"Rugs! Tapestries! Finely woven, imported straight from the Thokrat!"
"Fresh meat and poultry! Give your belly something nice! My selection cannot be beat!"
"Behold the finest leather in all Hyralein! Made here in the Land of Tide and Trade! Can't be topped!"
The bustle of the market square is a sight to behold today. Despite the execution of the traitor Mulhirin a few days ago, the Espirans go about their business with smiles on their faces, and laughter on their lips. Looking at their faces, you would think a festival was fast approaching, or a celebration had been announced. For all the unease that word of Xavian activity had brought, it is surely not obvious here at the Bazaar, as the natives go from stall to stall, eying the various odds and ends being sold by the various merchants, who together form an interesting menagerie of faces and colors. Half-orcs of the Olive Branch Trading Coster, dressed in rich orange robes, their faces pinched with silvery piercings and decorative studs, tempt passersby with sugar, cinnamon, and spices. Elven fisherfolk, dressed in woven tunics that stink of salt air, lay out their catches, as townsfolk grin over the plump fish and juicy crabs they have brought in to the stall. A muscular goliath, dressed in a smithy's apron, bellows at the crowd, trying to draw attention to the various swords, mauls, and shields he has forged.
As you pass by the stalls, keeping your wits about lest anyone foolish try to pinch your coin, you follow the bend in the road, leaving the alleyways behind and entering the Square of St. Maremen. Here, the stalls are larger, but fewer in number, due to the heavier location tax issued by the Sadrani family, as you learned from your time in Espir. Only the most successful of merchants can afford to sell their goods here, and quality is guaranteed. Here, the faces are less diverse; elves, eladrin, and humans seem to dominate the square, their clothing a notch above what was encountered elsewhere in the winding paths leading to the market proper. Here, few call out to garner notice from the crowd; the caliber of their goods, various in nature, is enough to have the pedestrians seek them out.
You know not why, but in the back of your mind, a nagging sensation begins to form, the slight sliver of inexplicable doubt needling its way past your thoughts. Some sixth sense tells you to be wary, but of course, you wouldn't simply lose focus here, of all places. You travel alone, yet you know that there are guards about; even now, you spot a couple making their rounds, talking to each other, dressed in their iron chainmail, clutching pikes in their hands. If there's trouble afoot, you're sure they will end up running into it headfirst. Shaking off your suspicions, you continue to meander around the Square, occasionally glancing at the fountain in the center of the market as you do.
Several other passersby have also stopped to gawk at the legendary Fountain of St. Maremen. The holy warrior sits atop a charger, one hand holding the reins, the other clutching his prized broadsword, Willbreaker. The statue's armor is almost as intricate as the actual St. Maremen's, with complex designs forming floral patterns and lion heads working their way down the length of it. Helm cast aside, St. Maremen's bearded face looks skyward, mouth open in a shout of triumph dedicated to his god, Ohuron the Watcher. The charger stands on its hindlegs, triumphant over the gnoll corpse that lies crushed before it; the water itself spurts from a "wound" in the gnoll's neck, a rather morbid design but one that has appealed to most Espirans since the statue was erected. The statue is one of several commissioned by the Sadrani in honor of Espir's heroes of old, yet St. Maremen's is perhaps the most popular, due to its key location.
As you stare at the statue and the clear waters of the fountain, you find yourself tapped on the shoulder. Turning about, you come face-to-face with a man dressed in dark colors, face hidden by a veil of gold, fingers covered in a number of gold rings. Though you have not encountered such a one before, you recognize him by his dress that he is Jemadan, hailing from the central plains of Itare. Handing a slip of paper to you, you assume he is a hireling in service to one of the merchants. Glancing at it, it appears to be some sort of voucher for the Museum of Espiran History. A seal in the bottom-right corner bears the swordfish of the Sadrani family; the voucher is legitimate, or else the Jemadan would have been roughed up by the guards. With a heavy accent, he addresses you:
"In honor of Hyralein's supremacy, you are invited, honored guest, to attend the Sadrani family's celebratory dinner two nights from now, at the Museum. There will be food aplenty, and tales of Hyral history. You need not fear coin to pay; all will be provided, yes? It is lifetime chance, I guarantee you! Please do not pass it up!
Over there, you will find the scribe, named Haror. Haror will take your name down, and your description. When you have spoken to Haror, you will be put on guest list, yes?"
Turning in the direction of the man's finger, you spy a studious looking gnome at a makeshift stand, flanked by a pair of human Sadrani house guards, dressed in fine clothing of teal and maroon, the Sadrani house colors. The gnome, looking in the Jemadan's direction, nods his head and waves at you. As you glance about, you spy other Jemadans making similar offers to a variety of figures. Already a few have approached the gnome, who opens a large tome and begins scribbling something, a friendly smile on his face as he sets about his work.
