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 Shadeweaver's storybook

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Shadeweaver



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Join date : 2009-12-30

PostSubject: Shadeweaver's storybook   Fri Jan 29, 2010 5:54 pm

In this place I figure I can just write whatever crosses my mind. I need to add I really get creative things done quite slowly, so this topic won't propably get updated as much as I (or you) would like it. (If you like it, that is Very Happy ).

Without further mumblings, I think I postmy first story. It's not relate to WoW but some other game oI play. Frankly, I am running this RPG for Bearach and Anthorius. Bearach wants, and also is, scratching some things up rom the game, so you might want to check his version of the events if my proove to be too boring. Haven't seen his writings so I don't know if he is better than me, but I suspect so. Razz

To the introduction to the setting then, I apoogize for the amount of introduction, but I figured you don't need to read all this except when running into some odd wrords. Then you can return up here and check them. Beside it's most enjoyable when one knows a bit of the world first.

I wish you a good journey to Eberron.

Khorvaire: One of the continents of Eberron. It was once spanned sixteen millenia ago by a powerful goblinoid empire. After the empire’s downfall, humans formed five powerful kingdoms on the continent.

Kingdom of Galifar: The Kingdom established by Galifar I who united the five human kingdoms and made them into Kingdom's provinces. Provinces were named Aundair, Breland, Cyre, Karrnath and Thrane. From the founding of the Kingdom starts the countdown of years: YK (Year of Kingdom).

The Last War: The conflict that fractured and split the Kingdom of Galifar. Started at 894YK at the death of King Jarot ir’Wynarn, the last King of Galifar. Following Jarot’s death, three of his five children refused to follow the succession and the Kingdom split. The war lasted 102 years, and it took the utter destruction of Cyre to bring the other nations to the negotiation table. No one has admitted the defeat, or being responsible of the Mourning- event that destroyed Cyre, but as nobody knows what the Mourning exactly was, no one wanted to be the next victim. The chronicles call the war as “the Last War”, hoping the bloodshed has finally slaked humanity’s thirst for battle. Only time will tell if this hope is in vain.

The Mourning: A disaster that ocurred on 20th of Olarune 994YK. The origin and the precise nature of the Mourning are unknown. On that fateful day, a white flash was seen as far as 1000 miles away, erupting far inside cyran mainland. Gray mists spread across Cyre, and anything caught by the mists were transformed to hideous monsters or destroyed. The mist stopped at the exact borders of Cyre, creating the Mournland.

The Mournland: The common name of the wasteland now enveloped by the dead gray mist. Behind this mist, the land has been transformed into something dark and twisted. Stories speak of storms of blood, corpses that do not decompose, ghostly soldiers fighting endless battles, and far worse things.

Warforged: A race of humanoid constructs created from wood, leather, metal and stone, and given life and sentience through magic. The warforged were created with unknown processes by Dragonmarked House Cannith, which sought to produce tireless, expendable soldiers capable of adapting to any tactical situation. A warforged is roughly the same size, height and shape of a human. Many question if warforged actually have souls, but they do learn, think and seem to have feelings. After the Last War, the creation of new warforged was banned, but all warforged were given the same rights as any other member of the common races.

Dragonmarked House: One of the 12 families whose bloodlines carry the potential to manifest a dragonmark. Many of the dragonmarked houses existed before the Kingdom of Galifar, and they have used the mystical powers of their dragonmarks to gain an edge over their competitors and gaining considerable political and economic influence. The 12 houses are now holding near monopolies in providing services in their own areas of expertise to the whole Khorvaire.

Dragonmark: A mystical mark that appears on a surface of the skin and grants mystical powers to it’s bearer.
Breland: The largest of the original Five Nations of Galifar, Breland is the center of heavy industry, it’s currently ruled by King Boranel ir’Wynarn, ruling from the capital Wroat.

Sharn: Also known as the City of Towers, Sharn is the largest city of both Breland and Khorvaire.
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Shadeweaver



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PostSubject: Re: Shadeweaver's storybook   Fri Jan 29, 2010 5:57 pm

As always in the beginning, there was the void.
Siberys danced through the void, setting the stars in their places.
Khyber prowled behind, consuming stars nearly as fast as Siberys placed them.
Eberron sang, apart from the others, and life sprouted in the void.
Finally Siberys turned to confront Khyber, to stop the dragon from devouring the stars. The two fought, tearing each other in their hatred. At last Khyber arose victorious as Siberys was shattered into a million fragments. Now thirsty for blood, Khyber wheeled upon Eberron.
Where Khyber lunged, Eberron snaked aside and around. No more blood was spilled, but the battle continued on and on. Khyber grew tired and finally Eberron enfolded and imprisoned Khyber, and the two dragons ceased their struggles.
Both dragons slumbered after their long battle, and hardened into earth. The fragments of Siberys’s broken body encircled the formed planet.
And so the world was born.
The golden ring on the equator: Siberys, The Dragon Above.
The world beneath the ground: Khyber, The Dragon Below.
And the surface of the globe: Eberron, The Dragon Between.

