer from beneath the hood, gazing impassively as the world traveled by. Voss had chosen to ride up top because he preferred the open air to the inside of the carriage - that and he knew his presence still gave others pause. To the credit of the team he had been assigned to, they had not stared as long (or as openly) as could be expected - he had wings, for Six's sake! But there was a feeling of awkwardness that was ever present ... glances anywhere but in the eyes, shifting weight back and forth, mutters about monsters ... of course, most of that was his own thoughts, but who knew what the others thought? Likely worse.

    They hadn't been together long, but long enough for snap judgements and first impressions to be made. The elf was a member of the Valaes Tairn ... she ... he ... they were part of the group back when he fought with them, back when he got the knotwood. So many things had happened since that fateful night, including the eventual betrayal of oaths the elves made. As he understood, this Xael had forsaken their ties because of the oath breaking. If they were there for the Karrnathi campaign of 55, then he could trust them ... at least he thought he could. It was so long ago, and his memories weren't as clear as they used to be.

    The human soldier was cordial enough, but carried some anger behind those eyes ... nothing shared, just observed. Hard to make much of an assessment, but she was more than competent, so for now, she was likely the second person he had some amount of faith in.

    The young fop was too eager for his liking. He could hear the wind whipping through the youth's hair even now, and could only imagine the silly grin on the boy's face as he sat like some pet leaning out the window. He possessed no small amount of skill in diplomacy, but more often than not, Voss avoided the lad. All Cyrans shared a connection through the Mourning, but this boy had been off on the coast ... what could he know of the true meaning - the true horror - of being a Cyran today?

    The warforged ... another damnable machine clanking about playing human. Voss knew the truth ... had seen what had happened. They claimed to be created to help ... to support Cyre in it's time of need, to be the answer to their prayers. They were supposed to end the war. They did ... just not in the way anyone expected. But how do you convince the world that the Six walk amongst them if everyone thinks they are naught but a fairy tale? No ... the rest of the world continued to accept them, treat them as equal sentients. He had seen the Lord of Blades ... and he had seen the Mourning. Everyone else could turn a blind eye, but Voss would require much more proof before he trusted his back to one of them. He didn't spout hateful rhetoric ... but neither did he smile and laugh with the creature. He maintained a cool, professional distance. For now ...

    Finally, there was the dog of a Dhakanni. Traitorous member of the mercenaries that betrayed the Cyrans decades ago. Elves, halflings, the Five Kingdoms ... all taught the Cyrans lessons regarding the value of trust and loyalty in the modern era. But when they were beset on all sides and stood alone against several rivals, Cyre learned its most valuable - and costly - one when the hobgoblins betrayed them and cast aside their agreements. Some would argue it was no different than the Valenar or Talentas. Others would say it was nothing but beleaguered nations throwing off the yoke of oppression to carve out their own kingdoms.

    He simply would say, "You killed my son."

    Pushing aside those dark thoughts, he shook his head as the carriage approached the dusty streets of New Cyre. All the old mistrusts, prejudices and hatreds had to be put aside ... there was no place for them here. They couldn't afford them anymore - a people without a country, without a nation, had to rely on any who would raise the old banners anew. If this group was a part of that, Voss would set aside his anger and stand with them.

    As they progressed further into the town, Voss watched the people as they passed by. Some looked up, then quickly looked away. Others stared, unmoving. A few even scurried away. he had become something of a legend around the town. No, not a legend ... a bedtime story, told to scare children into behaving. "Don't misbehave or the Dragon Voss will get you." "Do your chores, else the Dragon Voss pull you from your bed!" "Halfling Sticks, Goblin stones, Elvish blades and Warforged bones, Kharrnathi dead, werewolf claws, Khyber Below and Giants Cause, Mournland mists and blighted curse, but every child knows Dragon Voss is worse!"

    No, how can there be room for the old hatreds when there were all new ones to take their place?



    Arriving at the manor where the Prince was staying, Voss glanced around, then slide off his seat to land lightly on the ground. He opened the door to let the others out while using them to keep to the shadows. He said little as 'Duvi' introduced herself and led them inside. He once would have been amused with her energy (he would have, right? it was so hard to remember these days ...) but now he was just annoyed. Fortunately, his cloak remained tight around his frame and his hood pulled low. He even suppressed his many gifts as they walked through, having learned early on others did not share an equal fascination for his many signs of evolution. He let the question linger in the air until someone looked to him for his answer.

    Quietly, his voice hoarse for lack of use, he responded, "Voss." After a moment, he muttered even quieter, "CAPTAIN Voss ..."

    OOC - Just joining the group. Apologies for the intro, but don't take it personally - these are the observations of an old soul who has made several snap judgements based on his experiences and such ... not me judging your characters or your backstories. The journey should shed light on others purpose and value, and hopefully teach an old mutant new tricks.

    Effects: Fly 20'; darkvision 120', no other active morphs

    Spoiler: Details
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    AC: HP: 49 Init +0 Move 30' land / 20' air
    Saves: Str +8 Dex +4 Con +3 Int +1 Wis +3 Cha -1
    Skills: Athletics +11, Stealth +4, Nature +4, Medicine +6, Survival +6, Perception +9, Intimidation +3
    Tools: Gaming (Dice), Land Nav (Carts), Poison
    Weapons: Longbow (+4 / 1d8+1 P), Handaxe (+8 / 1d6+5 S), Mace (+8 / 1d6+5 B) Lion Claws (+8 / 1d6+5 S)
    Morphs: Tiger eyes (darkvision 120'); Tentacles (grapple w/adv, reach 10'); Fox Tail (cast spells); Cat's feet (stealth w/adv, fall 20' or less no damage); Lion's claws (1d6S, 1/turn, can attack with both)
    Last edited by Starbin; 2022-08-29 at 05:41 PM.
    Life is ... life. As always bot/cut as necessary.
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    Me: "Because I never embraced the strategic value of running away."


    Fare thee well, N_R ... you will missed!y

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    R.I.T.A.C.

    RITAC felt a confusing mixture of honoured and uncomfortable. They'd had to march or run everywhere for most of the war and had learned to drive a cart at the factory, but never actually been driven somewhere before. That ride on lightning rail before their first deployment didn't count, the unit had been packed into a freight cart. They couldn't enjoy the ride though, even though there was vastly more personal space than on the freight car it felt claustrophobic.

    On every previous occasion RITAC had been this close to a soft-body he'd been getting repaired or they'd been trying to kill each other. There might not be enough space to transform into one of his beast forms, and the that made him feel quite exposed. At least if Xael's ghost makes her do anything funny he'd have a good chance of pinning her, and everyone else, before any blood got spilled. Actually...the Ancestor Spirits revered by the Valaes Tairn...RITAC studiously ignored the unprompted lecture from Perceptor and the docent eventually faded into silence.

