Fantasy —INHERIT THE EARTH

[leviathan.]

PROLOGUE.

—INHERIT THE EARTH: EVERY STORY HAS ITS HEROES.

HEALER: Perric Febrill, persephonelied
PRIEST: Alistair Fontino, alabast
WARRIOR: Kavarian Nighthunter Vathunaga, SoulHunter
WARLOCK: Sardis Emere, dae mec
BARD: Altis Iphel, MToki

It is another day in Feyst.

Cities slowly decay, collapse into their underbellies, and succumb to the entropy that magerot has wrought. Faith has fled all but the wealthy, nestling inside the Barrier in their great spired keeps. Celestials and infernals alike die in the streets with glassy bleached eyes and black nails that have long sloughed off. Order is kept by the skin of the teeth, desperate councilors making last-ditch efforts, civilians turned volunteer soldiers patrolling the streets with makeshift weapons gripped shakily, with law-abiding citizens one bad day away from becoming brigands and highwaymen.

All while the nobles sequester inside the Barrier, dining high and laughing freely as thousands of their people die by the day.

(Though all is not well in the Illederes, either.)

There is a war coming, they say behind closed doors, ringed fingers tapping on polished mahogany, nervous.

And it is true.

There is a war coming, the haggard drow shouts on a street corner as he is dragged away by hollow-eyed constables who silently agree: It is true.

There is a war coming, they say under their breaths as they drink in strained silence in a half-abandoned tavern, where it rings the truest, and the local downtrodden bard slowly plucks a song on his harp that would’ve gotten them flogged for treason in peacetime, would’ve gotten them hanged.

But times are changing.

There is a war coming.

It is another day in Feyst.

A boy in healer’s gear leans down to kiss his bedridden mother goodbye, pipeweed-stained fingertips tangled with hers, both of them with nails as black as pitch.

He is leaving his village for supplies. He shouldn’t, but his mother is ill, and a war is coming.

A genasi woman stares at her vanity in undisguised horror as her spitfire inferno of a mane flickers into nothing and feels the neutral faces of the servants around her change into something...darker.

She had made so many enemies during her rise to the top and now, in her darkest hour, they will come for her. She knows in her heart: a war is coming.

A Goliath warrior is manhandled into a giant spired elevator by hooded guards, back slamming into the wall as the doors slide closed in front of her. She slides down to her knees, laughing and raging in equal measure as she pulls out a flask from her belt and starts drinking as she descends.

She had always known. She had just turned her back, ignored it, but now, it’s staring her in the face—a war is coming.

An elven bard opens a scroll sent with a glittering, otherworldly seal, expression growing elated before he abruptly collapses to the ground, convulsing as his nails slowly turn dark.

It wasn’t his business to begin with. But now, as his magic fades, as his plans crumble apart, it suddenly becomes his: a war is coming.


A man of the cloth jerks awake in the comfort of his gilded study, gasping with the weight of the golden vision given unto him, hand clutching at his chest.

A truth revealed to him in a dream ethereal. It is a hope, god-anointed.
Finally, a conviction anew.

A war is coming, and we can stop it.

coded by natasha.

 

[leviathan.]

ACT ONE.

We lay our scene in the once-great port city of Waterdeep, a town hit hard by magerot and dwindling trade.

The city leans like a drunkard on the edges of the brackish deep of the Sea of Swords, the shambled houses and various establishments (all in states of dilapidation and decline) barely teetering above sea level, and inelegantly kissing the shoreline in the way that reminds one of a grandmother’s administrations. The air is permanently heavy with the smell of rot and damp wood—especially late in the day like now—and the weight of the miasma manifests in the stooped shoulders and heavyset glares every Waterdeep native seems to possess from the womb.

A festering wound of a port city, the roads spill out like dried viscera right on the coast it molders on, rust red roofs shining with stagnant rainwater like old blood. It is a terrible place, and its sole fortune is its shoreline, where itinerant adventurers dock, stay an unmemorable night hazed by bad drink and subpar victuals, and leave without looking back.

The stifling atmosphere settles heavy in every nook and cranny of Waterdeep, and the caws of the scraggly seagulls that seem to be perched on every shingled roof echo occasionally in a cacophonous chorus.

Nearby on the docks—perhaps the only remotely well-maintained structure in the whole city besides the ancient shipyard—sits a streetful of ramshackle taverns—aptly named The Drunkard’s Row—unkempt and unfriendly yet perpetually packed with whatever creatures the Waterdeep tides bring in that day. In one particular pub that sits on the very end of the Row, one of the more shady ones by far (but certainly not the most, that honor goes to the Sheep’s Head), the sounds of the evening crowd trickle out particularly clear through the ostensibly thick wooden doors.

The sign overhead, gently swinging in the sea breeze, shows a crudely painted lady in a black veil, and stylized letters rendered in a fanciful flourish proclaim it to be The Widow's Lodge.

Inside its rather...rustic exterior, we see a tall Goliath warrior sitting at the bar, downing a tankard of ale in seconds as both patrons and staff stare at her in a mixture of awe and mild horror. Wiping her foamy lip with relish, she calls out for a refill with a deep mountain burr, fist slamming jovially on the chipped wood countertop. Next to her is a slight drow in a loose tunic and pants who is sipping at his own drink while eyeing her drunken behavior in amusement, lips curving as he looks over the glass to her gesturing widely to the wildly bored barkeep. In a corner booth where the sputtering lanterns of the Lodge can't quite reach sits a man in a dusty black coat, shadows obscuring most of his figure. His features are gaunt and haggard, and his hollowed eyes have a laser focus on the warrior getting drunk at the counter, gloved fingers drawing manic circles following the grooves of the table. His gaze does not budge, even as bursts of loud curses and stray cheers intermittently sound out at one of the other tables, where an unassuming woman with dull red hair is dealing cards with a wide smile and a steady, gloved hand.

(In the warm light of the tavern, her skin looks almost unnaturally flushed.)

3 other players are seated with her, two local humans who look like they work in construction and one man who might (?) be human but it's hard to tell, what with his use of a face veil and his similarly expansive traveler's cloak, which only leave his eyes and his hands in unobstructed view.

They all seem to be losing terribly. How unfortunate.

Rounding the bend outside, a man smelling slightly of pipeweed smoke walks towards the Lodge, startling passerby with his rather intimidating height. He runs his free hand through his hair as he strides toward the dimly lit entrance, brows slightly furrowed. Farther back, towards the more reputable taverns on Drunkard's Row, a short but slender eladrin bard dressed in diaphanous silks hums softly under his breath, gloved fingers strumming the strings of his lute. A group of infatuated teen halflings drinking nearby on a shop stoop eye him with infatuation. One lets out a low whistle at him as the rest of the group snickers quietly in between sneaking mouthfuls of a bottle of cheap Dwarven red.