To clarify, though you all find yourselves in similar situations, each of you is on his/her own for the moment. You may RP as you like, and feel free to RP prior to and up to this offer.
"I don't like X, they should remove it." "I like X, they should keep it." "They should replace X with Y." "Anybody that likes X is dumb. Y is better." "Why don't they include both X and Y." "Yeah, everybody can be happy then!" "But I don't like X, they should remove it." "X really needs to be replaced with Y." "But they can include both X and Y." "But I don't like X, they need to remove it." "Remove X, I don't like it."
Until you've had an in-law tell you your choice of game was stupid, and just Warcraft on paper, and dumbed down for dumber players who can't handle a real RPG, you haven't lived.
Lady and gentlemen.... I present to you the Edition War without Contrition, the War of the Web, the Mighty Match-up!
We're using standard edition war rules. No posts of substance. Do not read the other person's posts with comprehension. Make frequent comparison to video games, MMOs, and CCGs. Use the words "fallacy" and "straw man", incorrectly and often. Passive aggressiveness gets you extra points and asking misleading and inflammatory questions is mandatory. If you're getting tired, just declare victory and leave the thread. Wait for the buzzer... and....
One, two, three, four, I declare Edition War Five, six, seven eight, I use the web to
D&D should not return to the days of blindfolding the DM and players. No tips on encounter power? No mention of expected party roles? No true meaning of level due to different level charts or tiered classes? Please, let's not sacrifice clear, helpful rules guidelines in favour of catering to the delicate sensibilities of the few who have problems with the ascetics of anything other than what they are familiar with.
Just a quick note on the MMORPG as an insult comparison...
MMORPGs, raking in money by the dumptruck full. Many options, tons of fans across many audiences, massive resources allocated to development.
TTRPGs, dying product. Squeaking out an existence that relys on low cost. Fans fit primarily into a few small demographics. R&D budgets small, often rushed to market and patched after deployment.
You're not really making much of an argument when you compare something to a MMORPG and assume people think that means bad. Lets face it, they make the money, have the audience and the budget. We here on this board are fans of TTRPGs but lets not try to pretend none of us play MMORPGs.
Something like Tactical Shift is more magical than martial healing.
Telling someone to move over a few feet is magical now? :|
I weep for this generation.
Given the laziness and morbid obsesity amongst D&Ders, being able to convince someone to get on their feet, do some heavy exercise, and use their words to make them be healthier must seem magical.
Rolen came to the bustling city a few days ago looking for work. After entering Espir he first delivered a status message from the patrol guard’s commander Lieutenant Zanward to his superior officer Commander Iriedove.
Strange that the commander of the patrol guards along the western coast is a Halfling woman.
Shrugging at the thought Rolen was now free to start looking for work as either a sell sword or scout, where his efforts so far proved to be in vain. No matter what market he went to, or what tavern, the answer continued to be the same. Either no one needed him or all ready had hired someone. Discourage Rolen wandered through the city for a couple of days looking for work, until he found himself in one of the richer markets, standing in the center of the square.
And now Rolen found himself by the statue holding a slip of paper, wondering why a merchant would pay for a free meal for a country bumpkin. He glances up at the crowd, watching the Jemadan men, analyzing to see if there is a certain type of people that the messengers are offering this to. Not discerning a pattern to the requested guests, Rolen decided to take the hireling on his offer.
Who knows, I may find some work there.
Resolute in joining the hosted party, Rolen walked up to the gnome scribe, or Haror as Rolen came to know his name as, to sign up for the intended party.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. W.B. Yeats
Kithr was enjoying the day, despite the constant feeling that he was being watched. That itch between his shoulderblades was almost natural to him, for he would never be completely safe when he travelled outside 'his' part of the city. Oh, the Six let him walk around peacefully enough, but there were unspoken rules he should obey. Don't wander too deep into dark alleyways. Stay on the streets. Don't talk to the beggars.
In other words, outside Fishport, Kithr was just another law-abiding citizen.
Yet even so, there were some privileges to being the head of the Chimney Rats that the commoner browsing the Bazaar's market stalls did not have. Anything he carried was safe from prising hands, for one, and only a couple of beggars would snag their fingers around his clothes to ask for coin.
Today, Kithr had chosen to wear a tightfitting red robe worn over loose black breeches. His arms were left bare, and sand-colored slippers hid the claws on his feet. He had tied his black hair in a loose ponytail. He continually brushed it forward to let the end dangle in front of his chest, but it had been cut recently, so whenever he turned his head it would slip behind his back, perhaps the only source of irritation Kithr would experience that day.
