The Divine Forge - IC (Ongoing Campaign)

[Sir Grave]

Prehysterical & Sir Grave presents...

The Divine Forge: Tome of the Forgotten

The evening sets in the city of New Cyre, and working hours are over for most. To most, except for the taverns and inns, which are live with activity form the commoners who drink in those places every night.

One inn and tavern, the Longbow, houses little activity from the commonfolk. This is a place for so-called adventurers: warriors, thieves and even wizards come to find new companions, undertake dangerous quests, and to pay ear to the latest rumor and gossip.

A lone figure approaches:Enter HALBERD. Large even among warforged, towering over others with his green adamantine armor. His emotionless, angular face appears to have no mouth, although that is only because it is clamped firmly shut. Light blue eyes gaze out at the world without pupils. A massive blade hangs on his back, slightly curved and with three spikes on the back edge.

(Enter Halberd)

As you approach, a hobgoblin gets thrown into the street at your feet, thrown by another one-eyed warforged, wearing an apron. The hobgoblin curses in his own dialect, getting up and brushing past you. "Gerathameway, yeh walkin' scrap heap!" He's obviously drunk, stumbling away.

The one eyed warforged simply stands at the doorway. "Thank you for your patronage!" He said, sarcastically. With that he looks at you. "Ah. A fellow veteran, here to find his place in life. Come on in, place is mostly empty." With that, he heads back on in.

[Prehysterical]

The "scrap heap" slur is enough to instill a desire to beat the hobgoblin's face in. Prior experience, however, has taught Halberd that Fleshlings are not held responsible when they consume the substance known as "alcohol". And it's not worth getting chased out of town. Again.

Nodding his acknowledgement to the barkeep, Halberd follows him inside. His eyes scan the bar patrons as he moves, keeping an eye out for potential troublemakers or spies. Taking a seat at the bar, as according to Fleshling custom, Halberd asks, "What's with the eye, soldier? Can't get repairs?" His voice has a tinny resonance to it, clearly not human, but it has not degraded to the emotionless monotone of those who embrace the Metal.

[Sir Grave]

"Call it sentiment," he said, picking up a tipped mug. He nudges a sleeping shifter with his metal foot. "Grez, wake up. Messes to clean."

The shifter growled, then mumbled to himself incoherently.

Other than the three of you, the place is fairly empty. It seems the hobgoblin put up a fight before getting himself thrown out: there's toppled furniture and even a broken chair. Grez stood, looked at the mess, and sighed. "Another day, another gray hair for me," he snarled, shuffling to the back room.

The warforged took his place behind the bar table and began cleaning the mug. "Reminds me of a time when we warforged were created for a cause greater than ourselves. These days... we've little to look forward to. But I suppose you've heard enough from an old timer like me. What can I do for you? I can provide a place to stay... Or, if you're interested, I can let you in on some of the latest rumors..."

Spoiler: Endbringer: Halberd only!

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"I like idol talk as much as the next guy, but let's cut straight to business. Ask him about the Vassal."

[Prehysterical]

Halberd's sense of camaraderie is soured by the barkeep's words. Leaning forward on the bar, he says, "'Greater than ourselves'? All we've ever done is fight for the Fleshlings and their causes. Not once have we had a say in the matter. By the Hells, not even Bulwark was ever asked for an opinion. Hard to call it a cause when you don't have a choice.

Still, as it just so happens, I have found a real cause. What can you tell me about a 'Vassal of the Platinum God'?"

[Sir Grave]

You can see he's taken aback behind his frozen expression, and he looks away. "I... admire your spirit, friend... And I envy it. I am sorry if I have offended you. I lost many comrades during the war, both of flesh and metal, alike. Despite our differences, we always had each other's backs, such is the way of a Cyran Soldier.

"But... what was it you said? You seek a "Vassal of the Platinum God? Hmm... sounds cryptic, putting it mildly." He paused, trying to remember. "Now that you mention it... a couple of gentlemen came in here earlier today. One of them was a bastard of a man, named Brent. The other... he was a priest, but he wore strange vestments... he did mention he served a Vassal of some sort. Cynric. That was his name."

Just as he says this, you hear commotion at he door. A bald, ugly man, wearing studded leather armor, is shoved into the room. Following him, a dark haired, older man, wearing dark gray cleric's vestments, and bearing a platinum holy symbol.

"Buy yourself a drink," the cleric commanded , "sit down, and keep quiet."

"Yeah, yeah, your highness. Whatever you say," said the bald man, rolling his eyes.