The sun can barely be seen over the grey horizon in Waterdeep proper and the late afternoon sky is slowly turning from a steel blue to a deep sunset orange. The night is slowly closing in on the last of the day.


What do you guys do?

directives

what is everyone doing this fine evening?
introduce your PCs, interact, & begin to make your way to the widow's lodge
if you're not already there.

location

waterdeep

time of day

late evening

credit

dechambo on ArtStation

tags

alabast SoulHunter dae mec persephonelied MToki

coded by natasha.

 

[dae mec]

Sardis raked in the coins after she flipped over her three cards: a Queen of Leaves, a Wizard of Shadows, and a Fool. In other words, the Hangman's Trio. It was also just high enough to beat the veiled person's cards. (They had three wizards, a set called the Magocracy.) One worker groaned while his friend laughed raucously, patting him on the back. The first—Arn—was clearly dejected, burying his face in his hands, having lost the most money. His friend Itran wasn't much better, but he could look at Arn and be comforted that he wasn't that bad.

She pinched the edge of her cards between ring finger and thumb, eyeing the Wizard of Shadows but keeping the sour emotions from showing on her face. Some had started calling the lowest face cards Knaves instead. Wasn't like Wizards were much useful anymore, save for the ones stuck behind the barrier. And those were even less useful. Sardis rearranged her expression to be pleased and just a tad surprised as she gathered the cards from everyone else.

"Lucky break for me!" she said, grinning. She made note of the subtle markings on the edge of the cards and shuffled them, running first through a poorly named Tiefling's shuffle before doing less dramatic waterfall. She flubbed the ending just a tad (on purpose) to draw off suspicion of her skills... and hide the way she palmed a King.

Knowing exactly who'd got who, Sardis dealt the first set of cards. She planned on placing second the next two rounds, though her monetary "loss" would still be small. Everyone would bet big in the second-to-last round, and she'd win that big. Then, she'd let Itran take home the pot... and none of them would be the wiser that Sardis had won the most money.

A perfect scheme. She couldn't help the genuine pleasure for a job well done. (But how damned disgraceful that she was lowered to this?)

 

[SoulHunter]

—THE WARRIOR.

A few hours of hanging around the Widow’s Lodge left Kavarian quite inebriated. Sitting on the stool that barely fit her rear, a booming laugh followed by a hiccup escapes her form as she animatedly waves her arms around her in a reenactment of some amazing feat from her past. The barkeep slides her freshly filled tankard towards her and after noticing the drow’s attention, Kavarian gets ready to finish the story. The barkeep, extremely bored by the eighth story the goliath chose to share, pretended to listen. With a flourish that send her hands moving in a large slashing motion as if she’s delivering a final blow, Kavarian’s story comes to an end. A large, proud grin settles on her face and gives the drow a light, good-natured shove with her shoulder. “It was one hell of a fight!” she exclaims letting out a hearty chuckle.

Kavarian lifted her tankard in cheers to both the barkeep and the drow before getting up from her stool with a slight stumble. A small amount of ale spilled over the lip, dropping harmlessly onto the floor. Stifling a burp, Kavarian stumbled her way over towards the four people playing cards. It looked as though they’d just started a round, and the goliath hoped she could join the next. She loved playing cards and often did so in the barracks back during her time in the Gilded Guard.

Her eyes glassy and bleary, Kavarian kept her vision laser-focused on the table as it swayed to and fro in front of her. In her attention on the table, the uneven floor boards rose up to hinder the goliath’s progress. Stumbling over a slightly raised floor board, another small amount of ale slipped out her tankard landing awfully close to another patron. “Sorry,” Kavarian called out, a hiccup interrupting her grin.

The rest of the journey towards the card table was uneventful, until a couple feet from the table’s edge. A floor board refused to stay down, rising from the floor like a tidal wave. Much like a small fishing boat, Kavarian’s foot got lost at sea. The loose grasp she had on her tankard was released and the tankard went flying through the air. A swell of ale surged from the tankard, spraying wildly in an arc. The tankard itself landed heavily in the center of the table, residual ale hitting the cards. The ale wave that had formerly been contained by the tankard however, had found its home on all of the people playing cards. The one most unscathed by the shower of ale was the dealer. The other three…not so lucky. The ale soaked the three individuals fairly equally, the ale dripping from their hair. Kavarian, flailing wildly so as to not fall, slammed her hands on the table’s edge to catch herself, her knees crashing into the sharp edges. The tankards on the table shook and teetered from the force of her collision. “Hello,” she slurred.

 

[leviathan.]

— REACTION POST.

dae mec

The man in the face veil looked over his hand in silence, then looked back at Sardis, eyes seemingly crinkled in mirth.

He hadn't given a name at the start of the game, merely taking a seat with a murmured May I join? at the top of the hour, smoothly joining in at the start of the next round.
The man had been, for the most part, complacent with the game's trajectory for the better part of the evening, only muttering a soft curse or two when faced with a particularly devastating cleanout, compared to the rowdiness of the two other locals.

Now comes his first full sentence of the hour, ambiguously accented and soft-spoken: "Lady. I believe I have not introduced myself properly. My name is Amir, and I come from the Badlands. You know of us, correct?"

He pulls down his face veil to reveal a handsome face tinged with a sickly green, a slight underbite leaving two small tusks jutting out of his lips as he smiled.

You finally place the accent—Orcish.

A half-orc, out of the Urfangr Badlands. You would know that these so-called "halfbreeds" are usually orphan wards of larger, more ruthless clans, trained to be assassins and rogues and sent to travel the world alone to steal and kill for the glory of their brethren. They are known to work closely with the Thieves' Guild, a realmwide syndicate of rogues, brigands, and pickpockets that control a hefty part of the underworld, especially after the Holy Silence.

Sardis, it seems you have played cards with a rather dangerous person.

"We Urfangr are people of honor. People of pride. We do not take kindly to a...how do you say in Common?"

His hand shoots out to take Sardis', quick as a viper. She manages to evade, thanks to her instincts, but something slides out of her sleeve and flutters down to the tavern floor, face-up.

The King Card.

He looks down at the card then up at Sardis' expression and smiles ever the wider.

"Ah, yes. I remember the word. Cheater."

SoulHunter

The stupefied tension of Sardis' table is quickly interrupted by Kavarian's arrival. In one fell swoop, Amir and the two locals are drenched in stinking ale as the table shudders under the weight of her stumble. Her slurred greeting earns a token nod from the drenched half-orc, who was unfazed by the spill, instead opting to slide the pile of coins in his direction, counting his rightful share into his bag before his hands stray to his belt, all while maintaining a steady gaze at Sardis—unsettling composure.