The Halfling slowed his step when he entered St. Maremen's Square. He rarely ventured to this part of the city. Too many guards, and he would never be able to filch anything here. The merchants here had eagle eyes, and even if they did get distracted long enough for someone to take one of their wares, they would know if something was taken as soon as they looked at their stall, and the guards would be on your tail like dogs chasing a fox. No, Kithr had nothing to gain here. He was only here because of Bothor's letter. Nothing had changed since he had recieved it, so he had taken to wandering the city, waiting for 'it' to happen.
He stopped at St. Marumen's statue, a smile on his face as he felt the cool mist emerging from the sculpture caress his face. Then he felt the finger poking his shoulder, and the paper pushed in his hands by the stranger to whom the finger belonged. "So, this is itthen?Huh."
His eyes darted across the scribblings. Kithr had never had a proper teacher of the letters, but friends had taught him enough to make some sense of the words, even if the elaborate script left some letters to be guessed at. And even if he would have missed its meaning, the golden-veiled man obviously knew what the message was. A Sadrani dinner, two nights, free food and drink. Kithr shrugged inwardly, knowing that this would be hard to pass up even without the incentive Bothor had given him. He did not feel exactly comfortable with having to give out his name to be put on a list, but he pretty much owed everything he had to Bothor, so there was little reason for him to say no to this invitation.
Kithr thanks the Jemadan and sets his sights on the Gnome. He waits a moment as a Human merchant passes in front of him, then steps briskly forwards until he stands face to face with the smiling man. "Kithr," he says, then adds "Nurawen" when the Gnome keeps looking at him expectantly.
Terios has finally finished helping with off-loading the ship and has received his pay which he carefully stashes in his backpack and then ties the pack shut. At seven and a half feet tall he does not normally have to worry about the smaller folk picking things out of his pack. He walks down the ramp and onto the dock. He ignores the looks he gets. He knows some of them have never seen a minotaur before and for the others it is a mixture of staring at his size and a lone minotaur is something that is a bit rare. His kind tend to stick together.
He glances about and decides to get to know the city a bit before he starts to ask about for word of other minotaur in the city. He does not want to set word flying that he is there and looking for his son and wife until he knows the place a little better and possibly meets some people that he can enlist to help him.
And so he has talked to some guards and got the basic layout of the place and has spent most of the day wandering the city. It is very different from what he is used to. A lot more crowded for one. His wanderings eventually bring him to the market square. He wanders about glancing at the wide variety of things on sale. He grins as some of the people notice him move up to their stall and turn, already starting to try to sell him things, and how they suddenly stop talking and stare up at him, some even taking a step back. Of course they look even more nervous when he smiles as they are not used to seeing a minotaur smile and to them it probably looks more like a snarl. Once or twice he tries to convince them all is well and even asks a couple of dumb questions about their wares, but most of them are still too nervous and a few even threatened to call the guard if he caused trouble. He would just shake his big head and walk on thinking how stupid these people are. If he wanted to harm them they would be dead before they could call for any help.
He then finds himself walking out of the crowded market into a calmer and nicer one. He remembers the guards called it the Square of St. Maremen. He walks over and checks out the statue, liking it. That is the way a true champion should be displayed, slaughtering his foes. He is a bit startled when someone taps him on the shoulder. Turning he glances down into the face of a man whose face is covered by a veil of gold. He has heard of the Jemadan, but never actually met one. And definitely is not expecting one to walk up, address him and hand him a letter and an invitation to a party.
You sure you got the right person? I just got here and can’t think of why anyone would invite me to a party.
Once convinced it is not a mistake, he shrugs and walks over to the gnome.He waits while the gnome talks to a human and then a strange looking Halfling that seems to have been burnt to a crisp, yet is still moving around. He shows Horar the letter and gives his name.
Terios of Klontos
He verifies which night the party is on, seeing if tonight counts as one of the two nights. Then once he is sure of when he gets direction to the museum and decides to go check the place out before the party to see what kind of things they have in there. Once done there he starts to search out a decent place to spend the night. He does not want one of the really expensive places. One of the rougher ones will do. He would not pass up a chance at a bit of a scuffle, for fun, tonight.
Wash: "Yeah well, if she doesn't give us some extra flow from the engine room to offset the burn through, this landing is gonna get pretty interesting."
Mal: "Define interesting."
Wash: "Oh god oh god we're all gonna die?"
Mal: "This is the captain. We have a...little problem with our engine sequence, so we may experience some slight turbulence and then...explode."
Zarja il-Lenm is strolling through the markets full of merchants whose eyes meet his broad chest, toned from years working knee-deep in the fields alongside his family’s serfs who loved his hair, they really loved it, grown bright and long in that fashionable, Hyralein way that his eladrin girlfriend adores with a taste cultivated over centuries (at least this is how Face imagined him this morning as she played with her body in the full-length mirror and decided that today’s theme was strength, though later tonight deep in the luxated bubble of an unsafe tavern she will doubtless return to her usual perch and wait with her usual face for Zyrdil, how is the boy, she wonders now, as an elven merchant screams a sequence of rapidly descending discounts for fish, fish, fresh fish), when an premonition washes over her.