1st of Eyre, 998YK

Sharn , the largest city on the continent of Khorvaire and one of the defining locations of the nation of Breland stands atop an inhospitable outcropping of cliffs near the Dagger River. Bound to the west and south by the river and it’s eastern tributary, the Hilt, and to the east and north by even higher and more steer cliffs. This situation has given the city only one way to grow, up. Almost all of it’s buildings stretch atleast hundreds of feet into the sky, the highest ones spanning vertical distance of about a mile. It is unclear how these kind of towers are able to stand without toppling over, but they seem steady and sure as the cliffs themselves.
It rains tonight. It usually does rain in Sharn. The close proximity of the steer cliffs and the wide river giving to the sea only thirty miles ahead makes the area ideal for concetrating moisture. Fruthermore there must be more than a small amount of magic at work. The showers of water gather into pools on the upper levers, only to run off from the streets, skybridges and balconies to wash off the dirt and mud, and to drop it on the happless and the poor that live on the lower levels of the towers. The falling rain makes it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. The rare torches and oil lamps that are still somehow protected with metallic hats, flicker just about to be smoldered and do nothing to help the navigation on this warm, wet evening.
On the streets of one of the lower levels, figures are walking, even at a night like this. The thunder rumbles at a distance when the shapes, each walking alone, turn to the same alleyway like guided by chance or more unseen forces. They all wear hooded cloaks to keep the rain off. Much joy there is from the thickest of cloaks as the rain soaks through soon enough.
One of them is small, almost the size of a child, and walks with long strides, quicker than expected from such a small person. The other walking a bit after him makes some noise, as a metallic clank is clearly audible even over the rain. Only this sound has gotten the little one to decide that the big figure isn’t stalking him, or then that one is an idiot stalker. Then two other figures emerge from the rain ahead, also covered in, supposedly, rainproof cloaks, the other cloakfigure differs from others in wearing a grayish white cloak when others mostly wear mere brown.
The figures attempt to pass each other, each looking up for a split second and meeting each others eyes. Let us call the following thing that hits the travellers as feeling, for the lack of better word. They have never met, yet they know they have seen each other somewhere. The feeling of familiarity quickly passes as the travellers try to pas each other in the narrow alleyway. Nobody looks up to the sky where clouds have spread for a split second to reveal four of the Eberron’s twelve moons, pale yellow Nymm, pale gray orb of Therendor, silver gray shape of Eyre and orange red sphere of Aryth, forming a perfect diamond on the sky beore the clouds hide them again. The travellers, having been lost for half a moment to the feeling of familiarity, prepare continue their way, just as something drops from the sky.
The body of an elderly half orc drops from the higher levels, and hits the cobblestones between the group with a disgusting splat. Blood and gore sweep from halfly split head and other wounds, mixing in ever growing pools of rainwater, colouring the water dark red. At the back of the half orc sticks two sturdy crossbow bolts.
The graycloak glances first at the body, and then upwards to the upper bridges and towers. “It’s raining bodies now?!” He exclaims with an aftersound of shock toning his slightly melodic voice, the person is clearly a male though. “This can only happen in Sharn!”
In an instant, the tallest of the browncloaks leaps to action, tossing his hood aside and sliding a strange weapon from underneath his bulky cloak. Steel jingles as the raven- black bearded human rolls open something resembling a large chain, every second link replaced by a metallic circle from which protrudes a long spike, sharpened to a daggerlike edge. He spins it around once to get the middle, which sports no such spikes, to wrap around his fist tightly, before taking a guard pose, eyeing warily to the both directions the alley runs.
Without a word, the smaller figure kneels down to the corpse to pluck the bolts from its back. A greenish-red and clawed hand covered with light fur flips from under the clothing and other one joins it when they study the bolts and soon are midway to tuck them under the little one’s cloak.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” says the one that was walking behind the smallest figure just a moment ago. The voice is strange, echoing and metallic, like air drawing through some sort of pipe organ. “Whoever was the sender of those bolts, it’s sure you look the most guilty if you go on sliding them to your pockets.”