The two locals, Arn and Itran don't take Kavarian's perceived slight lying down however. With the classic Waterdeep native temper, they both stand up and start shouting at both the Goliath and the genasi, incensed by both the spill and Sardis' swindling.

"You outlanders, thinking that y'could take us all for fools..." Arn growled. "We'll show you how much more foolish we can be!"

"That's fuckin' right!" joins Itran, rolling up his sleeves to reveal laborer's muscles.

They both get in your face, Kavarian, obviously posturing to you because of your intimidating height.

The barkeep continues serving drinks with a straight face, keeping an eye on the situation in case it escalates and the drow that Kavarian shoved has started chuckling to himself quietly, obviously enjoying the show, focusing his gaze on the scene with rapt attention.

alabast

From the corner booth, Alistair, you track Kavarian's movements to the card table with interest. Your eyes catch on the half-orc assassin who has just finished packing his bags. Hidden to both Kavarian and Sardis, the man's fingers wander over to an obscured dagger with a wicked curve sheathed on his belt, obviously intending to kill someone and run. His target could be the card dealer with the unusually flushed skin, or the warrior you've spent so long searching for, you can't tell. Is it worth taking the risk to intervene?

What do you do?

MToki & persephonelied

Angry shouting starts up with a vengeance within the Widow's Lodge, so loud that even you can hear it from where you guys are outside.

 

[alabast]

—THE PRIEST.

For the past hours or so, he had stared with a zeal too close for comfort, to one of a thief to the jingling pockets of an idling merchant, waiting for their hired defense to lower, just once-

But, alas, the goliath (he believed) never quite stopped her rounds of ale. Alistair was unsure if it was even possible for a mortal to consume such large quantities -even more uncertain at first if this… sot could possibly be chosen by the Morninglord himself (and still am)- in one sitting.

The table before him was currently filled on every inch with a tankard or another, none of which belonged to him. The little free space supposedly accompanying his seat by the table was greedily taken by a dice shaker, of some gambling game by the rowdy folks he shared the table with. For just those hours, even the stench of ale-breath could not make him sneer, nor could even reminders of the prophecy stop his yawns.

He knew, there was no mistake. There are no mistakes in greater plans. He’d recognized her face from the first moment she’d stepped in, having carved the corners of the vision into every inch of his mind. Thus, however much he wished to simply confront the other as he saw no reason why anybody would deny such a glorious destiny, he must tread carefully- and patiently. The prophecy was true, but he is no fool who simply expects unpredictable events to work out.

A twinge of pent-up excitement lighted in his heart as he watched her finally stand and the ones beside him let out a bellowed groan of disappointment. Perhaps it was the moment getting to him, but instead of a glare, he gave a polite congratulations to the winner of the dice game, even allowing a smile to slip in as he stood up and stretched.

Yawning again, the next time he opened his eyes, however, he watched with a quickly sinking heart as the goliath made her way over to another table instead, promptly spilling her drink upon almost all the inhabitants. He winced.

Lathander, for your name and for you only as she is your chosen one, I look away.

He didn’t flinch at the brewing argument (he was instructed to bestow fates, not resolve conflicts) until a glint caught his eyes again. A handle, then a sheath. Oh no, you don’t.

Practically leaping out of his chair, he barely missed knocking over a passing-by elf as he reached for the half-orc’s blade, yanking back as hard as he could to free the weapon from the belt. Pitching himself between the goliath and the half-orc (which from afar, looked somewhat ridiculous) he raised his sword.

Alistair’s face was expressionless, but his eyes were wild. “I do not wish to kill tonight, but if you make one more move, it will, unfortunately, be your demise.” He frowned, finding something amiss.

He added, “And may Lathander bless you to choose the former.”

 

[persephonelied]

He was already having a long day.

Perric had finally arrived in Waterdeep that afternoon, and after sorting lodgings and supper he skipped out to begin his resupply. He was met with a mixed bag of successes and failures; the tried-and-true herbs and serums were in short supply. He'd waited too long to go, or he had been too far away to beat the moneyed and the well-positioned. Both, probably.

Now he's walking back to the tavern where he'd found a room, wondering if he has enough silvers for a nice meal to unwind with. The sign is in his view when muffled shouts erupt. His shoulders tense and narrow, and his step falters - is it trouble? He shakes the thought and pushes the door open, immediately releasing a slew of impressive local insults to wreak havoc on his ears.

He needs a smoke.

He anxiously tries to make all quivering 6'2" of him as small as possible and inches toward the stairs.

 

[SoulHunter]

—THE WARRIOR.

Confusion hits Kavarian like a brick as suddenly two locals are yelling up into her face. She sees Iltran roll his sleeves to showcase is muscles, and unconsciously she flexes her own as she seems to take up his obvious challenge. Though Kavarian does not understand in her hazy mind why this small fry is trying to fight her. But before she could take an action, another man is suddenly before her with a familiar weapon suddenly in his grasp. A small gasp escapes her as her face lights up in excitement. A karambit. She'd only seen them on the belts of her her fellow guard and had never held one herself. No longer caring about the locals, Kavarian surges forward. And much like you would to an annoying fly buzzing in your face, Kavarian swats Arn and Iltran out of her way. Towering over Alistair from behind, Kavarian reaches over and plucks the karambit from his hands and caresses the blade.

"This is a fine weapon," she commends, looking at Amir with a newfound respect in her eyes. She turns to Alistair. "Children should not be playing with such sharp objects," she admonishes. You see her brow furrow as she thinks for a moment, then lets out another one of her chuckles. "Ah, who am I to reprimand you? I was playing with far more dangerous objects when I was learning to walk. And you are already walking!" She laughs again, but the laugh is quickly interrupted by a hiccup. She reaches for her belt, pulling out one of her handaxes. "Now, take this," she hands the axe to Alistair. "Feel the weight of it. It is nice, no?" Kavarian ruffles Alistairs hair good-naturedly before her attention turns back to Amir. "'Tis a beautiful blade, but puny." Her face implies that she meant no offense, but is simply stating a fact. She looks around her for a second before spotting, several feet behind Amir, a dart board. Excitement once more lights her face and she pulls her hand back, sways for a brief moment, before throwing the blade.

Quicker than her drunken gaze could follow, Amir reaches up in a smooth motion and snatches the karambit from the air. "OHOHO," Kavarian bellows a laugh, clapping her hands together once. "Nice catch, mossy skin!" Once more, Kavarian for some reason, doesn't seem to be insulting. Amir simply reminds her of moss growing on a rock. "Do you have another one of those?" she asks, pointing to the other side of his belt. From what she could recall, the orcs in the Gilded Guard usually carried two.

