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  The Tombs of the Old Heroes by Caspar David Friedrich, 1812  Midsummer has come to Rowangrave, the Country of Wayfarers, and with it the Long Night Festival draws near. From Quietbell in the east you have come, Cirrus Mist, on the last day of your seventeenth year. You travel with Sister Margrite and Father Velholme, cold guardians to you your entire life, and shepherd the little ones of Quietbell Orphanage on their one yearly pilgrimage. Rowangrave City is nothing like your Quietbell. Here the people live in houses with many floors, and with each floor another tenant. Walking among the cobblestone streets, neither horizon nor treeline is visible, but scents waft through the air—bread and spice and sometimes sewage. In this city there are Churches, plural, to gods beyond the Lord of Birth and Renewal. But you do not tarry long in the City. For just beyond its southern gate the Festival has begun. It is twilight and the air is warm and sticky, warmer still by the torches and braziers lining the market stalls. Both cityfolk and villagers from outskirts settlements like yours have flocked to the fete. And for this Festival, famous among all the Lands of Mist, travelers from strange countries have come. You feel some relief in the crowd, finding yourself among the long-eared and the horned, the tusked and the blue-skinned and the feathered. Rowangrave City is more cosmopolitan than your Quietbell, and you see no scornful looks upon strangers from strange lands here. One of the children squeals with delight as a kenku passes. “A giant walking bird! He’s even queerer than you are, Cirrus!” You look down to the child, a brown-haired boy about eight years old named Quel, and smile patiently. “That’s right,” you say, “and if you wander off I won’t be the only one you have to worry about stealing you up in the night and gobbling you whole!” You pick up the child and swing him through the air a bit. He laughs with glee, and soon the other children are begging for you to play with them too. The ruckus comes to an abrupt end as Sister Margrite harshly clears her throat. “Take this, Cirrus,” Father Velholme says to you dispassionately, handing you a coinpurse. “Amuse the children, and when the bell rings midnight gather them back here at the entrance. Keep whatever is left.” “When the bell rings midnight,” you repeat. A firefly passes in front of you, flickering green. “Indeed,” Father Velholme says. “After that you will be eighteen, and no longer a ward of the Orphanage. Take rest at a city inn or wheresoever you decide. Your life will be in your own hands.” You gaze at the man. Taller than you, wide and hairless, lacking even eyebrows or a beard. He was like a father to you all these years, in his own way, and Sister Margrite like your mother. Together they named you and raised you from infancy. Now that bond—no, that transaction—has come to its end. And your bond with the children will come to its end as well. “This is what you wanted, no?” he says. “It is,” you say. “It is.” For Quietbell was a suffocating place, and you were treated like a pockmark upon its cheek. No—there could be no option but to leave. You just hadn’t thought it would come so soon. Father Velholme pushes the coinpurse into your hands. You take the coins. Twilight draws on, and the children are growing restless. It is 8 o’clock in the evening of the summer solstice. The Long Night Festival awaits you. [You gain 15 silver pieces.] What do you do first? A. Take the children to the food stalls. B. Take the children to the game stalls. C. Take the children to the Vistani camp. Expect updates two or three times a week. Please bold your vote. Votes will be tallied until a new update is written. Gameplay will expand as the narrative increases in scope. This adventure will use the D&D 5e system, and all dice rolls will be done by hand.
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Jul 16, 2023 00:15
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[Post Reserved]
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Jul 16, 2023 00:15
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A. Voting for our first action to be getting food.