    This unsettled mood was making their foliage droop onto the Vrardurz slightly, which just compounded their problems with personal space. They leaned into the corner as much as possible and tried to focus on the view out the window (keeping half a sensor out to monitor the Elf of course). Small brambles occasionally sprouted from the window frame where their arm touched it, but they brushed them away hurriedly. Hopefully the others wouldn't notice.

    ...

    Their optic took in the grim sights of New Cyre but did not dwell on them. This settlement was New Cyre in name only, but if they worked together it might be more than that. Then the populace's many wounds could begin to heal.

    ...

    RITAC cocked his head at the very animated gnome and followed along at a restrained pace, lest the small claws on his feet rend the oddly soft and colourful flooring material.

    My full Designation is Experimental Warforged Project Predacon Model 08 - Red In Tooth And Claw, Equivalent Rank - Corporal...I prefer RITAC though.

    There was a clearly an edge of distaste from the warforged when reeling off his full "Product" Designation but undercut with nervousness and excitement at the prospect of an audience with the Prince himself. So far the good things Arbalest had said about him were ringing true. They really hoped that would last!
    Last edited by Waistcoatwill; 2022-08-30 at 09:57 AM.

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    Vrardurz

    The hobgoblin sat mostly in silence during the journey to New Cyre, knowing his mere presence might agitate his current companions. He read as best he could during the bumpy ride, only speaking when addressed directly. He occasionally made notes in his journal, capturing his new companions, detailing his observations of their character as well as remarking on the dismal looking countryside.

    The human woman was cordial enough, and she spoke with interest about his past and exploits. Moreover, her body was well-muscled, and she looked like a soldier, but had an air of dissatisfaction to which he could relate. But the one called Druager scowled at him for the entire ride. Vrardurz was used to it, of course. Most humans looked at him with a mix of fear and disgust. Moreover, the man smelled... off.

    He would prove to him soon enough that his hate was misplaced, for Vrardurz was here to right wrongs and forge alliances. The Dar may have suffered at the hands of the Cyrans, but their nation was no more. The fledgling country of Darguun now needed allies, and knowledge, and guidance. The War was over, and the Dar had won their independence, but they did not know what to do with it. Some wanted glory, others expansion, but Vrardurz sought peace. It struck him as the height of hypocrisy and base revanchism to revisit the same pains upon former enemies, perpetuating the cycles of violence that had laid his people low. The unkindness visited upon the Dar by Cyre did not warrant further unkindness visited upon them, especially after their lands had been destroyed. If Darguun was truly to be a diverse land, with goblins and bugbears intermingled, then surely it must extend those same principles to other intelligent races. This diversity seemed to be a source of the strength of the Five Nations, why not emulate it?

    The elf was unnerving, as all their people were, but they were honorable warriors, despite their alien culture. The few times he had seen its blade flash forth, it was a sight to behold. The Elves of Valenar were more bellicose than he'd like, but this one seemed restrained. Perhaps the war had changed them as well. That said, the ghost that dwelled within may not have the same restraint. Vrardurz couldn't decide if it was genuine possession, a delusion, or simply a cultural convention he lacked the vocabulary to articulate. He continued to observe

    The young one called Howell was intriguing, all empty-headed charm and bluster. Still, the lad was magnetic, and perhaps could be used to galvanize the people of this land, to rally them. Such a figurehead would be in need of prudent counsel, of the sort Vrardurz could provide.

    Last was the Warforged. Curious, as all their sort were, but especially since this one seemed inherently connected to nature in a way Vrardurz couldn't fully discern. He was jolly enough for his type, and possessed a curiosity for the world that was endearing. The creature was like his young nation in that way, seeking to find its place in the world.

    To the business at hand. The town was depressing, the small attempts at grandeur in the hall only exacerbating the effect. Playing at nationhood, a people scrabbling an existence on the ashes of their former glory. Vrardurz did not pity them, though. He knew that from this resolve would grow strength.

    The gnome was ****ing irksome, though.

    The war mage saluted in the style of the Ghaal'dar, thumping his right hand to his breast and bowing his head. "I am Vrardurz. My name means something like 'dirge-fire' in the Common tongue. I am honored to be among you. I have but one question: why do you claim this Chila had a sense of humor? She made no jests on our journey, and I'd have been grateful for the entertainment." The hobgoblin's face betrays no indication of whether he has made a joke or has inquired in earnest.

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    Xael

    The Tairnadal strides towards the doors of Prince Oargev's manor, her patterned crimson robes flowing around her. To an untrained eye, they would look like those worn by a priest, except for their make: there is no seam in the cloth, no sign of obvious make that would belong to any of the Five Nations. A hooded rust-colored cloak flows behind her, attached to a veil-like mask that falls over the lower half of her face: the zaelta, a spirit-mask. Only her almond-shaped blue eyes are visible to outsiders, and while they make no pretense of being anything other than watchful, there is also a flatness to them, something inexpressive or dulled. Those looking closely at the elf note the flash of silver from a sculpted breastplate, along with a matching set of greaves and pauldrons. She wears an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows over her left shoulder, but there is no blade in sight.

    However, her companions know better than to assume that means Xael nas-iel Jennaris cannot call on her ancestor's weapon at a moment's notice.

    She has taken note of her companions; their quirks and behaviors, appearances, and mannerisms. It is safe to say that they are no substitute for a Spirit-trained Tairnadal warband. The flaming one talks entirely too much, and the dar appears to incite ire... though even he is not as wary as the metallic abomination that has shared a carriage with them on the journey. Xael has encountered their like before, of course, and this one in particular on a single past occasion. Even now, she sees him watching her, returning the stare more often than not. If she had her way, she would dismantle the soulless creature from tip to tail. Yet that is not her decision to make; the oath she swore to the prince of men until the time of his death precluded her from challenging any other under his banner. When that day comes, she ponders as she lets the warforged step ahead of her, she may need to revisit the issue.

    Yet Xael has nothing in her heart but compassion for both of the fighting Cyrans. Hallina of Eston she does not know well, but Captain Voss... her eyes stray to the soarwood knot that the man wears so openly around his neck. She does not have the heart to ask him where he got it, for she already knows. In less merciful parts of the world, such an act would earn him a quick disemboweling at the end of a singing-blade. Then again, as she takes a last look at the squalor of New Cyre, there is no mercy here either.

    As they head inside, Xael falls in step with the rest of the group. Her eyes dart back and forth, considering likely angles of attack and potential assailants. After assessing Duvamil and dismissing them as not a likely threat, the Tairnadal listens to the gnome with a kind of careless attention. When asked about her pseudonym, she answers in a tone that is matter-of-fact, yet undercut by her typical melodious Aereni accent.