The little one turns, flashing golden coloured eyes to the bigger person, but sighing then. “Yes, I think you’re right, big’un.” The figure hits both of the bolts to their respective holes in the body, when the graycloak kneels by the body aswell and closes it’s eyes with a pale hand.
“I wouldn’t do anything at all if I were you.” Calls a new voice from amidst the mist and rain. When the startled group turns to face the sound, two figures walk forth from the rain-caused haze. The other is clearly a bald and gangly human, pointing the group with a crossbow, when the other is considerably smaller, reaching but to about waist level of the human. “I think you four have wandered here at the worst of times.” Says the little halfling, holding tight on his wide-brimmed hat to allow the water to run to his otherwise soaked cloak. He too holds up a small crossbow in his hand also. Grinning a bit, he gestures with the crossbow from person to person, before adding, “Olladra smiles for me for getting to frame this as a group-fight.”
“We haven’t seen anything, if you just let us wander off. Says the metallic voice and the person seems to loose his joints with a serie of clonks and clacks. “There is no need for any more blood to be spilled tonight.”
“Oh but it seems most convenient for me.” The halfling says and shoots at what he sees as teh greatest threat, the human wielding that chain-weapon and wearing an armour made from small metal scales as is seen when the cloak is tossed aside. Unfortunately the human is already moving.
The bolt whizes just over the human’s head, when he steps a few steps forward and swings the long chain to wrap it around the ankle of the surprised, bigger crossbow wielder. The man has time to only gasp from surprise and swinging ahead of him with the base of the crossbow is futile, as the chain is so long it’s wielder can safely stand over five feet away. The spikes dig painfully to the ankle as the armoured fighter forcefully pulls his opponent to the ground. The mugger could get to his feet pretty fast, but the chainwielder is not going to give him any opporturnity. He has used only half of the chain so far, and now brings the other end arching over his shoulder and slashes his downed enemy with the weapon like using a metallic whip. Spikes slash and rip the mugger’s face, neck and chest, making him gurgle as blood packs to his mouth. Seems like the chain hit something vital.
Another crossbow bolt strikes out from the haze at the back of the group, clattering to the wall just next to the small figure, sending pieces of stone to scatter on him. He snarls and tosses his hood back to see the surroundings better. Golden eyes staring from a flat face with broad nose, large pointed ears and mouth with small sharp fangs. A goblin no doubt. The long arms, almost hanging to the figure’s knees rise up and make two complicated gestures as it speaks aloud even more complicated syllables. From the goblin’s pointing finger strikes out a glowing, dagger shaped missile of pulsing energy. It speeds effortlessly through the rain, arching slightly to dodge it’s unintended target and hits the halfling straight in the middle of the chest, exploding in a shower of blue sparks and scorching the halfling’s chest, making him allmost to drop the crossbow.
The strange voiced figure won’t stand up to watch the battle escalate without him any further. He picks up a small stone with a strange, four fingered metallic hand and also casts a spell. Within moments a soft red light pulses from the stones as he flicks one of them towards the halfling. The stone sets off from the hand by incredible speed, breaking the sound barrier in the midway of it’s flight with a loud crack, and ending with more silent crack to the halfling’s chest, splintering ribs and dropping him down.
The third mugger doesn’t seem to want and wait for any more surprises, especially when the graycloak pulled an arm-wide wooden shield from under his belt and charges at him with a longsword raised high, scale-mail clinging. The mugger turns in his tail and runs as fast as he can. At the same time, some windows open up and startled house owners, wakened by the loud display of the sound wall breaking and the rest of the fight just past, start glancing out and shouting. Words “battle” and “murder” ring throughout the streets, and they are soon answered by the whistles of the Sharn Watch.
“Let’s get out from here!” Says the owner of the metallic voice and turns to grab a pouch he had seen the orc to squeeze tightly. The chain wielding human has already hidden his weapon and is calmly but firmly marching off as the other three rush after him. Human glances the three, especially at the goblin, with clear distaste and attempts to walk faster to loose them.