The barkeep leaned in close, and quietly says to you, "That's them."

[Prehysterical]

Nodding his thanks, Halberd marches straight over to the priest. Pointing to the holy symbol, he asks bluntly, "Do you know about the Vassal of the Platinum God?"

[Sir Grave]

The cleric looks at you, startled by your intimidating demeanor. He smirks, and looks at the barkeep. "Longbow, have you been spreading rumors about me? That's very kind of you."

The barkeep nodded. "My job."

The cleric takes a seat. "Yes, I know the man you seek. I serve him, as a loyal disciple. He is the master of the Gray Keep, which is home to our Order of Knighthood. Vassal Grave 'ir Wyrmslayer, a Saint of Bahamut. Although..." He pauses, solemn. "I fear he may not be in much of a state to speak."

[Prehysterical]

Why do Fleshlings have this tendency to leave unspoken questions? Why not just say what the problem is? His exasperation hidden by his metal face-mask, Halberd asks, "And why would that be? Is he dying?"

[Sir Grave]

The cleric's eves widened. "By all that is holy, I hope not! That is..." He sighed, "...It does seem very likely. The Vassal has become ill; a great evil has seeped into his soul. We have sought for a cure to his ailment, to no avail.

"And what's worse, that same darkness has caused an unholy uprising of undead. They come from the northeast; from the Mournlands, the remnants of Cyre. We have kept them from passing into the border towards New Cyre, but we are spread too thinly. I was sent here to seek the aid of worthy adventurers to help us in our plight.

"Say...," he looks up at you, hopeful, "...you look like a seasoned warrior, yourself. Perhaps we can help each other out? Oh! Where are my manners? I've yet to introduce myself! My name is Sir Cynric. Sir Cynric Ravenhelm, at your service!"

"His ass-holiness." The bald man sat at the table Cynric was, a mug of ale in hand.

Cynric's hopeful expression twists into annoyance. "My... Associate is named Brent Gallows. He might be... untrustworthy, but I require his skills as a trapsmith. By the way, what is your name?"

Spoiler: Endbringer (HALBERD ONLY!)

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"I'd take this guy's offer. Whatever this evil is, it's threatening the Vassal we need to talk with."

Spoiler: To all

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Advenurers of all sorts begin to enter the tavern, one by one.

[Vhaidara]

Spoiler: Description

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Spiker is tall, like most warforged, and strongly built, both for power and for speed. Her body was made from mithril, since the metal was thought to be more appropriate for the new breed of "Soulforged", as Merrix called them.
Her soulmelds are almost omnipresent. The shifting material of the course brown Blink Shirt covers her mithril chest. The triangular blades of her Kruthik Claws enfold her arms from the shoulder down. A spotter leather belt encircles her waist, with a tail extending from it that ends with bustle of spikes, resembling the appendage of a manticore. Turquoise energy wreathes her hands, in the approximate shape of gloves.

Spiker enters the tavern, glowering. She hated having to come into these places, but taverns seemed to be where people who wanted expeditions to the Mournlands looked. Looking around, she sees the group in the corner and walks over.
Do you need someone to go into the Mournlands? No one gets in and out faster or cleaner than I do. Even with the drow and undead infesting the place.

[Sir Grave]

Sir Cynric stops his train of thought to look at Spiker, confused. "I'm sorry..." he paused, trying to piece together what Spiker had just said. "Drow? In the Mournlands?"

Spoiler: Endbringer (HALBERD ONLY!)

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"Huh. This just got even more interesting. I wonder if Lolth might be involved somehow?

[Vhaidara]

Spiker nods.
Yes. They arrived with the undead. I saw them from a distance. Not much else looks like them. Black skin and white hair. Terrible camouflage on the surface.

[Yas392]

Spoiler: Description

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Smudge dark face with a turban, sad and almost swollen from constant abuse of everyday go-arounds. The quality of his clothing explicit his person as a factory worker although much imply that he is not from there from the common breeches, wrinkled patches of red, brown and yellow of his tunic and his incongruent rich coat.

As usual, Kalim got a good haul by dumb luck. If you roll a dice, you had only a slight possibility of getting in and out. The pickpocket was fortunate that he had a lot of luck in his past thievery. All these nice trinkets and items. Of course, he is not heartless as people thinks if one knows him well. He smiles normally as he enters the tavern. He seats himself behind an empty table and taking in the interactions to select his next targets as the people begin to flush into the tavern. Perfect.