 

[dae mec]

The splash of ale is... annoying, to say the least. Sardis wipes off the droplets on her neck in a way that her makeup wouldn't be obvious. This time, she let a hint of her burning anger show on her face. Anyone would be irritated to have a drink spilled on them. Doubly so since her cards have gotten a little wet. These kind of quality cards aren't cheap! (Especially since she'd gone through the trouble of marking them.)

She quickly has bigger problems, though. Shit. Sardis plasters a pleasant smile on her face through Amir's accusation. Shit. She dismisses the workers: drunk blowhards aren't a problem to handle. Trained Urfangr assassins, on the other hand... the real question is whether he wants to kill her because of the cheating, or if he's associated with the Thieves Guild and wants the bounty on her head.

The Goliath is serving as the best kind of distraction, so Sardis quietly gathers her deck, picks up the Sun King on the floor, and slides it into her bag. (The King of Suns is supposed to be lucky. Yeah, that was going well.) But she keeps all her stuff on her for situations like this: it'll be a quick escape. She almost snorts at the wannabe hero who slides in front of the warrior Goliath despite looking like a book-licker. Good for him. He's another distraction for Amir.

She flicks her finger, the somatic component to the lance of flame that... wouldn't come. Of course it wouldn't. But Sardis doesn't need fire for chaos. She palms a knife from her belt, chucks it at Amir, punches Arn, and pushes Itran into the nosy book-licker. Sardis grabs the passing half-elf and flings him into the table. If that doesn't start a riot, she doesn't know what will. Sardis sprints to the door... only to run straight into whoever flung it open at just that moment.

 

[persephonelied]

He will later recall the tale with a hint of shame, for when the Goliath begins throwing sharp objects around, he cowers. Without space for a breath: his own feet trip him backwards, his back hits the wall, the threadbare tapestries upon it clatter to the floor, a gloved hand yanks him by the collar with a force that would make him blush if not for the fact that it sends him flying, and then he lands bodily on the table, glasses crunching beneath him and rank beer seeping through his shirt and stinging the fresh cuts. He blinks a few times and tries to inhale, but finds his lungs quite uncooperative. He tries to slide off the table and stand and finds his legs in a similar state. Falling to his hands and knees, he coughs and finds his breath, then scuttles beneath the table to wipe his watering eyes and hopefully avoid further surprises. Bent oddly to accommodate the cramped quarters, he focuses on breathing evenly and counting, but as soon as he regains his calm it is lost, tears falling faster simply at his luck. He just wants to go to his room.

 

[leviathan.]

— REACTION POST.

SoulHunter alabast & dae mec

Kavarian, Amir smiles at you amicably, as if sensing your good, if inebriated intentions, and twirls his reclaimed blade in his hand.

"I do, master Goliath. You might see it in action very soon."

He turns to Alistair and his smile quickly turns false, eyes growing cold.

"I worship no false gods, friend. I have business to settle with this woman-“ He gestures towards Sardis, who is quickly shoving her belongings back in her pack. "-And it has nothing to do with you and yours. So stay out of it."

Sardis, as soon as Amir points towards you, you burst into motion after your aborted casting attempt and fling a knife at his head, drawing shouts from the bar's patrons and rousing the previously stoic barkeep into action. As pandemonium erupts, you don't look to see if the knife landed, instead opting to shove Perric into a table and slug an irate Arn in the face, making the man stagger as the yelling reaches a fever pitch. Several patrons behind you have started pushing their way towards the door, only for them to turn on each other & devolve into a shoving match as panic quickly turns to belligerence. Other people try to break up the fight only to be dragged into it themselves.

This. Is. Chaos.

The barkeep disappears into the back as your actions incite a tavern-wide bar brawl. The drow previously at the bar is nowhere to be seen.

As you try (and fail) to make your exit, Amir follows after you, having smoothly dodged your knife, the weapon missing his head by a mile and thudding right into the dartboard behind him.

He is fully brandishing his twin karambits as he charges forward, sidestepping Alistair and Kavarian, still smiling as he walks closer.

“Terribly unfortunate you decided to cheat. This all could’ve happened outside, quietly. But I am nothing if not adaptable.”

He smirks.

“As are you, it seems. You look nothing like your poster. Where’s that mane of fire?”

persephonelied

Perric, you are on the floor, prone. Everything hurts, and the tavern has grown too loud for you to think. Nearby, there is a halfling shivering behind an overturned barstool, seeming to be in the same position as you.

 

[SoulHunter]

—THE WARRIOR.

At Amir's words, Kavarian's grin turns a little barbaric as some of the heightened energy in the room breaks through her drunken haze. Her blood begins to rise from the prospects of a little friendly fight, not noticing either of Sardis' or Alistair's more murderous intents towards Amir. It had been a long time since she'd sparred for fun. Not since she left the Illederes.

Kavarian sees Sardis throw a knife at her new best friend before running off and throwing more punches as she went. Soon enough, the entire bar has erupted into a fight and Kavarian's hands are itching to join as a bit of her battle blood lust begins to cloud the corners of her vision. As she's distracted by her clouded vision, she barely notices Amir rush past her to pursue Sardis.

She turns to Alistair. "Both hands," she gestures to the ax she gave him, her wide grin showing all her teeth. With a low growl, she rushes at Amir, who is the biggest target and the one most likely to give her a good fight. Her vision sways and dances, all those tankards of ale still holding their grip tightly on her. In her drunken state, her tackle misses. Instead, her large forearm knocks into the half-orc, unbalancing him. She turns, another growl escaping her in frustration as she prepares for another attack. She turns to Alistair.

 

[MToki]

The bard, playing light chords on his lute, lazily walked the streets of Waterdeep, in the hopes of finding a suitable tavern to perform at. Usually, a performance in a good pub meant being lodged in said pub, so it was crucial that he find a somewhat decent one. As he strolled, he spotted a group of young halflings, sharing stolen alcohol and snickering at him. Altis was rather used to this. Youngsters tended to find his demeanor interesting and would often ask him many questions. They were much more imaginative than adults, so he wouldn't mind entertaining them.

However, as he went to address the troublemakers watching him, his ears were piqued by the sound of real trouble. Angry shouting, so aggressive that there would surely be a fight to follow, resounded from the Widow's Lodge. Excitedly, Altis halfheartedly sprinted toward the sound of a brawl. Performing while being plagued with a deadly disease and incredible misfortune wasn't exactly ideal. Most days he found himself with little inspiration, for the stress of magerot crushes such things. As a result of this, the bard is desperate for any kind of muse, even if it may be a small tavern brawl.