“We’re better stick together”, says the graycloak, eyeing the others warily. “I wouldn’t wish to take the risk of any of you trying to get past guards by giving my description to them.” He continues while the group tries to navigate as far from the sounds of the watch whistles as possible, turning from two or three street corners and continuing down some other small alleyway.
“I haven’t done anything so they have no reason to suspect me.” Says the human with a tone that clearly states the others should piss off and survive themselves.
“Your weapon is all bloody.” The metallic voice notes and the hood nods towards the human’s cloak. “I figure they start wondering where it all came from.”
With a glance to his weapon, the human grabs it and without pause in walking, wipes most of it to the gray cloak of the other figure, staining the cloaks rim all red and causing a furious “Hey!” to erupt from it’s owner. The graycloak positions himself ahead of the bearded man, stopping him and efficiently the whole group. “Now I really am not going to let you out of my sight you know?!” The graycloak says and shakes his fist to the human. “You efficiently made me look the most guilty!”
“Good point.” The human grunts and turns to the opposite direction, heading back towards the watch whistles. “As I said, I haven’t done anything and you seemingly are, I suggest none of you follow me.” He continues onwards, only to the graycloak to rush ahead again and stop him.
“You’re not getting off this so easilly, human!” He says without paying attention to the goblin grimacing and grumbling if instead of arguing, they all would find an inn to hide in and pretend being it’s patrons. “The Silver Flame be my wittness I will tell your involvement in this!” The graycloak continues, making the bearded man scowl and grunt displeased, not to the threat though.
“Well then,” he says and pushes himself past the graycloak. “In that case you don’t mind if I go speaking to the watch myself....”
“Speak to us about what?” Says a ragged and low voice, and the four persons have already heard sudden voices from nowhere amidst the rainy haze tonight to not react by pulling their weapons halfly out from their holdings. “That is a bad idea, crossing the Sharn Watch.” Teh voice adds and a glowing sphere of light lits up floating above the shoulder of a graybearded dwarf, wearing red and black of the Sharn Watch. He has a heavy battleaxe hanging from his belt and three humans, two males and a female, armed with halberds and light crossbows standing at his both sides. They all look the people with suspicion.
“What’s all this rackle eh?” The dwarf says and glares the blackbearded human from under typical heavy brows of the dwarves. The human glances at the group behind him, not needing to hide his distaste, and explains that these three appeared from nowhere and started following him. The dwarf frowns, and even more so when he notes the bloodstains on the gray cloak. He asks if any of them are citizens of Breland.
“Didn’t think so.” He says when none of the group answers.”Remove your hoods!” As teh group does so, the metallic voice belonging to a large warforged and the gray cloak to a brownhaired half-elf, he mutters and shakes his head, sepcially to the warforged and the goblin. “Outlanders are always causing trouble in here. We will study this matter to the bottom.” He says and blows the bone whistle hanging from his neck, instantly answered a block away. “You four are under arrest, please surrender your weapons.” He gestures two of his subordinates to step forward as the third stays back with a loaded crossbow. The group tries to protest, especially the human, but the arrival of four more watchmembers and some angry blurt-outs from the dwarf make them surrender their weapons.
Without caring about the human’s comment about how much the watch seems to be afraid of them, he arranges the seven guardmembers to form up around the characters for escort and leads them a bit higher and at the edge of a platformlike skybridge, hanging on thin air. At the end of the granite platform is awaiting a wooden boat hanging in thin air between the chasms and gorges formed amidst the towers, with two more watchmembers on it, holding part of the side open to allow more easy access.
“In you go!” The dwarf says after stepping in himself. The warforged’s intrigues about how such a boat actually does stay hovering is interrupted as the shaft of a halberd hits it’s metallic back. The group clambers to the boat which is soon crowded, even when two watchmembers are let on the platform.
“I hope you like the cells in daggerwatch.” The dwarf grins and waves the pilot to turn the large fanlike oar at the back of the boat, causing the vessel to propel away from the platform . “Because if you have luck, you are only going to spend quite a while in them.”
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Rebekka