    "Xael nas-iel Jennaris, former thalien of Kel Valior, sworn-blade of the Tairnadal."
    Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2022-08-31 at 06:33 AM.
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    Duvi frowns a little at Vrardurz's question. "She didn't? How very odd. She seemed quite animated with His Highness and they shared quite the banter, or so I was told. I will make a note." And so she does, producing a small notebook from nowhere and scribbling a quick note from an uninked quill that nevertheless pens adequately on the paper, before they both vanish back inside her clothes.

    She finally stops at a pair of double doors and looks back at you, nodding, and then knocks twice on the door, before clicking her fingers. The doors swing open without being pushed and she strides forward into the room. The conference room is thoroughly practical in its appearance with minimal adornments. The walls are lined with stacked bookshelves, plastered wall maps of Khorvaire, the Five Nations, and more, hanging above writing desks, and small benches for onlookers or attendants. The centre of the room is dominated by a large, unusually shaped table, and after a moment you realise it's shaped into Cyre itself, albeit with its borders by the end of the Last War, rather than the start. Though flat, the table nevertheless has markings and carvings such that it serves as a decent map of a nation gone by.

    Duvi coughs, and then announces in a loud voice: "Sgt. Hallina Dell, formerly of the Third Eston Regiment, First Company. Howell ir’Foucault, son of Countess Illyana ir’Foucault and Bishop Graffryd Cassian of Seaside, lately of Newthrone, New Galifar. Captain Voss. Corporal RITAC. Vrardurz, also called 'Dirge-Fire'. And Xael nas-iel Jennaris, former thalien of Kel Valior, sworn-blade of the Tairnadal." She'd stepped in front of each of you as she announced your names, and perfectly replicated the pronunciations on her first attempt, with perfect title recitation.

    Around the table are an arrangement of chairs – most empty, but a few are filled. Opposite you, on the far side of the table at the northernmost edge of 'Cyre', is Prince Oargev himself, who rises from his chair and circles the table to you, holding out his hand for each of you to shake in turn as he goes down your line. He makes no hesitation at any of you, freely offering it regardless of your appearances and varied backgrounds with seemingly no compunction. He's dressed in a mix of regal finery – a glorious green cloak with white fur edging, clasped with an ornate gold chain bearing a bell – and practical military clothes that seem well worn, with more than a few patches here and there. You note he lacks a crown, instead letting his wavy brown hair breathe freely. The destruction of his homeland and sudden position of leadership doesn't seem to have aged him at all visibly, his skin still that of a freshly rested and capable early-20s royal, the glint in his eyes as keen as anyone's.

    “Oargev ir'Wynarn, but please don't make me recite my titles. It's no fun for anybody, and the only important one is 'prince'. It's a pleasure to meet you all finally. I've heard stories!” The keen eyes of the Prince dart over you, at once welcoming and peaceful, but at the same time examining and cautious. Once he's reached the end of the line, he beckons for you all to take seats around the map and join the meeting as he moves back to his own chair – a seat that isn't any more ornate or decorated than the others. “The rest of my councillors are on other business at the moment, but perhaps that's for the best, too many voices spoil the discussion, as they say. I hope I get to speak to you all one-to-one later though, no doubt you've all got stories I'd love to here. Ah, but in the meantime..."

    “This,” Oargev gestures to the man of the sea at this side, “is my friend and occasional drinking companion Rygar ir'Wynarn, High Prince of Regalport – again, we can skip the rest of the titles.” He winks at his companion with a smile, and Rygar gives a wry chuckle. "Cyran wine's a rare delicacy these days and it seems Oargev -” There's a slight twitch from Duvi (who remained standing) when he doesn't use his title, but the Prince of Cyre seems utterly unbothered by it, "- controls the flow of it. Keeps me coming back for more." Rygar's dressed as if he just stepped off the ship, with salt-encrusted leathers, a shirt bearing much of his scarred chest, and a saber at his belt. It's the only weapon, save the ones you carry, that are visible in the room.

    “And this is Vilina d'Orien, the head of the Orien enclave here in New Cyre.” Oargev finishes by introducing the last person at the table - a human woman of perhaps thirty or forty years. From her cheeks and eyes you might suspect she's originally from Aundair, though her entirely shaved head - allowing her dragonmark to show visibly atop her scalp - isn't a typical Aundairian fashion among women. Her clothing is remarkably neutral in style and design, eminently practical for someone who spends most of their time writing letters, with the only ornamentation being the crest of House Orien emblazoned at the breast. “Pleasure to meet you all. If what Prince Oargev has told me is true I expect I'll be seeing a lot of you, so I hope we can get along.” Her voice is eloquent, and with a touch of superiority to it that tends to come from noble breeding or higher arcane education, but she seems sincere. “We're hoping you might assist us in a joint venture between Cyre, Karrnath, and House Orien."

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show

    Should hopefully by me last HUGE post for a while and we can have more naturalistic dialogue back and forth going forwards! Giving a bit of breathing room for reactions and prompts if any want to be made, but I know that not much new detail has been provided as yet. Don't worry, it will be.



    Spoiler: Passive Perception 14+, Oargev
    Show

    When Oargev shakes your hands, you note the slight bulge at his wrists beneath his clothes; a sure sign of a wand bracer, typically worn by military-trained wandslingers. Though it's covered somewhat by his clothes, his hands and body language likewise suggest not just military training, but one who has seen combat.



    Spoiler: Int (History) DC8 on Oargev's Titles
    Show

    Mayor of New Cyre
    Spoiler: DC9
    Show
    Last Scion of Her Most Royal Majesty Queen Dannell ir'Wynarn's Royal Line
    Spoiler: DC10
    Show
    Heir of Galifar
    Spoiler: DC11
    Show
    Soldier of the Queen's Army
    Spoiler: DC12
    Show
    Ambassador to Breland
    Spoiler: DC13
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    Royal Knight of Metrol
    Spoiler: DC14
    Show
    Captain of the 17th Regiment
    Spoiler: DC15
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    Chief Naturalist of the Mourning Thistles
    Spoiler: DC16
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    Sunstone of Cyre
    Spoiler: DC17
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    Duke of Seaside
    Spoiler: DC18
    Show
    Nope, that's all. That's his full list.












    Spoiler: Int (History) DC12, Orien's Interest in New Cyre
    Show

    When the Mourning happened, Orien lost their path across central Khorvaire, and with the continued lack of rebuilding of the White Arch Bridge at Thaliost, travel between east and west is almost entirely in the hands of House Lyrandar. It's been rumoured for some time that Karrnath and Orien are both seeking to re-establish a lightning rail route through the Mournland. Karrnath for trade (they are effectively severed from the Five Nations by land, at this point), Orien for profits and to undercut their primary competitor.