Face tries to orient her mind onto an axis within but as soon as the premonition appears it is gone, leaving only the rapidly decaying embers of a memory in her mind and she finds herself drawn with semi-conscious purpose deeper into the markets where the crowds thin out and the merchants soften their tones. (Higher prices require lower voices.)
At the heart of the Bazaar a gnoll bleeds out ad infinitum to popular approval and someone taps on Zarja's shoulder.
Jemadan! Face notes, as the man recites his message. Mysterious inhabitants of the Jonglu Plateau that almost never visited trading posts like Three Waters -- how exotic! Same cute accent as the river guards at Three Waters!and her mind wanders back and farther back to her first crush on the young man--aha, but this invitation is for Zarja. Interesting.
She tucks the authenticated letter in her pouch for later study, envies idly his golden veil of undoubtedly fey origins, and smiles politely at the bespectacled gnome. After the messenger has left Zarja moves back behind a mob of stylish half-orcs and she exits moments later in the body of Face, the elven maiden of the stunning body, coral hair and lovely, well, face.
Goodbye Zarja.
Moving clockwise around the fountain she traces the movements of the other invitees while the changeling considers first the geometry of crowds and delineating the ebb and flow because, as she is sure, there is a numerically effable pattern there, but a boy about her age runs past and his brown skin and curly hair stirs her heart. She then studies the other invitees -- there is no apparent pattern; perhaps this was all random?
But if it wasn't, then somebody has seen through my disguise. More particularly, a Sadrani has seem through my disguise and cares, which means they need something, which means I have an High Red Dragon up my sleeve. Either way, what an assuredly fun party!
Face breaks the circumference of the fountain and approaches the gnome named Haror. Once the minotaur has moved away she introduces herself in a nervous cadence, hands clasped together like a priest at his prayers.
"Excuse me, sir. I don't have an invitation to your party, but I see you're giving them out. Could I please have one?"
Sorry for the really, really long post. Anyway, I don't know if this needs mechanics or not. However, she's possibly telling a lie, even though Zarja really isn't Face, and she's also looking to see how much the gnome knows, so...
If, on a desert night, a traveler, outside the town of Balic, leaning from the steep slope, without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down in the gathering shadow (in a network of lines that interlace) on the carpet of sand illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story down there awaits its end?
Dejected, Erias left the Espir Citadel to gather his thoughts. He would need a friend to guide him through the tangled holy institutions of this city. He was following a trail twenty years old, with nothing more than a description and a name. But of course, she would have changed it, he thought.
In this many exotic faces, Erias had felt less conspicuous - much better than the country, at any rate. Until now. The Sadrani family was well connected in Narill, having dealt with all the major guilds at one point or another - they would know Semlin Lockyer by name. St. Maremen, another holy warrior from a distant time. Handsome, rugged, at least in the artist's conception. "How easy to show valor with a face like that," Erias muttered to himself.
Then, the tap on his shoulder. The invitation, a history lesson? Surely something more than that. If they have tracked me here.. a trap? Surely not. An offer? He shook his head and looked over at the scribe and the great horned man talking to him.
Erias eagerly strode across the square, but caught himself before jumping to any conclusions. He overheard, "Klontos…" A far-off land. Who knows what sort of men live there? Still, he was invited to this gathering as well. If he were wavering before, Erias was certain to attend now.
"Squire Horar? Please extend my thanks to your employers. I am Erias of Narill, Knight of the Lantern."
Inwardly Tsubasa revels in the emotions being broadcast by the crowded markets of Espir. If he were of less strong of will hw would likely just sit on a bench and lose himself to the collective energy here. Yet Tsubasa is exceptionally strong of will. He continues his lithe stroll down the boardwalk.
Outwardly the young man cuts an exceptionaly imposing figure. His glossy, laqured armor marks him clearly as one of the Elemental Kingdoms. Even if people know nothing else about the place and it's peoples, they know the style of armor. His straight grey hair marks him of the Windlords just as silver hair would mark a Watershaper, orange hair a Firecrafter, and black hair an Earthforger.
This recognition was not something Tsubasa was prepared for when he left the Academy. His life had either been with his people or at the Academy. Outside the walls he is now viewed with irrational fear but not hatered. The xenophobic nature of his people seems to have given the impression the the Elementals are scary people.
Yet Tsubasa wears his armor and mask in the market. He knows that while this place seems safe and patrolled, there are malign forces about. He feels the unease in his body, as if something were about to happen. He trusts this feeling without question after years of practice honing his intuition. His armor also alows him to move unfettered because people tend to scramble out of the way once they see him. ____________________________________
He makes his way to the square of St. Maremen, hoping to find the offices of the Espir Guard there. He knows that it is a meager opportunity but it is one fitting him, so he believes. He has stowed his stout spear on his back, the last three feet of the haft jutting above his head. Yet he is never far from his weapons as he carries a traditional windsword and gustknife at his hip.