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PostSubject: Re: Shadeweaver's storybook   Fri Jan 29, 2010 6:40 pm

((Moving this from The Gallery to the RP boards, it fits better here ^_^ If you'd rather have it at the Story boards, just poke me and I'll move it again!

- Rebekka))
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Anthorius

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PostSubject: Re: Shadeweaver's storybook   Fri Jan 29, 2010 6:41 pm

Anyone is free to draw my goblins wizard, since I keep failing horribly at it xP Great writing, Shade! Very Happy
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Shadeweaver



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PostSubject: Re: Shadeweaver's storybook   Sat Feb 13, 2010 5:05 pm

((The second part of the adventures of Bearach's and Anthorius's adventuring group. They are pulled ever deeper to the underworld intrigue that suffuse the City of Towers...))


The trip to Daggerwatch Garrison was fast, but boring. Almost nothing of the fabled City of Towers could be seen through the rain. Lone lights glittered in the distance, growing more numerous the higher the flying boat rises. There is few other people outside at this hour and especially in a weather like this, so the vessel can fly mostly unhindered by anything but the towers themselves.
The district that seems to be the destination, judging from the drop in speed the vessel makes, seems heavily reinforced. The towers and structures are layered by extra mortar and support structures, along with some forged plating. They seem capable of withstanding siege weaponry. Other than that isn’t seen in the rain until the vessel arrives at the side of a large complex, formed of two massively thick tower tops, the distance between them spanned by a massive bridge. The bridge holds up another large structure tightly clinging to the walls of each tower, and rising from halfway of the towers all the way up to their ends. The only way in and out seems to be a wide platform resembling of a small plaza directly protruding from the base of the building between the towers. This balcony has no supports holding it, but seems to hang on thin air just fine. It is guarded by smaller balconies which cling to the building itself. On both these balconies is seen soldiers.
The boat slides to a halt on one of the smaller balconies above the main door. The dwarf sergeant hops out first and gestures the soldiers to escort the prisoners inside. His subordinates obey, pushing the ragtag group ahead of them to the dry interior. When inside, in wide but now hopelessly crowded room, the guards collect all the stuff the arrested ones have, gaining some curses and irritated glances in return. Nevertheless all the equipment confiscated, the guards show the group up to the holding cell. A small square room with no windows but clearly desinged for a larger group, for all four have plenty of room to sit or lie as they please, especially as the goblin is so small that he won’t equire much room anyways. Only feature in the room are large bunches of straw covering the floor. It’s been piled to the walls so the people can have atleast some comfort around. Clearly the cell is not ment to hold people for long.
“Integorration is tomorrow, so I suggest you get some rest, if you can!”, the dwarf laughs and they close the door after the party has entered, barring the door from the outside aswell as locking it. The group is left to the dim light of a single lamp positioned to rest on a small metal plate attatched to the wall. The human slides down at the farthest wall and crosses his hands behind his head, taking as comfortable position s he can. The goblin stays near the right wall when the warforged and the half elf stay at both sides of the door.
“Well I guess we’re spending our night in a dry place atleast. The half elf says and looks up to the fellow inmates. “Perhaps introduction is in order.” He tries to smile. “I am Gerard of Sigilstar, a devotee to the Silver Flame.” The human’s glance and muttering is quiet enough not to reach even the half elfs keen ears. The others just glance at him, and then back to gazing at nothing. The half elf waits a few moments before continuing. “Errr... Who’re you then?” None but the warforged answers, and he simply states “Guess”. Which makes the half elf shut his mouth and look a bit grumpy about the silent company, which turns even more silent as the people drift to sleep one by one. It is late and the battle wore down the already fatigued travellers.
Except the warforged, his kin do not sleep so this one tries to look something to do while the others in the room are asleep. He really would have apreciated the half elf staying up more, but didn’t get that sudden silence, after all, the warforged did tell him his name as he asked. The warforged’s name really is Guess. Modo Guess to be precise. With a small clank, Modo rises up and starts wasting his time in first checking the door. He peers at the lock and then tries the door a bit, concluding that the bar behind the door is not just held there by four supports, but is most likely locked in place aswell. Without a sound other than from his joints, Modo examines the rest of the door, careful not to wake up the sleeping people, or possible guards outside, though Modo doesn’t hear anything through the door. Happy to have something to do, but deciding the door doesn’t hold anything that would further any attempts to get out. Modo then reaches down to a pouch in his belt and pulls out a small nail, which the watchmen didn’t see as anything important enough to remove. Modo sweeps straw from a small piece from the floor until the bare rock is visible, and starts etching letters about an inch high to the bare stone. This he continues on and on, seemingly not stopping even to rest his arms.