    Spoiler: Passive Perception Rygar, 17+
    Show

    Rygar's not here just for the wine, even if his swirled chalice might indicate otherwise. From the veiled glances he's throwing Prince Oargev, he likely wants something else, and the wine is just a pretense for the visit(s).
    Last edited by Amnestic; 2022-08-31 at 06:33 AM.
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    Xael

    The former blade of the Valaes Tairn takes a long look at the table-map of Cyre, expression hidden behind his zaelta but eyes poring over each carved detail and border writ in wood. Somebody made this with love, the elf concludes, and took some time in the doing. It is not in the league of his people's craftsmen, but then what is? The furniture is quite likely the only thing in this barren place that survived from somewhere else, a history worth bringing along for the journey. A slight tilt of his head is enough to indicate his open approval.

    When it comes time for announcements, the Tairnadal steps forward and bows before Prince Oargev in the human manner, demonstrating supplication to all those present. Despite the wishes of his patron, Xael recites each title in the fluid tongue of his people: "Mayor of New Cyre, Last Scion of Her Most Royal Majesty Queen Dannell ir'Wynarn's Royal Line, Heir of Galifar, Soldier of the Queen's Army, Ambassador to Breland, Royal Knight of Metrol, Captain of the 17th Regiment, Chief Naturalist of the Mourning Thistles, Sunstone of Cyre, Duke of Seaside." They could be lyrics to a song, except for the fact that the speech is peppered with names and places and is thus recognizable as a litany, even to those who do not speak the elven language.

    And if there is a slight twinkle to Xael's mien as he straightens his back and falls back into rank, well then that is surely the prince's imagination.

    To the other distinguished guests the Tairnadal gives their proper dues, before listening to the Orien scion speak. The venture is not much of a surprise to him - he lived through many of the raids on the lightning rails well before the Mourning, both as aggressor and defender - though he is somewhat puzzled at the lack of a very particular representative.

    "If you wish for us to restore your line-of-lightning across the Mournland," Xael asks Vilina d'Orien directly, "you must be in contact with somebody on the other side, yes? Or is somebody else from your house handling the Karrnathi?" The humans of Khorvaire love to show their colours and standards whenever possible, so why has the final third of this enterprise not presented themselves? He looks to Druager again, waiting to see how the man will react to this.
    Last edited by 3SecondCultist; 2022-08-31 at 04:38 PM.
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    Halline Dell

    Despite the lackluster surroundings, Hallina was glad the gnome chose to announce them. Meeting the prince – the man who should rightfully be her king – went from a disappointing fantasy to reality very quickly. Pulse pounding and belly turning, her mouth went dry.

    Her usually short temper became skin-crawling agitation. Who cares about the damned carriage-diver, she wanted to shout. Then the elf delivered Prince Oargev’s entire array of titles as if the man had never heard them before. Shut up!

    This sad hall was a shadow the palace in Metrol (she assumed, having never seen it) but she was starstruck nonetheless. Is this how one speaks to great nobles? Or nobles at all? She knew officers, but they were something else entirely. Comrades-in-arms, even if privileged and thick. She maintained her composure and waited to hear what the prince had to say, hoping the elf wasn’t being embarrassing or rude. Oargev hadn't been responsible for the Moarning of the terrible decisions she'd seen on the battlefield. But was he true, she wondered? Could he - and thus the ideal of Cyre - still be trusted?

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    “You forgot the most eligible bachelor this side of the Mournland, but like I said, the only important one is 'prince'.” Oargev offers to Xael's recitation with a knowing and jovial wag of the finger. “But yes, that's me, a man epitomised, and likely eulogised, not by his deeds but by the dozen titles hanging around his neck. You'll want to be careful you don't end up like me." He sighs with a weariness half deprecating in humour, and half revealing the truth behind the mask of nobility.

    Vilina speaks up, directing the conversation to a more productive place: "The plans, such as they are, are still in their early days. Stage 1, if you like, which is why you're here." She looks to Oargev and he taps the table with two fingers. The verdant greens of Cyre slowly darken into dusty browns, the markings shift and in a moment the table of Cyre is replaced by a table of the Mournland, or at least a map of what the Mournland probably was, at some point. As a place it has an unfortunate tendency to shift, which makes permanent maps not quite terribly effective. "Given Metrol's proximity to the eastern edge of the Mournland, the Karrnathi branch is going to be taking the lead on engineer matters for the rail itself. We - that is, New Cyre and House Orien - would like you to scout, map, and report the situation along the old lightning rail tracks from the western edge," she draws a finger along the map, "to Kalazart."

    “It's an eight day round trip, roughly, from the edge to Kalazart and back again, but it's the closest city on the road to Metrol with a lightning rail station. It's rare for salvage teams to head out that far unless they have a specific reason to, and those that do go don't tend to map their path or create detailed reports - if they make it back at all, which is why I thought it best to bring in some experts with a specific goal. Namely, you."
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    Hallina Dell

    She expected the best of her lord; she certainly wasn’t about to exaggerate their own value. She cleared her throat and said, “Your Highness, lady, I think most of us are experienced with basic land-nav, but we’re not cartographers. Would you send a specialist with us? What are your expectations, exactly?”

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    Vilina raises an eyebrow and looks legitimately surprised. "None of you have cartography skills?" She leans back in her chair, one hand tapping against the armrest. "Admittedly we wouldn't need detailed maps to be drawn. Words or sketches might serve just as well." She hides it behind her words, but Xael and RITAC can tell she's a little disappointed in this revelation. Her preference is clear. "If that's also a problem..." She ponders. “Syra, perhaps?" Oargev offers, before clarifying to the group. “Syra's the House Sivis heir sent to New Cyre, got quite the taste for adventure. Between us, I think she was sent here to keep her out of her superior's hair. Charming woman though." "I'd need to check with my superior if we could involve another House at this stage, but I don't think they'd be enthusiastic."

    She turns back to you "All that to say, if needs be we can arrange for someone to go with you, but it'll then turn into an escort mission instead of a scouting mission." She leaves the question open if you're confident enough in your skills to do so.
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    Xael

    "No," Xael says, clearly aware of the Orien woman’s frustration and the question implied of the group. "I do not think we will be needing aid in this matter. Captain Voss and I both have experience scouting foreign terrain, and we can call on our familiarity of the Cyran lands to guide this group through the outer Mournland to Kalazart. Additionally, Your Grace has seen fit to equip us with the Red one, so we have a surplus of wilderness proficiency."

    The Tairnadal crosses her arms, a human gesture but one that conveys resolve and will. It is clear where she stands on the matter of getting an escort. As her steady gaze lands on each member of their team, however, there is a clear invitation for anybody else to speak up. A warband with no clear lu-shan in the field must be ruled by consensus if it is to function, not simply her opinion.
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    R.I.T.A.C.

    The gangly warforged's foliage rippled with pride as the Prince shook their hand, distracting them from their vigil keeping watch on the veiled elf. This let him take in the room's occupants more fully." High Prince" Rygar was clearly had other motives than drinking for being here, but RITAC was confident in Prince's judgement...until their mission was revealed...

    The glow from their optic took on a sullen red hue as it darted around the room.