[Prehysterical]

Halberd takes a moment to mull over Endbringer's musings before answering the cleric. "I'm Halberd."

Turning to regard the taller warforged, he looks her over and asks, "You psyforged?"

[Vhaidara]

Spiker scoffs at Halberd.
No. Do I look like a mind-mage to you?

[Sir Grave]

Cynric went deep into thought. "Drow elves... Now this is most peculiar. If there's any chance they are involved, the Vassal must be informed".

He looked to Spiker. "We may yet require your talents. First, though, we would have to stop at the Gray Keep to give light to our situation to the rest of our knighthood. Of course, should we succeed, the Vassal will be most generous in his reward..."

Spoiler: Kalim

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You recognize Brent Gallows.

[Vhaidara]

Spiker's head turns back to the knight.
If that reward can be paid in favors, count me in. Call me Spiker.

[Sir Grave]

"Great. Two scary freakin warforged. I feel safer already..."
Brent glanced to his right, spotting Kalim.""Aw, hells... Not him..."

[Guard]

Spoiler: description

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Malvin is rather tall, but thin, bordering on gaunt. His skin is uniformly the colour of ash - there's no blush to his cheeks; the only places they grey is broken is at the veins, visible on his forearms and the back of his hands, where they stand out as blue.
He has long straight, black hair, and his face is framed by two large curled ram's horns. His eyes are yellow orbs with vertical slits for pupils.

He sports a white shirt underneath a black vest, along with black pants and shoes. His ever-present brown traveling overcoat serves to hide his tail. His clothes are somewhat dishreveled - while expensive-looking he has clearly been wearing them for a while.

Malvin entered the bar in a hurry. His coat flapped around him, he intended to sit down at an empty table and scope out potential employers and/or partners, but was stopped short at the sight of the ravaged room. Still, he sat down in an empty corner, taking in and categorising the room and its inhabitants.

A warforged worked the bar, his shifter friend doszing off. Bartenders usually meant rumors, which could mean work, which he might check up on later. A fellow lurked in another corner; Malvin instantly named the factory worker Skulk. Finally, a group of warforged and humans were gathered around a table.
One warrior, a guy Malvin couldn't decide if he was desperate or just a traitor; he settled on Mr. Turner, it had a nice ring to it. Beyond those, there was a most interesting specimen of construct. It seems some ingenious inventor has taken the fusion of life and construct and brought it to its logical conclusion. That one would be worth having a look at.
Finally, the leader of the group, by the looks of it, was a wizard. Wait, no, a priest. Of Bahamut, if he wasn't much mistaken.

He sat there for a few minutes, weighing his options, before he reached a conclusion.
If the choice was between Skulk and the bahamite, well, he'd take his chances with the shiny lizard.

Malvin got out of his chair and made his way to the group. "Good evening." He touched his right hand to the corresponding horn, much as one might touch a hat in greeting. "You are in need of a specialist. That would be me. Malvin Grit, arcanist."

Thinking the matter settled, he swung a chair over to the table, and propped himself on it. "What are we working?"

[Yas392]

Kalim ignores Brent coolly, watching the Warforgeds go about but in his mind, he is livid. Seeing his ex-partner brings back awful memories of the days with aspirations get rich quickly from their mutual partnership. Brent...you, two timing scrub. How nice of you to drop by. Don't think you can trip me twice because I fell for you crap. "Powerful doohickey", "crate of valuables?" Bull. You are lucky I am not a killer. Otherwise, you would have been six foot under, I swear it.

[Sir Grave]

Cynric turned and studied Malvin for a few moments. He smiled."Ah... A fellow mage. And an abjurer at that. I'm a bit more of a universalist, myself."
While Cynric was inviting, Brent was somewhat creeped out by the newcomer. "Are those friggen horns?!"

[Somensjev]

Spoiler: description

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Briar is an interesting man, about average height for a human, quite thin. he has long, straight silver hair, and his eyes are golden. his skin is tanned and has dirt all over it

he is wearing pants and a cloak made of leaves and vines, leaving his entire chest revealed, he has a piece of bark strapped to one arm with vines. he has a large walking stick.

upon his shoulders sit two birds, a white one, and a black one.

Briar enters the bar, looking a little confused and out of place, he looked at all of the furniture laying on the ground. he looks at the birds yin, yang, do you believe we have come to the right place? He doesnt wait for any form of answer, instead he goes to the counter and takes a seat on the floor in front of it.