Gerard is the first one to wake. The morning sermons of the Silver Flame being taught to him so many times he wakes up before the eighth bell out of sheer habit if not anything else. He is also the first to note that half of the walls are now sporting carved writing. He glances around, then to the warforged, and shrugs. He doesn’t let the writing stop himself though, but kneels and presses his head in a prayer for the Silver Flame, short sermon by which he asks for strength, prrotection and compassion from the Flame. The words are quiet, but fill the cell efficiently, waking up the human and the goblin.
“Do you have to be so loud at this hour?” the goblin snarls and sits up. The human just mutters and look grimly at Gerard, who isn’t abaded at all, but finishes his personal morning prayer and rises up. The others have just noted the encarved letters on the floor and walls, but before they get to the point of commenting them, a group of guards opens the door. They, and especially the dwarf sergeant, don’t look very happy at the new decorations of the cell. “Olladra’s bloody nose!” the dwarf curses and steps in, glaring at the writings. “What the Dollurh have you been doing in here?!”.
Without really awaiting for an answer, the dwarf annoyedly ushers the people off from the cell, escorting them with his subortinates up to other parts of the tower. The dwarf constantly grumbles ahead, finally entering a circular hall which roof rises really high. The walls sport numerous arrow slits and seem to be reinforced. Several doors leave off from the hall so the place is propably a passage hub of the complex. Some bridges spanning the air is seen up above, hinting of more doors at their end. The dwarf stomps right to the door in the opposite side, guarded by two more guardmembers. Grumbling sergeant opens the door and gestures the people inside. “I hope you have a good explanation for him.” The dwarf mutters and despite of his irritation for the group, manages to throw a vicious grin at their direction. The group steps in a little warily, and the guards close the door.
The room is ascetic, sporting but a simple wooden table behind of which stands two chairs, and the other side sporting four. The room is otherwise featureless except for high window on the opposite wall which reaches from floor to ceiling, showing a wiev to the city proper, though barred with a grate of iron. Infront of the window is standing someone wearing a long coat, though other details are rather vague due to the rising sun’s light that makes the person’s back bathe in shadows. There is one other person in the room besides the man on the window and the party, a large burly half-orc who seems really fit for battle is standing near the table. He has a large warhammer strapped on his back and wears steel helmet and a chain vest. The muscular arms are crossed over the half orc’s chest and he glares the group threateningly, which is propably that makes the human stiffen and tense his muscles, like a cat ready pounce.
“Please, have a seat.” the figure at the window says with a soft but resonant voice that carries the sound of authority in it. The goup moves towards the chair and sits to them, all but the human who remains standing, drawing an angry grunt from the half orc. If the human’s behaviour is disturbing the man in the window, he doesn’t show it in any ways when he turns and walks calmly to sit on one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the table. The man is a half elf too, like Gerard, but unlike him, his face is slightly more elogated and features more sharp. His jaw and mouth seem to have tightened and his deep eyes look dark brown above a slightly hawklike nose. His back combed ravenblack hair has a single white streak that extends from his forehead to the back of his head. He looks coldly on the group before him.
“I am Creilath Movanek, an inquisitive at the service of House Medani.” The half elf says and the blackbearded human winces. The half elves of Dragonmarked house Medani carry the Mark of Detection and use it’s abilities to detect threats and foresee dangers. It’s members work mainly as bodyguards, scouts, sentries and inquisitives, and only the half orcs of House Tharashk can match their inquisitives at work. “And this is my associate Urzat.” the inquisitve gestures to the half orc, which grunts. “I have gone through your personal belongings as you are suspected as possible accomplices in the murder of Krashk d’Tharashk, a member of the Finder’s Guild.” Movanek glances up. “Only three of you have proper identification papers and none of them are indicating of you having the citizenship of Breland, and yet we recovered no travelling papers.” The elf straightens up and puts his fingertips against each other. “Care to identify yourselves?” He says and continues, without awaiting for an answer. “I assume you are Gerard of Sigilstar.” He takes but a one glance at Gerard’s religious symbols before nodding slightly before Gerard answers corroboratively. “And you must be Modo Guess.” He Glances at the warforged who is innardly surprised of the half elf not having an issue with Modo’s name. “Your papers indicate you as a member of House Deneith... Argadon Smith d’Deneith, correct?” Inquisitive glances to human after Modo, and the human nods, confirming his name. “We recovered no indentification papers from you, goblin.” The inquisitive turns his penetrating gaze to the small figure. “State your name.”
“Reksiit”, the goblin answers and glances at the other group and then back to Movanek, who doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised or even having expected to not hear a last name. To the goblinoids, the clan comes before the immediate family and knowing to which group of the many clans of Darguun the goblinoid nation one belongs clearly isn’t essential here. “Two bodies were recovered at the scene of Krashk d’Tharashk’s unfortunate landing spot. A male human whose chest and neck has been ripped with a strange weapon, and a halfling whose chest has seemingly been blown inwards by something small but really fast.” The half elf shuffles through some papers he picked from his pocket. “We have recovered, from mister Smith’s bag, an ideal weapon for causing injuries like the other corpse had, and regarding a book we took from the bag of Mister Reksiit, it permits us to assume he is a wizard, which would explain the injuries of the halfling’s corpse.” Half elf inquisitive crosses his hands ahead of him on the table. “These would be serious evidence by themselves, and there is also this.” He produces a small chunk of something that looks like a tiny black chunk of wax. Placing it to the table along with an opened pouch, the same the warforged had picked up from the body. “We recovered this from you, Mister Guess.” Inquisitive eyes the warforged coldly. “Do you know what this substance is?”