    Perceptor, assess the room for Mabaran taint!

    Galifarian Royal protocols prohibit the use of magic in close proximity to the reigning monarch, such a course of action may be seen as aggressive...

    With a quiet growl RITAC dismisses the docent. The keen eyed in the room would notice small nasal slots opening on the warforged's faceplate revealing fine tufts of olfactory roots. Once satisfied no undead beings are in attendance the warforged relaxes slightly. They bow their head before addressing the Prince.

    I will undertake this mission to the best of my abilities your Highness, but I have concerns about Karrnath's involvement. I have seen entire battlefields of the dead within the mists. Karrathi bone-charmers and flesh-warpers could do terrible things with easy access to the Mournland.

    RITAC listens patiently to the team's responses. They meet Xael's gaze and nod slowly.

    Xael is not wrong in this. Perceptor's recall is excellent and will aid us i required.

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    Your Majesty. Howell addresses Oargev, halting his bow to receive the Prince ’s offered handshake. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Ah, and uh, your Majesty. He turns from Orince Oargev and gives Prince Rygar a short, but respectful, bow. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Madam d’Orien.

    The young genasi listens to the plans d’Orien lay out for the crew; paying careful attention to the concerns of his companions. Better to not take anyone else with us. The less people that need to face the dangers of the Mournland the better. Beside with Drauger’s knowledge of terrain, RI’s ability to do aerial surveying, and my skill with navigator’s tools, we can probably cobble together working maps. But that doesn’t seem like the biggest concern.

    Your Majesties, Madam, I’m happy to offer any help I can, but is it even possibly to get exact enough measurements of the Mournland for an engineer to actually lay down track? Wont the land surveying we do become worthless as the land itself shifts under the effects of the Mourning?
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    Vrardurz takes the Prince's hand in a firm grip, impressed with his informal-yet-respectful demeanor. He seemed a man of honor, driven to reestablish his stolen nation. Working with him could go far in establishing peaceful relations with Darguun.

    Little surprise that House Orien had a presence here, gaining first mover advantage would cement their relationship with the fledgling nation. And it'd make them scads of cash. The fact that she might be Aundairian was odd, but the Houses cared little for nationality and held greater loyalty to their guilds. Vrardurz liked her hair, though.

    The pirate king's presence was intriguing, though. Rygar's reputation preceded him, a known "honorable scoundrel" throughout Khorvaire. What did he have to gain through association with Oargev? Access to cheap Mournland relics? Something was afoot here. The two seemed friends, but there was more to this arrangement than just wine.

    Did the elf just call me "the Red One?" the warmage thought to himself for a moment. She might have been speaking of the Warforged, who had mentioned something about red in his acronymized moniker. Besides, Vraardurz's skin was such a deep burnished crimson it was nearly black. The 'forged replied, leading him to conclude that the bladebearer was referring to it. Vrardurz exhaled as relief washed over him. Perhaps his assumptions of prejudice lurking behind that mask were ill-founded. Good.

    "I concur with my colleagues. Perhaps a surveyor won't be necessary, but should you send one to accompany us, we shall ensure their safety." Even if it's another bloody gnome, he mentally finished. With that, the hobgoblin fell silent, more content to observe and let his new companions question the king.

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    Rygar gives a nod and a tilt of his wine glass to Howell's greeting, and then empties the glass, before pouring himself another one. The bottle beside him is nearing empty, though it doesn't seem to be having any effect on the (supposedly) former-pirate prince.

    “Excellent, I'm sure our confidence is well placed." Oargev nods to Duvi who produces a small paper which she places on the table for the party. A glance at it shows it to be a purchase order, emblazoned with the House Orien sigil. “House Orien is covering the cost of the goodberry wine to sustain you there and back - for an eight day round trip, 8 bottles a piece, so 40 total." He nods to RITAC, ensuring that he's not being ignored, but rather acknowledges as not needing the sustenance. “You can pick them up by handing the vendor this writ. Lose it, and you'll be covering the cost yourself." Oargev gives a mock shiver at the imagined cost of such a thing. “There's no immediate urgency with the task, but we'd like the report back by month's end." It's the start of the month today, so the leeway granted is significant.

    “I'm sure you will know better than us what preparations you require. Orien will handle your transportation needs to the Mournland, and bring you back to New Cyre to deliver your report when you're done." “If you need to stay in town in the meantime, any rooms you take at the Gold Dragon Inn across the way are being covered by New Cyre." If that cost disturbs Oargev, he certainly doesn't show it this time.
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    R.I.T.A.C.

    RITAC bows to the prince at his acknowledgement.

    Your Highness, I need to find a spell component in case of dire emergencies, diamonds. Once I have that I can leave immediately.

    They give another quick bow and step back to allow the rest of the team to speak.

    Spoiler: Shopping
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    They go shopping for 150g worth of diamonds
    .

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    Hallina Dell

    The sergeant leans upon the great table thoughtfully, considering their route and essential needs, before recalling where she is and rights herself. She looks askance at the pirate, trying and failing not to appear suspicious, before addressing Oargev. “Thank you, your highness. It’s been a long week and we could use a night or two of R&R. M’lady, if you don’t mind I’d like to discuss the logistical details.”

    Spoiler: As an NCO, Hallina has learned to consider certain operational details out of self-preservation. She wants just a few minutes with Valina alone to answer the following:
    Show

    • The exact routes and timing of transportation.
    • Who knows of these plans.
    • What personnel or resources are available outside the Mournland – who or what support can we expect when we emerge. Allies? Communications? Medic? Nearest town – before making the lengthy return trip to New Cyre.
    • The nature of known or suspected non-Mournland threats.
    • Names or knowledge of others we should be look out for within the Mournland – previous/lost explorers, etc.
    • Specific locations (shops, temples, armories, etc.) that may have survived or that we should definitely look for to confirm.


    I don’t need to know all this, I just want to be sure Hallina has all the relevant details and will share them with the others should it come up or is needed. Covering the bases.

    Once satisfied, Hallina takes a direct walk for the tavern she spotted earlier. Her mind is buzzing with the ghost of horrors past and fears of everything that may go wrong. She orders a drink, and another, and sets about distracting herself. At least I’m working with professionals, she thinks, woozy, but keep your distance, stupid.

    When prompted by the others, she automatically recites the information exactly as delivered, and thinks nothing more about it for the night, busying herself with drink, games of dice, and companionship – better if she attracts someone’s attention, and preferably a man, but her willingness to spend money and find comfort with any warm body increases with her drunkenness.