Pushing open the door of a less than glamorous tavern, Altis was pleasantly greeted by the sight of chaos, before the chaos decided that he too must be involved. Before he had any time to react, not that he could do much even if he did, what looked to be a swift grey and red dwarf of fury barrelled toward him. The force and his lack of strength resulted in him being knocked off his feet and crashing into the ground. A surprised yelp was all he could manage before the bard found himself on the ground with... whoever this was on top of him.

A pained groan squeezed from his lips as the aftermath of the impact hit him. Slowly the elf rose to lean back on his elbows and glare at the perpetrator. "Is this how you greet all those you meet or am I just the exception?" He may be in pain and knocked prone, but Altis and his charm never fade.

 

[alabast]

—THE PRIEST.

Glaring in barely contained annoyance as the stolen sword was taken right out of his hands with unsurprising strength from the goliath, he replied with narrowed eyes, “I am no children, and-” As an ax was suddenly shoved at his face mid-sentence, however, he was forced to pause and regain his center as the sudden weight pulled him down. Giving the weapon a look of dismay, he was about to hand the thing back, several things happened in quick successions.

Foremost, the blade he’d only have stolen with the aid of surprise whizzed by him before being returned to its owner. Looking in confusion at the goliath, he cursed his luck. To Amir’s response, however, he froze.

False gods?

As another knife sailed by to miss Amir, and a form rush by to attack the half-orc’s other two companions, he found himself wide-eyed as the bar erupted into a fight. Someone was shoving another, and some other punching one in the chin. His heart was racing, and he struggled to slow his breath in the midst of chaos.

False gods?!

Ignoring Kavarian’s comment, he didn’t protest as he watched her approach, Amir, with some secret satisfaction at the half-orc getting what he deserved. Now he was certain after studying her face more- she was within the vision, but even more, he must’ve seen her around the Illederes Keep at one point. There was something he was preoccupied with, however.

“You take that back.”

One moment, he was clutching the ax he was just ready to drop, and the next, he was bashing the flat end (he was no murderer) right at that damned, weak-souled, ungrateful fool riddled with possession’s face. If his nails were not black, and his eyes not faded in color, he would’ve watched that face burn as these false god’s flames overtook every inch of him, would’ ve-

In his rage, it was hardly his best strike. Tossing the ax aside, he jumped at the other, slamming Amir’s shoulders down to the ground as he tried to restrain the other. For a moment, he felt the resistance lighten. Alistair knew he was being reckless, and yet a feeling of victory soaring through his head; it didn’t last long, however, as he was suddenly flipped onto his back.

Letting out a pained groan, he snarled at the offending face of the half-orc, even showing teeth as his arms fought violently. “I swear if only this cursed disease isn’t here to save your pathetic life…!”

 

[dae mec]

Sardis picks herself off the floor, looming over the stranger who blocked her escape. Well, as much as Sardis can do any looming. Hmm. A skinny, very pretty man, unlikely to be working with Amir. Even more so since he dropped that line on her. But just in case... Sardis hooks an arm around his shoulder, and using the momentum from that movement, pulls him to his feet and slams him against the wall. With her other hand, she pulls a thin, long knife and pushes the blade close to his throat.

"I save my special greetings for special people," she hisses. "You don't work for him, do you? Hmm? So why don't you take your pretty face and run along, then?"

Sardis hears Amir's comment and spins around, her eyes flaring at the reminder of what she's lost. "Why don't you shut your little mouth?" she purrs, pulling out another knives. She holds both in a reverse grip, one blade in front of her hip, the other just below her chin. "This can still happen quietly if you walk out the door." Sardis circles around, moving closer to the door. "But if you insist on dancing, sweetling..." she grins, wide and savage, "then I'll just have to cut you up."

The Goliath, to Sardis' surprise, actually tackles Amir. He's apparently too good of a warrior to be knocked over, but he's unbalanced. Then the... book-licker actually does tackle him, only to be flipped over after an ill-advised move with the axe. Sardis takes the opportunity to slide behind Amir, knife aimed to sever his spine—or at least gouge a hole in his back.

 

[persephonelied]

Perric lets the self-pity wash itself out. He has little choice in overhearing the words being spat, but the subject matter is the type he's only heard in the classic tales of blood and adventure that the old men of his town love to trade. Hidden identities, assassins with threats as sharp as their blades, warriors of brute immensity, and apostles filled with their god's fury are each enough to wrap his mind around on their own, and with all of them tossed together and the noise of the room drowning out his attempts to rationalize it all, he can't help but wonder if the fae have caught him in an illusion.
Perric douses the feeling and counts slowly, focusing on even breaths when he notices the sound of decidedly uneven breaths nearby. Glancing around, he notices a halfling a few feet away, looking in a worse state than him. When he sees the blood in their hair, he wants to look closer, help if he can, but...
^{"...I'll just have to cut you up."}
That doesn't sound promising. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he peeks over the edge of his table barricade. As far as he can tell, everybody seems far too focused on each other to turn on him.
Before he can second guess himself from having just been bodily tossed with no warning, he scampers over to the halfling and huddles before them. The movement causes fresh stings of pain in his back, but he's sure the shards can't have sliced deep enough to hurt anything important, so he masks his wince as he holds his hands up open-palmed, to signal no threat to his new companion. "Friend," he says gently, not bothering to whisper amid all the commotion. "Count to three with each breath. It'll help." He watches nervously, hoping he won't need to talk them into it. He's itching to check the injury, but the memory of being bitten by the blacksmiths distressed six-year-old stays his hand.

 

[SoulHunter]

—THE WARRIOR.

In a swift turn that left her head feeling fuzzy, Kavarian has just enough time to see Alistair hit Amir with the flat blade of her ax. While the hit isn't as satisfactory as it could of been, Kavarian is still impressed that the sallow man landed a hit on the assassin at all. It is even more surprising to see the man try to restrain the half-orc. Kavarian, knowing there was no way such a feat would happen, moves forward. This looks like a job for me.

Quicker than her own muddled eyes can follow, Alistair is on his back with the half-orc looming over him. Before she gets too close, a clatter of movement by the door catches her a attention. The one with flushed skin, almost as if she had been trying to drink herself to oblivion like Kavarian, sidles over with another knife in her hand. This one confused Kavarian. One moment she's slashing with aggression, the next she's high tailing it like a coward. A sigh escapes Kavarian as the woman's attempt fails once more. Not paying attention to Amir's reaction to the woman's stab, Kavarian cracks her neck and moves up behind the half-orc.

With one smooth motion, she slides one of her arms around his neck, easily grabbing him into a choke hold due to all the distractions around him. She doesn't apply too much pressure yet, just enough to give him pause. Not forgetting about his oh so pretty karambits, Kavarian pulls Amir closer, her mouth against his ear.