“I recovered it from the half orc that was dead but not by our accord.” Modo says and keeps his hands down to his lap, unmovable as the is the entire warforged. “I have not identified the pouches, or the bottle’s insides.” Only the crystal eyes flash with any kind of movement. The half elf stares at Modo for a moment, almost as unmoving as him, until picking up the lumb from the table. “With this amount of evidence most of the city watch would have already presented you to a trial for murder. However, I think there is too many unanswered questions at this case. Tell me what you know. None of you were carrying such weaponry that would be suitable of causing the strength of impact that the bolts left on Krashk d’Tharashk’s body.” He glances from person to person. “Tell me your version of the event and we’ll see if my conductions are correct, and you may be free to go.”
The group eyes each other before offering a detailed explanation of the evening. Leaving out points like the human wiping his weapon to the priest’s cloak, for example. They relate very closely to the halfling’s words about going to frame the whole thing as a group fight gone awry. The half elf eyes them all the time without comment. After the party finishes, the half elf points the cube of black substance on the table. “This thing is something known as the Dragons Blood, the most powerful of all drugs there is known to exist. It is solely sold by the criminal organization known as the Daask. Dragon’s Blood is commonly consumed in liquid form, but it has been rumored that it is first held solid and turned to liquid by some uknown alchemical process. The authorities have been unable to succesfully obtain a solid form of Dragon’s Blood. Until now that is.” He turn back to the group. “I would like to ask you a favour in addition of me dropping you from the investigation of Krashk d’Tharashk’s murder.” He says and tilts his head ever so slightly. “I would like you to infiltrate one of the places they distribute Dragon’s Blood.”
The group stays silent a few moments until the blackbearded human, identified as Argadon Smith d’Deneith, speaks. “I am not wishing to waste any more of my time with this lot, and certainly not with any kind of activity involving infiltration to criminal organizations.” The warforged glances at the inquisitive aswell. “Yes, why should we take such a big risk as we obviously are innocent as you say.” Gerard and the goblin, Reksiit, don’t look too convinced either.
“In the Sharn underworld, there is a war going on.” Movanek explains. “A criminal gang called the Boromar Clan has been controlling the entire Sharn crime syndicate in it’s grasp, up until two years ago when the Daask made it’s move. Daask is highly militarized, and makes extensive use of skirmish tactics and the strength of it’s monstrous members, the organization has many gnolls as members, and many more dangerous creatures are rumored.” Movanek walks to the window again. “I will see what I can do for your immediate release, and a suitable reward of say... 300 golden galifars per head could be assembled to reward you for a job well done. The half elf tusn and and gives up a crooked smile. “I think you find the offer satisfactory, gold and possibly no further harrasments from the part of the City Watch regarding the muggering yesterday.”
The group glances at each other but really does not see any options so they all agree to take the job. Movanek tells them to await instructions in the Broken Anvil Inn at lower parts of the ward of Dura. He wishes the group a pleasant stay at Sharn, and tells the anger bustling dwarf sergeant to let the party go. In a matter of minutes, the group stands at the edge of the Daggerwatch Garrison with all their belongins returned to them. It has stopped raining though even when a thick cloudcover hangs over the sky, the City of Towers is a fabulous sight by the sheer size, chaos and bustle of the largest city on the continent. The spaces between the towers are filled with similiar flying boats the group arrived at the garrison. Each of them seems unique, though, some sporting more oars or more bigger rudders. Some have small huts built on top of them to prevent rain, when others are little better than flying rowboats. Bigger vessels is seen in the higher levels of the towers, where they got more room to operate. Not any of the fabled House Lyrandar airships are visible, though, for they are too large to safely operate inside the metropolis. The complex latticework of streets, bridges hanging on thin air or with supports defying all nature, towers sprouting everywhere, and constant buzzle of traffic is overwhelming.
“Well that went rather better than expected.” Gerard notes and watches around. Marvelling the sight of Sharn for a moment. “Now I think you didn’t get rid of us so easilly as you thought, eh human?” He smiles at Argadon who grunts and doesn’t give the half elf a look. The warforged checks his equipment one more time. “How do we find our way in this chaos?” He asks with resonating metal voice and peers the city himself too. “We might take one of those.” The goblin points out at one of the boats passing by, and with a few minutes of waving and gesturing, one boat with two rudders glides to a halt near the plaza the group stands. “Greetings fer’ye!” The cheerful human wearing but linen shorts and a vest cheers. “Where ye’ll be goin’?”