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    Spoiler: OOC: Vilina's answers
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    • You'll be going back the way you came in a similar manner - by carriage, back to Salvation.
    • Others in Oargev's inner circle, some others in House Orien who are connected to the Mournland mission, and rumours abound, so chances are half of New Cyre at least has a story about what you're doing, even if not the whole truth. It's not quite an open-secret what's being planned, but it's not far off.
    • Only what's been discussed already or your own connections, this is your first job for New Cyre/Orien, after all.
    • None that are relevant.
    • None that are relevant.
    • Any rail stations, large or small, along the way, and to make a note of any Conductor Stones and their state. Other locations aren't relevant to the mission, but you can investigate at your own discretion.





    Of the shops in town, there are two which will likely cater to your needs and desires - first is the local blacksmith simply called Cyran Metalworks, run by a friendly if somewhat eccentric warforged craftsmen named Tank, and their adopted sister Fari ir'Cosis, a displaced Cyran noble (or so they say) who spends her days either helping out the smith or scouring old battlefields nearby for discarded weapons and armour that they can repurpose. They have a full suite of non-magical arms and armour on hand as required, though you note that at least one piece used to have a Brelish colour scheme painted on which has been haphazardly removed. Still, the pieces seem to be fully functioning, despite them perhaps being second-hand.

    The second is Dalsin's Wondrous Emporium, which serves as a general store, filled with three parts items for refugees, one parts mournland salvage and items of Cyre gone-by, and one part magic items. Its proprietor, Dalsin, gives off the distinct aura of a snake-oil salesman, but that seems to just be his natural aura since close scrutiny reveals all of his goods to be entirely as described and sufficient. He promises that his stock of items changes regularly, and to check back in if - when - you return.

    Dalsin also scrounges up the diamonds that RITAC requires, though it seems to be the last of his stock, for now.

    Spoiler: Dalsin's Stock
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    Dalsin has all the adventuring gear (PHB 150) on hand, along some artisans tools (if you want a specific one, roll a d4 - they have it on a 2-4), and two carts out back. He has no animals.

    He also has the following magical items for sale (some from Eccentricities of Eberron):
    Consumables:
    Tanglefoot Bags (2 bags, 50 gp each)
    Thunderstones (3 stones, 30 gp each)
    Smokesticks (4 sticks, 40 gp each)
    Goodberry Wine (1 bottle, 100gp)
    Potions of Healing (4 bottles, 50gp each)

    Scrolls:
    Shield (75gp)
    Wither and Bloom (200gp)
    Bless (100gp)
    Bane (75gp)
    Hold Person, x2 (180gp)
    Aid (250gp)
    Call Lightning (450gp)
    Elemental Weapon (350gp)

    Weapons/Armour/Wondrous
    Eyes of Minute Seeing (375gp)
    +1 Sickle (450gp)
    Archer's Standard (EoE, 250gp)
    Luckstone (600gp)
    Elemental Axe (EoE, 4500gp)

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    Howell takes the claim check from Duvi, looks down to double check the information on it, and tucks in securely away. He sticks with Hallina as the brain trust answers he list of questions. As the teams bows their way out of the prince’s office, he gives a royalty a polite bow and d’Orien and friendly wave.

    They want to get the lightning rail running through Cyre again. I think this is the first real attempt to reclaim The Mournland!

    As the party splits to take care of their different needs, Howell heads off to Dalsin’s Wonderous Emporium to pick up supplies. More amused by Dalsin’s mien than anything else the young fire genasi picks up a new set of navigator’s tools and food and water for their trek. It’s not until he’s checking out that his eyes fall on the large sapphire Luckstone; it’s cut identical w to the sapphire that sat as the central stone of his own signet ring. It’s never just a coincidence when it involves a Luckstone, right?

    Throwing the stone in with the rest of his order, he completes his purchase and heads out to the tavern to relax with the rest of his group. He asks Drauger and Xael for stories they’d be willing to share about being great warriors, Vrardurz and R.I.T.A.C about their approaches to magic and how they view themselves as magicians; he even shares drink with Hallina (although he’s not a very accomplished drinker and she quickly outpaces him). He heads to bed nervous and excited for the next walkabout through the Mournland.
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    R.I.T.A.C.

    RITAC is clearly out of his depth in the novel environmebt of the golden dragon Inn. He stands awkwardly next to ther table until it becomes clear why some of the team are heading to the bar. He fidgets in his seat, absentmindedly growing daisies in his palm. If the group begins to play any games he seems to relax significantly, clearly familiar with that kind of downtime behaviour.

    The warforged's cracked faceplate and optic are inscrutable as he pauses to think about Howell's question.

    I am not fully sure. Altering my form and growing things from myself has always been intuitive but improves with practice. External workings are maybe more empathic? I feel the material or creature involved and can call to it somehow.

    I have taught some basic external workings to others but I can't tell you how it works. Something in my construction gives me an innate link to Eberron or the ability to draw from Lammania maybe? I don't think the team from House Cannith who created my unit did either. Our abilities were quite different in nature even when some of the effects were similar. I know that some agrificers from the Steel Gardens were involved in my development. Did you ever see them? I never got the chance...

    RITAC trails off, realising he'd been talking for quite a while. He's clearly pondered this at length but not had the chance to talk about it before.
    Last edited by Waistcoatwill; 2022-09-04 at 03:17 AM.

  24. - Top - End - #24
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Postmodernist's Avatar

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    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    Vrardurz joins his companions on their shopping outing, browsing the various goods. The metallurgy of the humans struck him as somewhat unsophisticated, though this town was likely doing its best with the limited resources it had available. He was already thoroughly equipped with armor and weaponry, but he dallied in Dalsin's Emporium a while. He dug through and perused the scrolls with a scholarly interest. Sadly, he was a bit short to afford either of the spells that intrigued him - Wither and Bloom and Hold Person - but he expressed his interest to the shopkeeper before retiring to the Golden Dragon.

    When it comes his turn to reply to Howell's query, the warmage is surprisingly loquacious, given his previous taciturnity. "Pursuit of the arcane is somewhat new to my people. Though there have been some historical practitioners, there was little in the way of organized study. We are an agnostic people, so we similarly have very little in the way of divine practice. Most of our mages have been dirge-singers or artificers, buoying our people's spirits or empowering our blades. We Dar tend to rely on strength of arms, but we are learning to employ the arcane for engineering. But I am a humble student, only just beginning my exploration of the arcane. I have sought to be something of a generalist, given my prior status as a battlefield magician. Something for defense, something for mobility, something to inconvenience the opposition, and something to bolster my allies. Flexibility is paramount when a fight breaks out, so I like to have something for every occasion. If I don't, I suppose I can rely upon more traditional weapons." The hobgoblin takes a swig of his drink, the first smile he's had in days creeping across his face.

  25. - Top - End - #25
    Titan in the Playground
     
    3SecondCultist's Avatar

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    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    Xael

    Xael keeps quiet for the rest of the royal audience; he knows well when not to speak, so the Tairnadal warrior settles in to listen to the questions and answers posed by his warband. He is pleased to hear that the Red forged and the Dar agree with him, though he does not show it. He also raises a single eyebrow at Hallina's suborning the Orien scion for more logistical questions, but does not press the issue there either. This is not the time or the place for such things, and getting answers one-on-one may temper the Cyran's mood somewhat. As Prince Oargev produces their writ and eventually rises, the elf bows his head once more before joining the others in departing the quarters.