"Now, now," she growls low. "These are not fair."

As soon as she's done speaking, Kavarian uses her free hand to grab one his arms, slamming his elbow into a nearby, upturned table. The impact on the nerve makes Amir's grasp loosen and the karambit clatters to the ground. Now for the tricky part: the other karambit. Even though the half-orc was large in frame, Kavarian was larger. It was more difficult, but with her long reach, Kavarian wrestled the other karambit from his other hand. Reaching down, she picks the karambit off the floor, shifting Amir's weight with her as she does so. She loops both the karambits through her first finger of her free hand, gripping them a fist. She listens to the half-orc's body language closely, ready to tighten her choke hold on him if he moves.

 

[leviathan.]

— REACTION POST.

persephonelied

The halfling tremblingly raises their head up at you, revealing doe eyes shot through with blue. They had startled badly when you crawled over to them but was shocked into following your gentle instruction, their quick rabbit breaths bottoming out into something resembling calm intakes. Now that you're closer, Perric, you can see that the halfling is clutching something tightly in his hands, shaking slightly with how hard their grip is on the thing. Peering through the gaps between his fingers, you make out the object and begin to understand why—it's a portable Sending Stone, the runes softly glowing, signaling that there's an open aural connection.

You haven't seen a Sending Stone in months, Perric.

The halfling doesn't seem to notice you staring though, head dropping to their knees as they finally stop hyperventilating.

"Thank you, stranger," they sniffle, wiping the blood and tears off their face with the back of their hand. "My h-heart was about to, about to beat out of m'chest."

They let out a shaky breath, and mutter something under their breath that you think you weren't supposed to hear.
"...gonna be killed on your first assignment, Kilroy...Gods...Told 'em I wasn't cut out for this...

Before you begin to make anything about what you just saw or heard, you are suddenly knocked backward again by something swift and cold and you hear (or don't hear, rather) the tavern go silent.. You hear the halfling start hyperventilating again, short breaths growing shallower and shallower.

"Oh gods, oh gods, they're here. This can't happen." They turn to you wide-eyed, desperate, and presses the Sending Stone in your hands and starts stealthing away, putting a finger to their lips.

"I-I'm so, so, sorry, thank you, I'll come back for you soon," they whisper in a rush as they abscond.

You are left prone, staring at the softly glowing Sending Stone in your lax hand as glass suddenly crunches next to you, and you look up to see an armored, full-blooded orc looming over your body, grimacing.

dae mec alabast SoulHunter

You guys are in the eye of the storm here. Tables are overturned, patrons are yelling and throwing punches at each other, having been long drawn into the brawl you all are at the epicenter of, right at the entrance of the tavern. It is now late evening, and the streets are mostly deserted—no one but the seagulls to hear the pandemonium.

Kavarian, Sardis, and Alistair, you have all ganged up on Amir and have successfully subdued him. The half-orc's smug face turns to one of shock as he is put in an ironclad chokehold by you, Kavarian, while grappling Alistair.

"I have heard tale of Goliath honor," he manages to get out, even under the pressure you're giving his windpipe. "But I see that that tale should be taken with a grain of salt."

He breaks composure, though, when you remove both his karambits off of him, Kavarian. Hissing and seething, he claws and even bites at your hold for naught, but freezes as you, Sardis, put a blade in his spine.

Eyes burning with cold fury, he goes deadweight and uses the momentum to wrench his body downwards (though Kavarian's hold is still on), bracketing his arms around the prone Alistair's head.

Obviously trying to take as many people down with him, he uses a muscled forearm to start crushing your throat Alistair, giving you a bloodshot look that says if I go down, you go down with me.

You struggle and choke, Alistair, and the world all around you starts fuzzing at the edges, turning a deep red.

Then, abruptly the pressure stops, and you start breathing again with a cough.

You turn your head to the side, towards the entrance, only to see two leather black boots at your eye level.

You look up to see the cheerful face of the drow that had been at the bar hovering over you.

Alistair, you suddenly realize that the tavern around you has gone suspiciously silent.

Kavarian, Altis & Sardis, you guys have been knocked backward with a supernaturally strong gale of wind along with the other patrons and the tavern furnishings unfortunate enough not to be bolted down. Amir is swept off his knees, hitting the floor back-first with a grunt, but smoothly rolling without breaking stride and standing up to his feet. Everyone besides you all (save the halfling) have been knocked unconscious or simply dead (for those with weaker constitutions).

The source of a wind? The drow you shoved at the bar, Kavarian. Only now, he's flanked by two huge orcs bearing the Thieves' Guild insignia on their leather armor and on one of his satin-gloved fingers, a sterling ring glitters on a knuckle.

"My, my, what a mess we have here. Amir, dear, I trusted you to be discreet."

The half-orc inclines his head apologetically. "I was met with, ah, unexpected resistance."

He sweeps a disdainful look at Kavarian & co. and gestures towards your bodies meaningfully.

Immediately, one of the orc mercenary types behind the drow flashes into action and restrains Sardis & Kavarian in the blink of an eye, using the Goliath's drunkenness and the element of surprise to her advantage. She then puts a heavy boot on Alistair's chest to restrict the priest's movement. The other moves to check the perimeter of the tavern and comes across you, Perric, and squints at the stone in your hand.

"Boss! We got a Triage rat over here." he calls.

The drow narrows his eyes.

"Bring him over along with the three we have now."

With no further ceremony, the 6"2' Perric is slung over the shoulder of this 7"1' orc like a sack of potatoes, too bloodied and shocked to resist. The orc drops him in a heap next to the others and awaits further orders.

The drow looks on at you guys with a grin.

"What a colorful bunch we have here. The Lady will sure-ly be excited to meet you all. Es-pec-ial-ly yo-ou, my friend!" He drawls, pointing at Sardis.

"Quite the damage you did to my Lady's coffers, Emere, when you burned half the Gate's textile district in your haphazard escape." He pauses, eyes going cold, sadistic.

"Though the bounty on your head will surely more than make up for it."

He laughs and turns his attention to the group as a whole.

"It seems like you all are a bit banged up from your activities. I couldn't possibly introduce you to the Lady like that."

His ring glints in the flickering lantern light of the tavern.

"Why don't you all take a rest, hm?"

Kavarian, Sardis, & Perric, the world goes black for you guys as you slump unconscious, victims of a Sleep spell.

However, you, Alistair, manage to stay awake (but groggy) as the orcs pick up all your limp bodies and carry you out into the evening-turned-night.

MToki

Altis, you watch this all unfold from a shadowed corner of the tavern where you have been flung. None of the people have paid any sort of attention to you whatsoever, thinking you another unconscious patron.