“To the Broken Anvil Inn.” Modo says. “It is supposed to be in the lower parts of Dura...” Gerard tries to help, to which the boatman laughs. “New t’ Sharn eh? Don’ worry, ye’ll get to know places soon enough. Just don’ stay too long on the lowest levels o’ the towers, that’s the first advice.” He winks and opens a small door at teh side of the boat. “Welcome t’ my skycoach, as ‘tis how we call these boats. The trip is two silvery ones fer each head.” He holds out his palm, where Modo lowers eight octagonal coins made of silver. The boatman checks them by evaluating their weight in his hand, before smiling and pocketing them. Letting the group to choose their seats from the small boat freely. Then he turns the rudder and the boat slides off, joining to the traffic streaming through Sharn.
This trip is much more pleasant than the previous one with all the rain. Skycoach speeds up among the soaring towers and gorges formed up in between them. More than one kind of flying creature is seen darting amongst the other skycoaches, and sometimes a flying platform ferries passengers over the gaps too steep to sport a bridge. More such platforms ferry people up and down the sides of the towers. The skycoach makes a sharp turn, diving through a huge round hole in the side of one of the towers, seems the hole is made for these vessels as the people consisting various races do not even look up from their shoppings in the bazaar the inside of the tower seems to hold. After the tower, a huge chasm seems to split the city. It must be one of the canyons formed in the middle of the cliffs on top of which Sharn stands. The lack of towers makes the canyon and the air above it ideal for being the hub of air-based transport, and the air is filled with skycoaches, floating platforms and flying creatures. The bottom of the chasm is almost a mile below, and thick clouds of smoke, ash and heat burst out from the holes in the ground, disspating soon but keeping most flyers safely above the smokeclouds.
The skycoach speeds forwards and dives in a low angle, darting amongst the lower levels of the towers on the opposite side of the chasm. Within a few more moments of turning amidst the confusing array of towers and bridges, the coach slides to a stop at the wall of a wide-based tower made of red bricks, atleast from this wiev. The group hops out and marches to the door declaring the place to be “The Broken Anvil” and along the namesign, which depicts a cracked anvil, is hanging a sign of goldenfurred dog’s head with long ears, the symbol of House Ghallanda.
The twelve Dragonmarks which give some minor, or greater, magical abilities to their bearers generally would not alone explain the tremendous power the bloodlines of each mark wield in the economical world of Khorvaire. It is true, however, that when they first appeared over one and a half thousand years ago, the marks were giving their bearers the leading edge over their competitors, and a thousand years of commercial speculation, has left the twelve dragonmarked houses almost sole monopolies in each of their own field of expertise. House Ghallanda’s Hostelers Guild emply innkeepers, chefs and restauranteurs , as well as inspectors who enforce standards and regualte business for all member establishments- those run by the house as well as those independent inns and restaurants willing to earn a good name the House Ghallanda seal offers and display it all to see. The mark indicates House Ghallanda backs up the establishment and that it’s services are the best cost/quality ratio there is.
A happy halfling matron meets the group inside and shows them to their separate rooms. Modo sits on the bed, clearly happy to have just waited the others in the main hall, as he does not eat nor tire, but the matron was insisting that staying would mean buying a room, and Modo decided to make use of the space to the best of his ability, which is not much. Argadon takes the room furthest from the goblin and Gerard is happy to take the room between Reksiit and the unhappy human, though he suspects the big beard guy snores, he looks such that he snores. Reksiit just tosses his backpack to the room before returning downstairs for a goblet of wine and a bowlful of stew, reading a thick tome filled with sharp runic letters and strange patterns. The others take their time but eventualyl come to enjoy the silent dinner aswell. Modo needs to specifically ask food for himself as the matron was on the impression the warforged don’t need food. They don’t, but they do have dampened sense of smell and taste, and though the stew is even more blunt tasting to Modo than it is to everyone else, he laps it between his metal jaws despite. After a brief discussion to wait for word from the half elf inquisitive, the group heads for bed.
The morning finds them holding a sealed letter that is not from Creilath Movanek. The neat handwriting with blue ink greets Mister Modo Guess by name and suggests he and his friends should meet the writer in Mizano Rupa’s, a dinner theatre in Smoky Towers district in Middle Menthis Plateau. The writer seems to be extensively informed of last night’s happenings, and wishes that Modo would understand the perilous situation the group finds themselves in. The sender has not bothered to write any signature to the thin sheet of parchment.
“I don’t like this at all”. Argadon bellows and moves his beer tankard from hand to hand on the table, and Gerard nods approvingly. “What if it is a trap set by the friends of those we whammed ysterday?” Gerard adds and shakes his head. “Sounds like a big of a risk to me.”
“That might be true”, Modo says and glances at the letter and then Reksiit, who, for change, has lifted his gaze from the book and caressing a large black raven sitting on his shoulder. It must have been hiding in the goblin’s hood. “But I doubt they would arrange an attack in such a place as a dinner theatre. Besides, if they would want us dead that bad, and seem to know where to deliver a letter, why not ambush us the moment we leave that door? Perhaps they want to offer a deal and we might get wiser to know what the deal is, rather than not going and saying “no” in that way. They might get more offended and who knows? Perhaps the deal is good.”
With grunts and a few defering sighs the group rises, makes sure their weapons are secure, and grab a skycoach to the Smoky Towers.
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