He studies the people in the room, his eyes flitting from face to face Men of metal? Men with horns? And i was bewildered when i met an elf for the first time He laughs at the memories of that day. He decides that the rag-tag group would be the most fun.

he slowly walked up to the older man wearing grey robes, assuming he was the leader Are you in need of another to join your ranks? He stood there awkwardly, barely being able to remember the last time he talked to another human.

[Sir Grave]

Sir Cynric looks pleased with the number of responses he's getting. He then looks at Briar, and stares. "Hmm... By your tailor and your choice of companionship, I would say you are a Druid. You may be of some use."
Cynric now refers to both Briar and Malvin."I believe I'll accept you into our fold, yes. If you're up to the challenge."
A little less than half an hour goes by, and by now the tavern is getting a little more full. Some are just here for a drink or a place to stay. Others are adventurers starting out on their own. None seem like worthy candidates to Cynric.
"Brent, why are you hiding your face from that man over there?"
Brent scowled harder than he has been."I DON'T LIKE HIM."
"Ah, then that must be grounds to speak with him." He gestured over to Kalim.

[czieg]

Spoiler: Description

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Oren is wrapped in cloth, like those of the desert, as he steps into the tavern. His head is covered so that you can only see his bright blue eyes. He carries with him a long, slender item, also wrapped in cloth.

Oren finds an empty table, close to the door and the bar, keeping an ear out for any opportunities to use his skills. He glances around at the inhabitants of the tavern and smiles beneath his mask. There was a bigger crowd here then any time in the last week Oren had been staying here. At the mention of work, he looks over at the the table where an armored man, a pair of metal people, and a loud upstart were talking.

I hate to interrupt, but it sounds like you could use one of my profession.

As he says this he removes the cloth from the item he was holding to reveal a long musket.

I'm not sure who these drow are, but if they bleed, I can kill it.

[Sir Grave]

None of you are familiar with the item he shows you. It seems like a rather complex and mechanical stick of some kind.
"Fascinating. What is it?" asked the cleric-mage.
Brent's eyes widened, in amazement. ""Oh, my gods! That's a musket!"
Cynric looked confused. "A what?"
"They're long ranged, explosion driven projectile weapons. They deal heavy wounds to whatever it hits. I remember the thieve's Guild trying to buy these weapons from some merchant, but he wouldn't allow it."
"Hmm..." Cynric examined the weapon. "If I didn't know of this device, chances are, the drow are unaware of it's existence as well. Wouldn't they be in for a surprise, then." He nodded. "Consider yourself hired.
"Now, Brent, if you don't mind, see if you can invite that gentleman sitting over there."
Brent glared at him, then at Kalim. "Fine," he grumbled.
He stood and walked over to Kalim. He stood over him. "...Kalim..."

[Yas392]

Ah and who might you be, young sir? I must be famous around these area for you to know my name. Kalim act as polite as ever to avoid suspicion as if he did not have a history with this unreliable person.

[czieg]

Glad to be of service.
His expression darkens as he looks to Brent,
You touch it and I will use your corpse as target practice...

[Sir Grave]

Brent rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, 'we've never met before, blah, blah **** blah.' My boss over there wants to talk to you about a job. And before you ask, he's not from the Guild. Feel free to turn him down, solve my headache." With that, he returns to the table.

Spoiler: Endbringer (HALBERD ONLY!

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I'm fairly certain these people will become more than just acquaintances, Halberd. Watch out for them: you're their protector.

Spoiler: Briar & Malvin

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Something about Sir Cynric interests you. You can't pinpoint what.

Spoiler: Spiker

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Forgot to mention: you did note that the arcane storm, though it had the shape and cycle of a low level hurricane, did not seem to move in any direction.

[Guard]

Malvin spent the better part of that hour watching his new partners. A motley crew if he ever saw one. There were something strange about there new leader. Skulk and Turner knew each other, huh? No surprise there. He was contemplating whether to bring up his question that everyone seemed to have forgotten, when an idea jumped into his head.
Oh. Oh. Servant of Bahamut indeed. He almost smiled. It registered on his face as a minor twitch. Still, back to that question. "What is this task that we have agreed to achieve for you? I gather it has to do with the Mournlands." Yes. This phrasing was clearer.

[Sir Grave]

"I suppose it would, yes, however, the exact details are unknown to me. I was merely sent here to recruit your aid. Naturally, I represent Vassal Grave 'ir Wyrmslayer, who couldn't come here himself. He will tell you more."
He looked over to Halberd, eyeing his blade. "Hmm... Flawless craftsmanship, Halberd. Where did you get it?"