    The mercantile aspect of their preparation leaves a sour taste in the Tairnadal's mouth, but he does not let that bother him. The Mournland is a truly deadly place, and they will need all of the help they can get if they are to chart the course for the Orien rail. He follows several of his companions through the Cyran Metalworks - always staying several feet behind and to the left - though never deigns to buy anything. Why would he bother, when he has been granted all the weapons he would ever need? However, Dalsin's Emporium does boast a few treasures of note, and even he is tempted enough to scrounge for galifars to pay for a single protection scroll. The Tairnadal eyes one of the standards with obvious interest, and surreptitiously checks in with his companions to see if anyone would care to split the cost.

    At the tavern, Xael does not buy any kind of alcohol, sticking to water along with his food. He eats little more than vegetables and some meat, tearing into the latter with some voracity. When Howell brings up the question of stories, the former Valaes Tairn shakes his head slightly.

    "Although I am flattered by your praise, I have not yet earned the title of 'great'. It is true that my people are warriors, but I am no ancestor. I merely follow in the footsteps of Jennaris, who Felled the Sul'at at the Place of Storm's End many hundreds of your lifetimes ago. It is their face that I wear in battle, in hopes to bring glory to their name. To tell a story of mine own accomplishments now would not be of Jennaris, and so I must refrain from doing so." He speaks clearly and evenly, making it plain to all those sitting that - however polite - this is a refusal.

    Later, as the rest of the crew engages in frivolities, the Tairnadal finds a quiet place under the stars to begin his nightly meditations...

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show
    Xael will buy the Scroll of Shield for 75 gp, leaving him at 125 gp. If anyone else has any left over, he'd be happy to pool in for the Archer's Standard to help both him and anyone else with ranged weapon attacks in this crew (though I'm not sure anyone else has any other than Druager).

    Other than that, ready to move on!
    Spoiler: Stuff I'm Working On
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    Small Justice


    An ongoing web serial about politics, vengeance, and miniature lizards. Go check it out!

    Quote Originally Posted by Zeno Desaqqara View Post
    You divine bastard.

    "Life is to be lived, not controlled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in the face of certain defeat."

  26. - Top - End - #26
    Titan in the Playground
     
    ClericGuy

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    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    Druager Voss, ‘human’ ranger

    Earlier

    To the astute or observant watching the introductions, some might note a slight flinch from Voss at his introduction as Captain. But the moment was gone as the cloaked figure moved into the room, shaking hands with the Prince quickly before finding a seat - one away from any windows with visibility of entrances to the room.

    He sat quietly, listening to the Prince introduce his ‘friends’ and the ensuing discussions regarding their mission. He had noted the Prince was not as unarmed and open as perhaps he pretended to be - the wand bracers meant the man could be armed in a moment’s notice. While House Orien’s monetary interests were fairly clear, Voss wondered at the real purpose behind Rygar’s presence. Perhaps something personal? But then why was he here at this meeting?

    When Villina mentioned cooperation with the Karrnathi, his fists clenched involuntarily, but he released them after a moment. He was still coming to grips with the changing landscape of political alliances - but he had learned years ago that a soldier sees as far as his weapon can reach, a Captain as far as his scouts could advance, a general as far as the spies could infiltrate, but a ruler had to see to the very heart of all of his enemies and allies. ‘Soldiers carry grudges, Kings’ cultivate leverage.’

    Voss let the others address the various concerns, some of which he shared. To the question of a mapper, he nodded to Xael’s assessment in their ability to adequately map the Mournland. What was presented on the fabulous table was already old. Several of the copses of trees now contained swampland. Of course, the real challenge was captured in the genasi’s question - what good was mapping a territory that would change? Interestingly enough, no one answered that one.

    Later

    Voss joined the others at the general store. Of the items, only the sticks, stones and bags seemed useful … although a magic weapon could be handy. Approaching the slick storekeeper, he joined with Howell and asked ”By order of the Prince we require enchanted ranged weapons. Where are your magic bows?”

    Tonight

    With the group gathered that evening, Voss sat to the side drinking water and eating sparingly. The others all chatted like old friends, but he had little use for such ‘small talk.’ When Howell addressed he and the elf directly, Voss paused to hear Xael’s answer before responding himself.

    “Stories? No … no stories. I’m not a bard. I have only memories of death, loss and survival at all costs.”

    Looking up, he nodded at Xael. ”Maybe she can tell you ‘stories’ about how the elves abandoned their support of the Cyrans in the middle of the war.” He turned and nodded at R.I.T.A.C. ”Or perhaps he can recant the true purposes of these mechanical entities … and what REALLY happened on the Day.”

    Pausing, he turned to the Vrardurz, staring intently for a moment before his arm whipped out from his cloak and slammed a dagger into the table, a weapon of hobgoblin make. In the silence that followed, Voss hissed “Or if you really want a real story, ask this one about his people’s betrayal.”

    Standing up, Voss ripped the dagger free and returned it to his belt, shaking his head. “Sorry boy, no stories here. Just hard truths and ugly deeds. But who knows … maybe you’ll have one to tell after this mission.

    Presuming any of us survive.”


    He headed to the bar, throwing down enough gold to pay for the team’s meals and drinks, and to cover the damage to the table. Then he headed to his room, whispers trailing behind him like dark shadows, reaching for him but never quite touching.

    OOC - Looks like we may have some issues to contend with :). To be blunt, Voss needs therapy

    PS - after chatting with DM, Voss has cartographer skills.

    And he will buy thunderstones, smoke sticks and tangle bags if available. He is also asking about a magic bow or similar ranged weapon.