Tsubasa is lost in the calmer emotions of this more ordered market when he gets the tap on his shoulder. After the exotic man finishes and leaves Tsubasa is left contemplating what just happened.
"This seems much like an invitation to trouble. How did they know my name? ... Yet the others that are signing up look like more then capable peoples. They will do as a fighting force if the need arises."
Tsubasa strides over to Haror and give his full name. He looks around and sees he is the last to sign.
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Bharhas, Level 3 Human, Warlord | Sorcerer Human Power Selection Option: Bonus At-Will power Languages: Common, Elven Theme: Gladiator
CURRENT STATUS: Phase of the Sun: *At the start of your turn, each enemy adjacent to you takes fire and radiant damage equal to your Strength modifier. *You also gain resist 5 cold.
VITALS AC: 18 Fort: 18 Ref: 15 Will: 17 HP: 40/40
Surges: 6/6 Surge Value: 10
Initiative: +1 Speed: 6
CURRENT ABILITY SCORES STR 18, CON 10, DEX 11, INT 10, WIS 8, CHA 17
The gnome scribe looks up at you with a patient smile on his face, a thin pair of spectacles hanging off the end of his beakish nose. Glancing down, you notice that there aren't many names on the page. Though you can't know for sure, a part of you muses over the depths of the coffers of the Sadrani family. As successful and powerful as the eladrin clan are rumored to be, you can't imagine they would be willing to make several of those vouchers; for all you know, your fortune here is mere happenstance, and the Jemadan was speaking the truth when he said the opportunity was one to be grasped with eagerness.
Haror dips his quill in the ink, and upon hearing your name, he scribbles it down, adding a few additional lines of detail to accompany "Rolen". You can't make out what he's writing, both because of the angle and the gnome's rather awkward chicken-scratch style. Still, the pleasant scribe gives a smirk of satisfaction with the task done, and nods to you.
"Right. If you're new to these parts,"he says, his eyes giving you a cursory glance as he takes in the cut of your dress, "you can find the Museum of Espiran History in the north district, near the mansions of the Sadrani. You just need to follow the main road leading from that end of the square," with a gesture to his left, "and it'll take you where you need to go. The festivities will commence at five-bells high. Do be sure to keep a hand on that voucher. The closer you approach the Sadrani grounds, the more House Guards you'll see. Any of them will be friendly enough to point the way, isn't that right, lads?"
With this comment, the blond-haired scribe turns his head around to peer at the guards accompanying him. One of them, bald and pale-skinned, with a gold hoop in his left ear, gives a derisive snort, hands still close to the hilts of his blades. The other, far younger, with strawberry blond locks and a cherubic face, nods eagerly, bright blue eyes sparkling in the noon sun. Haror claps his hands in delight and bids you farewell.
Turning, you behold an odd assortment behind you; you certainly didn't encounter such a collection of different folk back in Oxton. Your eyes pass over the strangers, and it occurs to you once again that Espir is a far cry from the sleepy farmland village in which you grew up. The thought is a curious one, and might continue to steal your attention, but as you start to walk away, a nervous barking laughter breaks out to your left. Curious, you seek out the source...
The gnome nods to you as he puts his quill to tome, but a slight hesitation on his part makes you curious. The lapse is only momentary, but in that split second, you worry that your name may, for whatever reason, register with the scribe. If Haror recognizes it, however, he surely doesn't give any indication, for he continues to write, the smile on his face never dipping. Though your training with letters was a simple one, you can tell just by looking at the gnome's scrawl that his handwriting is one that the learned folk deem borderline illegible. Still, as the gnome records your name and description, he seems to set to it with an eagerness.
When his quill stops moving, the gnome looks up and directs you to the Museum, mentioning the lanes one must take to get there quickly. He stresses the need for punctuality, as dinner will be served promptly at five-bells, but his pleasant tone never fades. As you step away from the makeshift wooden desk, one of the guards, the younger man with soft eyes and blond curls, raises a hand to stop you for a moment. Your instincts are immediately suspicious, but given the man's tone and lax posture, you don't believe he means ill.
"Please don't mind me none for askin', my good man, but do you have any business with... Well, what I mean is, given how ... confidently you carry yourself, and given you are a halflin' and all, could it be you count yourself among them Maldorans?"
The other guard, the pale one with the golden hoop in his ear, shoots his friend a sharp glance, eyes going wide as if the man has lost his wits. Haror, however, still facing away, fails to notice the exchange. The scribe doesn't seem to notice; so focused is he on the gathering line that it is as if his hearing has faded.