Your nails throb with dull pain as you watch the magic the drow somehow performs on the four prone before him, knocking them out.

After the drow leaves with the orcs and his captors in tow, the half-orc assassin trailing silent behind them, you are left in a silent tavern full of the dead or unconscious, and an eerie silence falls over you.

Until a small hand grips your arm.

You turn to see a wide-eyed halfling with a halo of blonde hair clutching at your arm, expression pleading and desperate.

"Sir. Sir. I need your help."

 

[persephonelied]

Spoiler: Flavortown

Perric is halfway through a small smile when he is bowled over (again); he opens his mouth to call out for the halfling to wait but thinks better of it, which doesn't help him escape the notice of an imposing orc. Triage? Gruesome. He follows the orc's gaze to the stone in his hand and his eyes widen as he realizes that this must be damning evidence.
"N-nono, not mine," he stammers, trying and failing (again) to lift himself from his prone position. "It- oof." An armored shoulder knocks the wind from his gut as he is slung onto it, leaving him gasping (again) as the orc merely grunts and kicks aside some stray glass. "Save it for the boss, rat. Not so high and mighty now, eh?"
He isn't sure what he would have said if he'd been allowed to keep talking. Would he have implicated the halfling? Perric remembers what he said - I'll come back for you - and grips the sending stone tightly. No, he would have petered out anyway. He may as well never have spoken.
He is deposited beside the brawlers, who, frankly, scare him just as much as their subduers. As the drow speaks, Perric finds himself wondering where he went wrong. Like the creeping black beneath his nails reminds him of grave dirt, like his current feebleness reminds him of his mother who he left at home alone, like the drow's hand gesture reminds him of... something... he's seen countless times...
The realization will have to wait until he awakens.

 

[leviathan.]

CAPTURED!

Cut to the dimly lit, slate grey interior of a converted warehouse somewhere in the downtown district of Waterdeep.

The air is pregnant with rot, mildew scent just barely ripe enough to be scented, but enough to make one feel nauseous. Disused crates and boxes litter the place, casting deep shadows when met with the red glow of the torches hastily set into the wall at sporadic intervals. Footsteps occasionally resound just at the edge of one’s hearing, presumably guards patrolling the place’s perimeter, movements as routine as clockwork. Occasionally, a draft comes in through the wide entrance corridor, chilly and carrying with it a hint of seawater.

Against the far left wall of the warehouse sits a series of enclosures made of an iron lattice with heavy padlocks on the doors. Originally made for keeping shipments secure, these enclosures have been long converted into makeshift jail cells, as evidenced by their reinforced structures, feeding slits, and the dried bloodstains on each of the walls.

In the first enclosure sits a withered looking elven woman in bloodied garments. She huddles into herself in one of the corners of her cells, muttering to herself and biting at her mangled fingertips.

The next enclosure is empty, though there are various articles of clothing scattered across the room, bloodied and torn. In the dead center of this cell sits an overturned chair, skid marks carved deep in the floor underneath it.

The final enclosure (farthest from the entering corridor) contains a total of four beings, of which three are sprawled in a messy heap on top of each other. The one at the bottom, a disgruntled looking man with messy black hair struggles in vain to free himself under the combined deadweight of a reedy looking human clutching something in his hands and a genasi woman with a shaved head, both knocked out cold. In the far corner next to the second cell, curled up and snoring loudly is a battered-looking Goliath woman, braids a curtain around her face.

As what little light filtering through the entryway dies completely, night turning to late night, everyone in the cell begins to stir, consciousness returning.

alabast

Alistair, you have been awake for the past hour at the bottom of the heap of prisoners, struggling in vain to free yourself from the combined deadweight of Sardis and Perric.

However, this hour of being awake, your mind has been buzzing with information, especially after the initial grogginess of the failed Sleep spell had worn off. You know that you are in a converted warehouse in Waterdeep’s textile district, having been awake for the transport.

In your mind’s eye, you can feel a golden thread tugging at your heart, drawing you deeper into the warehouse, near the shadowy stacks of crates and boxes you can see to the left of your cell.

For a moment, your nostrils fill with the scent of warm linen and clean morning air, but as quick as you draw breath, it vanishes once more.

SoulHunter

Kavarian, you wake with a throbbing hangover in a dingy cell corner, limbs in a jumble.

You can assume you had a fairly rowdy night.

You begin to feel the contents of your stomach rising up to meet your throat.

dae mec

Sardis, you wake up in the cell in a heap with two other people. After getting in rights of yourself, you look around and you discover your belongings, specifically, had been picked clean. There is nothing of yours left except the clothes on your back. Your disguise has been removed as well, revealing your shaved head and distinctive genasi coloring.

It seems your reputation has preceded you.

persephonelied

Perric, you jolt awake with a start, grip going taut on the softly glowing stone still in your hands—it seems your orc captor hadn’t thought to remove it from your person and bring it to his master. Disoriented, you feel a migraine coming on.


What do you guys do?

directives

looks like you guys are stuck here for the time being...use this time to get to know each other, make friends (or enemies!) and perhaps plot for a way to get out of here.

location

waterdeep

time of day

late night

credit

matlat on ArtStation

tags

alabast SoulHunter dae mec persephonelied MToki

coded by natasha.

 

[SoulHunter]

—THE WARRIOR.

A deep, resounding pounding in her head eventually brings Kavarian into consciousness. A low groan sounds from between her parted lips, her legs shifting, and her eyes opening briefly before swiftly closing again. Even in the low light of the cells, the brightness of the torches still sending splinters of pain shooting through her skull. Her eyes open once more, purposefully not looking directly at the torch like before. The goliath smacks her lips, her cotton-mouth causing her tongue to stick to the roof of her mouth. The room around her spins and the smell of rot causes a wave of nausea to hit her and bile quickly rises up her throat. With barely enough sense to do so, Kavarian swiftly turns her head to the side and her stomach's contents find themselves over the floor and the cell bars she vomited onto. Her once coal black, but now faded, hair falls into her face, the pieces falling from the braids she usually contains them with.

Wiping her mouth of any excess puke and pushing her hair from her eyes, Kavarian lethargically turns her head to see the dog pile in front of her. Her gaze focuses on the man laying defeated at the bottom. Her brows furrow in confusion as a rush of familiarity floods her brain. The fact that she had gotten black-out drunk the night before left her memory fuzzy to say the least, but a brief image flashes in her mind of her handing a man one of her axes and ruffling his hair. Her signature grin spreads across her face as she finally places the man. Lifting her arm, she waves her hand around in his general direction in what looked like some form of a greeting.