    Effects: Fly 20'; darkvision 60', no active morphs currently

    Spoiler: Details
    Show
    AC: HP: 49 Init +3 Move 30' land / 20' air Prof +3 Passive Per 19 (24 vs sight) Spell DC 14 Spell attack +6
    Saves: Str +8 Dex +4 Con +3 Int +1 Wis +3 Cha -1
    Skills: Athletics +11, Stealth +4, Nature +4, Medicine +6, Survival +6, Perception +9, Intimidation +3
    Tools: Gaming (Dice), Land Nav (Carts), Cartography
    Spoiler: Spells
    Show
    1. Ensnaring Strike, Goodberry, Wild Cunning, Speak with Animals, Hex (4/4); Hex, Tasha's Hideous Laughter, Charm Person (1/1 perlong rest)
    2. Pass w/o trace, Misty Step (2/2); Misty Step (1/1 per long rest)
    3. Suggestion (1/1 per long rest)
    4. Confusion (1/1 per long rest)

    Magic Items: Belt of Giant Strength (Hill - 21); goggles of night (60' darkvision)
    Weapons: Longbow (+4 / 1d8+1 P), Handaxe (+8 / 1d6+5 S), Mace (+8 / 1d6+5 B), Lion Claws (+8 / 1d6+5 S)
    Morphs: Eagle eyes (Face: adv on Perception checks based on sight, gain Wis mod to initiative); Tentacles (grapple w/adv, hand weapon/grapple and hand morphs have 10' reach); Fox Tail (cast Tasha's Hideous Laughter, Charm Person, Suggestion, and Confusion spells 1/long rest; can cast Control Fire, Create Bonfire and Dancing Lights cantrips); Cat's feet (stealth w/adv, footsteps make no noise, no damage from falls 20' or less); Lion's claws (1d6S, 1/turn, can strike with each hand with the attack action)
    Last edited by Starbin; 2022-09-09 at 11:43 AM.
    Life is ... life. As always bot/cut as necessary.
    DM: "Why do you have so many characters?"
    Me: "Because I never embraced the strategic value of running away."


    Fare thee well, N_R ... you will missed!y

  27. - Top - End - #27
    Bugbear in the Playground
    Join Date
    Jul 2021

    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    R.I.T.A.C.

    What is a person's "True Purpose"? Who gets to define it? Parents or makers, teachers or trainers, commanders, owners? Can a person define it themselves? I don't think you understand what purpose means to warforged, but we will talk on it further.

    As to the Day of Mourning, maybe all Survivors should compare experiences? It may gives us clues to the cause or mechanism. I was inside a field workshop at the time though, so my experiences are limited but...painful all the same.


    The leaves around RITAC's head slowly relax as they trail off into silence. The similarity in appearance to an angry cat could have been funny without the cracked cyclopean visage it framed.

  28. - Top - End - #28
    Titan in the Playground
     
    Amnestic's Avatar

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    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    With your shopping completed and your time wiled away in the Gold Dragon, you enjoy a rest in comfort and as much luxury as New Cyre has to offer.

    The following day, Vilina tracks you down and leads you to the carriage that carries you back north to Starilaskur, then east on the lightning rail to Varithrond, and then again via carriage to the edge of the dreaded Mournland. In total, it's four days of travel between New Cyre and Salvation, and that's only thanks to House Orien footing the travel bill. Perhaps seeking to impress upon you the value that they are placing in your services, they even spring for first class tickets on the lighting rail leg of the journey, giving you a good eight hours of the most comfortable way to travel in Khorvaire. It ends all too soon.

    No matter how many times you may have crossed into the Mournland, it's unlikely seeing its border ever gets any easier. A wall of ever shifting, ever silently screaming faces made up of darkened cloud, reaching high into the sky beyond that which even Lyrandar's airships feel comfortable flying. From Varithrond, the faces are too indistinct to see clearly and it appears a mass of grey, but as you get closer the shapes become clear. No matter how indistinct, there always seems to be a face at the edge of your vision that appears to take the shape of someone you knew.

    Salvation is the largest outpost this side of the Mournland border, but that doesn't mean it's big – smaller even than New Cyre. With perhaps a dozen buildings at most, no major transport links aside from carriages like the one you ride in, and a population that fluctuates based upon which salvagers kicked the bucket lately, Salvation is a wild town sustained solely by luck and people driven so far to despair they're willing to risk it all on the hopes of finding a big score. In many ways, earning the attention of a patron is a golden ticket, one that some salvagers might just kill you for, if they thought it might earn them your position.

    A swift trip to the tavern in town has you pick up the requisite 40 bottles of Goodberry Wine from the local vendor (one of the few things they always have ample stock of – most Goodberry Wine from the western side of Khorvaire travels to Salvation, one way or the other, and for some Ghallanda establishments it's a source of tidy, regular profit), and then you're back on foot for the final step.

    A chill passes through you when you touch the wall of silent screams, one that urges the weakwilled to lay down and die, but you push through, and a moment later you're inside the fog.

    Crossing into the Mournland Music

    The first true hazard of the Mournland is not the mutated denizens, the Lord of Blades and his warforged cultists, or the wild magic and living spells that cover the blighted land, but rather passing through the silently screaming mists into the Mournland proper. A maddening place, the befaced clouds swarm around you and threaten to throw you off your desired path, to draw you from each other and to drive you mad. For some, this leads them in circles until they die of thirst, but you've crossed before – and though overconfidence can kill, it's unlikely you'll suffer such a fate, but the picked-clean bodies you pass by are a stark reminder that it can happen to anyone.


    Spoiler: OOC
    Show

    Pick a navigator (whoever has the highest Survival modifier, I'm guessing) and give me a survival roll, with advantage (either because of helping each other or your own experience, fluff it how you like), DC15.

    Only one person gets to roll - you're not following different people in different directions, after all.
    DMing:
    Iron Crisis IC | OOC
    Cyre Red IC | OOC

    Playing:
    OotA IC | OOC

    Master Homebrew Index (5e)

  29. - Top - End - #29
    Bugbear in the Playground
    Join Date
    Jul 2021

    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    R.I.T.A.C.

    RITAC shudders slightly as faces of his unit appear in thr mist. Thinking about the mission and its importance for New Cyre allows him to refocus and press on into the mists once again.

    Small rootlets extend from all over his form to aid him in sorting reality from the phantoms of the mists.

    Spoiler: Rolls
    Show
    Survival including bardic inspiration
    (1d20+14)[32] Or (1d20+14)[29]

  30. - Top - End - #30
    Troll in the Playground
     
    (Un)Inspired's Avatar

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    Default Re: Cyre Blue (IC)

    Howell soaked in the romanticism of the ride across eastern Breland. Gazing out at the bucolic hills, feeling the wind rush impossible fast through his hair from open windows, and letting the gentle feeling of being in motion while standing still wash over him. The first class cabins continually conjuring memories of riding the rail to Metrol, and even visiting distant relatives in Flamekeep, from his childhood. Too bad first class is always reserved for the wealthy; I wish everyone got to enjoy luxuries like this. I hope it's at least helping the others relax before we cross over. His thought continued to swing back to his companions, and their responses to his questions from the last night they spent in New Cyre. I hope I didn't offend Xael or Drauger with my questions, and RI and Vrardurz were friendly, the others were at least polite...

    Pushing through the barrier, Howell creates a beacon of fire in his hand and raises it up above his head to give the group something to focus on in the dizzying morass of fog. He stays close to R.I.T.A.C. and, using his experience as a navigator, helps the Warforged plot a course through the barrier.

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show
    Howell creates a light for people to help see with Produce Flame
    And Inspiration for RITAC, rolled in Discord for +7
    Last edited by (Un)Inspired; 2022-09-09 at 02:26 PM.
    amazing avatar of my favorite character, Gheera, by Pesimismrocks

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