The guard stammers a bit, as if to placate, but a sheepish smile remains on his face.
"I-I only ask because if you are, it might do that old bag-of-bones Elserac Sadrani good to know the Maldorans want peace, huh? They haven't really tried to cut our House's feet from under us. Least, several of them Maldorans have been good folk to the people, treatin' 'em as well as the Sadrani have. Ol' Elserac is still too old-fashioned, though; he thinks those Maldorans are up to something. Good will would go a long ways to make things all stable, eh?"
As you step up to the makeshift desk, you notice one of the guards distracted by the halfling whose skin seems to smolder. The other one shoots his companion a sharp look, but seems to snap his attention away when you step forth. Haror, the scribe, lifts his head up and opens his mouth to speak when his jaw goes slack. Tilting his head up, the diminutive figure seems to struggle to take in the size of you, but eventually manages to regain his composure.
"M-my apologies, good sir. How r-rude of me. Terios, did you say?"
The gnome sets his quill to the tome, and scribbles your name on the open page. Making a dash after your name, he contemplates what to give as a description. Though you are looking down at the tome from the wrong angle, you are sure the two words he writes are "big" and "minotaur". Were it not for how uncommon your people are in Hyralein, the summary might ruffle your feathers, but you shrug it off with a thought.
Bidding you farewell, the gnome, still a little taken aback at meeting a minotaur for likely the first time in his life, fixes the glasses threatening to spill off the tip of his nose. As you turn away, you notice a few of the passersby have also stopped to take you in, their eyes studying you with open curiosity. The feeling is uncomfortable, but you manage to avoid provoking anything.
As you head towards the lane leading out of the square, you notice a small man at a nearby stall, his body wrapped in black robes that cover him from head to toe. Only a pair of beady eyes can be seen from the veil that covers almost the entirety of his face. You wonder if he is perhaps another Jemadan; he is, at any rate, a halfling or gnome, surely, given his tiny form. In fact, he seems small for even one of those folk. As you pass him by, he eyes you sharply, and though you cannot tell, you are certain that look in his eyes is amusement, and perhaps... ill will?
The gnome pauses a moment to study you, but his smile never seems to wither, not even for a moment. His voice even cracks a bit as he forms a response; perhaps the gnome is startled by the appearance of an attractive young girl? Regardless, he rummages through his pockets until he finds one, slightly crumpled, but still easily recognized.
"Here you are, my dear. Always good to have a few spares on you, yes? Well now, what shall I put down as your name? I already know how to sum you up..."
A sly wink is enough of a tell to let you know the gnome is trying his best to be suave. It's more than a little amusing to see the scribe, awkward spectacles and all, trying to pass himself off as more charismatic than he really is. Regardless, the note is in your hand, and you give him an alias without hesitation.
Stepping away after learning the time and location, you notice the eyes of the two House Guards seem to linger on you a moment. The pale, bald one looks away after a split-second glance, a slight frown forming on his face. Perhaps he doesn't wish to be distracted? Who knows. The other one, the one with the strawberry blond locks and boyish face, raises an arm in greeting, even as a halfling in a red robe stands before him.
Turning away, you spot the fading form of the minotaur as he heads out of the square. That's when your eyes also take in the sight of the tiny little merchant, sitting on a ruby carpet spread out along a corner of the market. Several citizens have gathered around him, oohing and aahing at the jewelry spread out on the same rug. The tiny man - or at least, you get the impression the figure is male - gives them no heed, staring straight ahead without a glance. Behind him, propped against the wall, are several large urns, pale white with wave patterns of violet, yellow, and blue painted on them. They seem out of place; surely, one would not carry jewelry in urns?
If Haror is surprised to see a tiefling amongst the throng in the marketplace today, he does a good job of hiding his surprise. Perhaps, though, the appearance of the minotaur has given the gnome a clue as to just how diverse the crowd is. Regardless, with a polite nod of his head, the gnome takes your name, quill working quickly as he jots down the important information in a none-too-elegant fashion. His spectacles slip a bit, and he irritatedly jerks them back into their proper position, but his smile remains firm on his face.
Raising his head to regard you once again, Haror gives you a polite nod, and provides you with the proper directions to the Museum, as well as the details regarding dinner. You are about to head off when one of the guards stops you. He is a pale-skinned man, with skin like milk, and his head is bald, giving his scalp an odd almost-bluish tinge. He toys with the golden hoop running through his left ear, his almond eyes burrowing into you. At first, you believe his hard look is judgmental, but as he speaks, you realize it is mere interest.
"Narill, eh? I'll be damned. I have kin who live in Narill. My cousin Erena and her oaf-of-a-husband Trottr headed up there not three years past. She was heavy with child and didn't want to raise her future son or daughter in the city. Said Narill was more peaceful than Espir, a better place to raise a family. Trottr agreed, just like he always did; never could argue with Erena, he'd piss himself if he had to stand up for himself. Don't hear much about Narill nowadays. Truth be told, last I heard was Erena had a boy, and the kid was healthy. She doesn't pay us much heed, those of us down here. You been there recently?"