"Ah, you got arrested too huh?" she asks, her voice low and guttural from her sleep. If Kavarian had taken a moment to get a proper look of the room, she'd realize that she wasn't in Waterdeep's jail like she assumed. Slowly rising to her feet, Kavarian stomps over to the mess of limbs. "Some help?" she asks, reaching down to grab Alistair beneath his arms, waiting to actually lift him out of the pile until he gave permission.

 

[MToki]

Even for a quick witted bard like himself, everything happened too fast for Altis. All he remembered was the woman threatening him with a knife, more scuffling within the tavern, and suddenly a powerful spell that leaves him grueling with pain. He isn't even sure what exactly that was, but a wind, unlike any he's felt before, knocked him prone. While recovering from the fall, dizzy and inebriated, he watched orcs carry the bodies of fellow tavern patrons, including the woman he met before, out onto the dark streets of Waterdeep.

Where are they going? Altis vaguely thought, his mind still jumbled from the impact. The elf laid there, on the ground outside the tavern, trying to gather himself, when a hand clutches his sleeve. Groaning he turns to face them.

"Sir. Sir. I need your help."

Altis rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his image of the halfling. With a rough voice, he responds. "After something like that, I'd bet you do." His nails throb with pain, his back aches in waves, but he manages to sit up. "What is it you need? Because, personally, I could go for a drink."

leviathan.

 

[leviathan.]

— REACTION POST.

MToki

In the Widow’s Lodge, the wounded and unhurt begin stirring from their forced loss of consciousness, letting out moans and muffled curses as they did so. It was only a matter of time before the place was in an uproar once more, the survivors mourning over their dead friends and family scattered all over the far end of the pub. The halfling seems to sense this, gripping your arm tighter as they glance around, watery blue eyes widening ever more in panic.

“No time for that now, we have to go quick, before everyone wakes up!”

Altis, they pull you up with a surprisingly strong grip and steals out the now clear front entryway with you, strides suddenly purposeful and quick, though you can see their lower lip trembling ever so slightly as the Widow’s Lodge disappears behind you, just as the screaming starts up.

Looks like you got out just in time.

Quickly swiveling their head back and forth to make sure the streets around you guys were empty—and they were, for it had fallen night while the events in the tavern transpired, and nothing except the occasional passerby graced the rundown avenues of Drunkard’s Row.

Then they suddenly pull you into an alley in between a shop with shuttered windows and a building with half its windows cracked and turn to you, nervous.

“I, I’m so very sorry that I’ve dragged you into this, but you, you were one of the only ones there to witness the events at the pub and for a greenhorn like me, I need a person to corroborate my story to get access to help those people that you saw getting c-captured by those, those orcs there.”

They raise a sleeve to their forehead to staunch the bleeding while resolutely looking down at the ground.

“Gods, I’m always getting other people into my messes. Mother was right.”

But they snap out of it after a second, blinking hard and raising their face to you with an air of put-upon friendliness, giving you a shy, crooked smile.

“But maybe it’ll turn out okay, this time, c-cause of you. Thanks for granting your help, sir. The name’s Kilroy Lightfoot, of the Witterglade Lightfoots.”

With that out of the way, Kilroy turns to the dead-end wall in front of you guys and puts a hand on a rough-hewn brick, taking a deep breath.

“Don’t panic, okay?”

And then they mutter a few quick words in a language you do not know and you are blinded by a pale blue light, stumbling back a few steps as it shines, leaving red imprints on the insides of your eyelids.

When your vision returns, you are in what looks like a hospital, white stone and tile all around you, with glowing orbs of warm light illuminating a pristine foyer, beings of all shapes and sizes bustling in and out in white robes (some of them bloodied), looking harried and put-upon. In the middle of the foyer, there is a huge staircase of what looks like dwarven limestone in a spiral shot through the high ceiling and the clean floors. It seems you are in a tower of some sort.

As you examine your surroundings, Kilroy is making a ruckus next to you, greeting people who are rushing in and out of the foyer with practiced ease. Then, you see their eyes widen and their posture straighten up as they catch sight of something—or more likely someone. They excitedly motion over and Altis, you see a tall and extremely regal-looking half-elven man in brilliant white healer’s robes stalk over to you both, dark brows furrowed and expression stormy. He wears thick leather gloves on both hands, black and careworn.

“Lightfoot! What were you thinking, giving one of our only working Sending Stones to an outsider! Are you out of your mind? You’ve basically sentenced that poor soul to death, delivering him into the hands of damned Thieves’ Guild with our brand! Is that how a Triage agent should conduct themself? Hm? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Kilroy’s expression has quickly turned from excited to abashed at the man’s verbal lashing, head hanging down in defeat. But before they could meekly offer up an explanation, the half-elf’s attention swivels to you, Altis, and green eyes narrow as he sizes you up.

“And exactly who have you dragged into our private headquarters, Kilroy?”

 

[persephonelied]

As Perric comes to, a fuzzy outline enters his vision. He blinks a few times and the shape crystallizes into the Goliath from that night, towering over him, driving his thoughts away whatever preoccupations troubled his shallow dreams. His body jolts with surprise and he tries to scramble back, instead toppling off of the bodypile and inadvertently shoving the heels of his boots into the people beneath him. Propping himself up on his elbows, he peers wide-eyed at his cell-mates. After a second, he realizes he hasn't been tossed (yet), and he clears his throat, rocking into a sitting position and finger-combing his hair back to hide his blush with his arm. The only thing he can think to say is, "Sorry. For, uh..." He gestures at his boots sheepishly with the hand still grasping the faintly glowing sending stone.

 

[dae mec]

Sardis wakes quietly, without opening her eyes. She keeps her breathing steady, still appearing unconscious to any observer, but keeps a keen ear out. A vaguely familiar voice offers to help... someone out. Gotten arrested? No, that didn't sound right at all. She feels someone scrabble away from her and apologize, and Sardis decides that it's about time to awake. She stands up in a smooth movement and looks around. A cell. Wonderful. The fog clears away quickly, and Sardis remembers the events of last night and winces.

"Shit," she mutters, rubbing a hand over the fuzz of her hair. She misses the fire. Not only did it look better, it was far easier to maintain.

Her hands are back to Genasi-red (though a duller version), and a quick inventory of her supplies reveals her lack thereof. Damn. There goes her lock picks and thus Plan A. Sardis takes stock of her companions. The still-unconscious one had his own trouble with the Lady, but the others seemed to be random bystanders.

"Does anyone have any wires, hair clips, thin metal objects?" she asks, looking between each of them. Sardis' gaze settles on the man with the glowing stone. "Now, that's an interesting item you have there," she says to the scared looking half-elf, dropping the timbre of her voice by a note or two. It's not unrecognizable, but anyone on the other side might have a second of hesitation if they hear her in person. "Who's listening to us?"