You realize that you are the last to place your name in the book. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a pair of Jemadans talking about the vouchers. From what you can overhear, it appears the two have distributed their vouchers and are waiting for their comrades to return. As you approach the desk, the scribe gives a polite nod, the smile he has been wearing all day still strong on his face. With a swift motion, Haror takes down your name, though what his awkward scrawl says is difficult to tell, and not simply because of the angle. With no one left in line, Haror closes the book and gives a contented sigh. The little gnome has barely done any real work, yet he acts as if he's just dealt with a serious burden.
"Well, glad that's done. I get paid a fair sum for small things like that. Gods bless the Sadranis and their generosity! I could never catch fish or weave, that's for sure!"
Scratching his nose, Haror gives you a friendly wink, and his tone shifts to something less-formal.
"Between you and me, this is going to be quite a bash. From what I could tell, the Old Crow and his brood have shelled out quite a bit for this good will dinner. You can never do enough to please the people, eh? The Museum is the pride of the northern district, and free food and wine will bring the invited running. Even those not lucky enough to attend the function will be nearby, feeding on the cheeses and loaves provided by the Sadranis. Yep; they'll need to please the people, after all this talk of Xavia this and Xavia that... Thrice-damned Xavia can burn, for all I care."
The gnome appears ready to go on when a shout breaks out. Frowning, the gnome turns his head and spies the source of the commotion, as do you. From where you're standing, you notice a few commoners have gathered around a jewelry merchant - a tiny fellow, judging by the looks of him. One of the men is being restrained by his friends, but that does not stop him from yelling. Strangely enough, it is as if the little merchant cannot even hear him. He sits with a trancelike calm, ignoring the shouts that are so close to his ear...
Everyone:
No matter where you are, your eyes soon pick up the sound of screaming. In the corner of the square, you spy the jewlery merchant ignoring the complaining man, who, judging by his clothing, does not have much money to his name. Even now, it is easy enough to hear what the man has to say.
"... lousy cheat! I'll see you banished from Espir, I will! I pay you good, hard-earned silver, and what do you hand me? A bloody ring that turns people's flesh black! I bought that for my fiancee, and what happens? Not a day on her finger, and the whole thing is blackened! Like her finger turned to coal, you worthless sneak!"
The tiny merchant finally turns his attention to the man, staring at him with beady eyes, and a wheezing chuckle escapes his frame. The sound is very strange, and seems ill-fitting. When he realizes the merchant isn't going to speak, the man pulls harder against the restraint of his friends, gnashing his teeth in anger.
"How many others have you swindled? I bet you've screwed a whole bunch of good folk like me, haven't you? You know, this was the first time I could walk around this square during the market hours. A man like me don't have much to his name, and what little he has shouldn't be wasted on a cheating snake like you! Gimme my silver back!"
The little merchant shakes his head, and the man practically barks at him. You can overhear one of the man's friends call for a guard, but as you can see, there doesn't appear to be a guard in sight. The armored warriors you spotted earlier have vanished, having gone elsewhere on their rounds. Strange; the Square of St. Maremen is such an important spot, you would think guards would never budge from this place while the sun is up.
Finally, the merchant speaks, his voice thin and reedy. The hostile man immediately quiets, his face still flushed but his voice silenced.
"Your grief is amusing, but tell me. How far are you willing to cross me? Do you not realize the danger you're in?"
At this, you notice one of the urns behind him begin to tremble. It lasts only a moment, but the gang of men crowding the jeweler's carpet notice it, too. One of the men, pulling away from the others, cracks his knuckles, trying to intimidate the little man.
"I know these urns. You're one of them Qerin, aintcha? The dog-lovers? 'Part not a Qerin from his blade nor his hound', right? Lemme see what little mutt you've got hiding in here, huh?"
The merchant seems to shake his head, but it's difficult to tell. Raising himself from the carpet, he makes no motion to stop the man, but turns towards his friends.
"Let this be a lesson to you, fleshlings."
Before anyone can move, the bold man steps up to the urn and peers his head in. A horrible cackle pierces your ears, followed by a scream of horror. A spray of blood is all that accompanies the man's horrified scream, as his body crumples and falls against the wall, a terrible slash running across his throat. The men near the merchant back away suddenly, concern for their friend warring with concern for their own well-being.
"You didn't believe me, did you? Imbeciles. Well, now's as good as time as any, to teach the fleshlings of Espir a lesson."
The merchant takes a whistle from a pocket concealed amongst his robes, and lifts his veil slightly. You can make out no features of his face, but the shrill keen almost has you covering your ears. Within seconds, the other urns begin to shake, as whatever contents are inside seem to come alive.
Above the madness, Haror's voice rings out, as the two Sadrani house guards flank their charge, hands on their hilts, ready to protect the scribe at the first sign of danger.
"Where are the damned local guards? This is their job!"
"I don't like X, they should remove it." "I like X, they should keep it." "They should replace X with Y." "Anybody that likes X is dumb. Y is better." "Why don't they include both X and Y." "Yeah, everybody can be happy then!" "But I don't like X, they should remove it." "X really needs to be replaced with Y." "But they can include both X and Y." "But I don't like X, they need to remove it." "Remove X, I don't like it."
Until you've had an in-law tell you your choice of game was stupid, and just Warcraft on paper, and dumbed down for dumber players who can't handle a real RPG, you haven't lived.
Lady and gentlemen.... I present to you the Edition War without Contrition, the War of the Web, the Mighty Match-up!
We're using standard edition war rules. No posts of substance. Do not read the other person's posts with comprehension. Make frequent comparison to video games, MMOs, and CCGs. Use the words "fallacy" and "straw man", incorrectly and often. Passive aggressiveness gets you extra points and asking misleading and inflammatory questions is mandatory. If you're getting tired, just declare victory and leave the thread. Wait for the buzzer... and....
One, two, three, four, I declare Edition War Five, six, seven eight, I use the web to
D&D should not return to the days of blindfolding the DM and players. No tips on encounter power? No mention of expected party roles? No true meaning of level due to different level charts or tiered classes? Please, let's not sacrifice clear, helpful rules guidelines in favour of catering to the delicate sensibilities of the few who have problems with the ascetics of anything other than what they are familiar with.
Just a quick note on the MMORPG as an insult comparison...
MMORPGs, raking in money by the dumptruck full. Many options, tons of fans across many audiences, massive resources allocated to development.
TTRPGs, dying product. Squeaking out an existence that relys on low cost. Fans fit primarily into a few small demographics. R&D budgets small, often rushed to market and patched after deployment.
You're not really making much of an argument when you compare something to a MMORPG and assume people think that means bad. Lets face it, they make the money, have the audience and the budget. We here on this board are fans of TTRPGs but lets not try to pretend none of us play MMORPGs.
Something like Tactical Shift is more magical than martial healing.
Telling someone to move over a few feet is magical now? :|
I weep for this generation.
Given the laziness and morbid obsesity amongst D&Ders, being able to convince someone to get on their feet, do some heavy exercise, and use their words to make them be healthier must seem magical.
Being the last of the "group" Tsubasa is also the closest to Haror. His battle honed instincts take over immediately. He says in a quite yet commanding voice to the guards "We will handle this. You must stay back and run if necessary, do not try and be heroes this day."
In a loud voice backed by Tsubasa's considerable emotional force of will he cries"Honored Guests! defend these innocent people" With what looks like a gentle leap Tsubasa rockets into the air towards the disturbing murderer. His long white hair plumes out behind him and he draws his spear into a defensive posture.
Bharhas, Level 3 Human, Warlord | Sorcerer Human Power Selection Option: Bonus At-Will power Languages: Common, Elven Theme: Gladiator
CURRENT STATUS: Phase of the Sun: *At the start of your turn, each enemy adjacent to you takes fire and radiant damage equal to your Strength modifier. *You also gain resist 5 cold.
VITALS AC: 18 Fort: 18 Ref: 15 Will: 17 HP: 40/40
Surges: 6/6 Surge Value: 10
Initiative: +1 Speed: 6
CURRENT ABILITY SCORES STR 18, CON 10, DEX 11, INT 10, WIS 8, CHA 17
Missine Asfar has only put her name in ink once and it is still drying in the beautiful midday heat when Face's new identity watches the commonplace mercantile dispute turn ugly by turns arcane, derogatory, and violent. Face briefly considers the options for a peaceful solution: speak directly in his mind, pretend to be a
-- before a man with a cloudcrest of hair rushes past her, drawing his spear and leaking impressive but imprecise psionic energy.
Well, Face decides, quietly moving a few steps behind the man, this better not ruin my party plans.
She carefully studies the crowd around her, separating the capable from the innocent, and her fingers tap with habitual rhythm along the length of her walking staff.
Initiative = 17 Bluff = 30 < she wants to appear innocent and not a threat, not yet, but if you feel this is out of place, i can save the roll for changeling trick in combat or something
If, on a desert night, a traveler, outside the town of Balic, leaning from the steep slope, without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down in the gathering shadow (in a network of lines that interlace) on the carpet of sand illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story down there awaits its end?
Anyway, I don't know if this needs mechanics or not. However, she's possibly telling a lie, even though Zarja really isn't Face, and she's also looking to see how much the gnome knows, so...