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Jul 16, 2023 00:35
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BraveLittleToaster posted:A. Voting for our first action to be getting food. A hungry kids are hard to control kids
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Jul 16, 2023 03:18
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[Take the children to the food stalls.] The children will be easier to tame once they have food in their hands. You kneel down to get eye-level with most of them—there are nine in all, from the youngest, Geth, at age 7, to Maribel at 12. “Let’s get you all something to eat,” you say. “But no sweets until after you've had a proper dinner, okay?” They respond in a din. You wonder for a moment at how joyful they seem; when you were their age you were all gloomy shadows. But then, the Orphanage has never had a sibling as old as you, unloved as you are in Quietbell. You push these dark thoughts away for now and focus on the positive: the children have had an older sibling in you, and that means someone besides the distant Sister Margrite and Father Velholme to raise them. You can be proud of that, at least. But oh, now Sabine wants to ride on your shoulders, so up she goes. Geth and Quel take either hand, and Maribel helps wrangle the rest. “Look!” Maribel says, and points to a gnome peddler. She runs to him and returns with several paper masks, cinched with elastic, meant only to last the night. They are in the shapes and colors of the many monsters that the hero Aldric is said to have vanquished, when he ended the Long Night two hundred years ago. Maribel slips on a werewolf mask. Now the children ooh and aah as they assume new identities: Quel the Quasit, Geth the Rakshasa. They insist that you don a monster mask as well, and so you are now an oni, the blue-skinned ogre mages of legend. The eye-holes are a little misshapen, and so you have to make mnemonics to keep track of the little ones. Quel the Quasit, Geth the Rakshasa, Maribel the Were-ibel, Sabine the Skeleton… It turns out there are no ‘proper dinners’ at a night festival. You settle for fried potatoes on sticks and sausages in slit buns. The youngest ones won’t eat anything spiced, and so you scour the glowing marketplace for carved turkey meat, repeating in your head all the while as you count heads: Quel the Quasit… Sabine the Skeleton… [You spend 20 copper.] You see a little head beneath a cloak, all green and pointy-eared, and you think to yourself that Geth has gotten away, that he’s across a crowd of people, and is sneaking an entire armful of dried meats out of a tent while the purveyor is distracted. Geth the Goblin… Intelligence Check: 13 Success Geth is a Rakshasa, not a Goblin. You scan the flock of little heads around you and spot the boy with his frightful tiger’s mask drawn to the side of his face, devouring a potato on a stick. You give a little sigh of relief as you count heads and it turns up nine. With dinner out of the way, the children are begging you for candies. You acquiesce and grant them colorful spun sugars and lollipops shaped like Aldric and his companions, Elfmaid Threnna and Bjornmir the Mighty. It is 8:45 in the evening. The sun has set, but the night is still young. The festival is packed, and as the blue hour sinks in the true atmosphere of the Long Night Festival begins, as lanterns begin to light up, beacons of warmth as far as the eye can see. The children are happily eating their candies and so you have a moment to think. You notice an armed guard is standing nearby and wonder if you should report the stolen food you recently witnessed. First Choice: Do you report the goblin shoplifter? A. Yes. B. No. Second Choice: What do you do next? A. Take the children to the game stalls. B. Take the children to the Vistani camp.
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Jul 16, 2023 04:12
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1. B, it's just a bit of casual shoplifting, not a concern. 2. A, let's see who we can stomp in a game.
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Jul 16, 2023 04:19
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If you see someone stealing food, no you didn't B A game for good kids
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Jul 16, 2023 04:28
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[Do not report the goblin shoplifter.] [Take the children to the game stalls.] You decide there is no harm in a single goblin stealing some food, so you say nothing to the guard and keep moving. The game stalls seem to stretch on to infinity. You peer into your coin purse. Thirteen silver. This is all you will have to your name by tomorrow. But work is plentiful in Rowangrave, and you want the children to have something to remember you by. So you decide to save at least five silver for yourself if you can, and spend the rest on showing them a good time. You start by redeeming some coppers for a reel of tickets. The children hold them as if they were deeds to gold mines, their fingers sticky with melted sugar. [You spend 5 copper.] Your group start at the strongman game. Maribel heaves a large mallet over her head and slams down on a spring, hoping to shoot a sliding cutout of a fireball up a pole and into the mouth of a looming wooden troll. Maribel rolls a Strength Check! 9 - 1 = 8 The cutout of the fireball barely reaches a black line labeled “Emaciated Kobold.” She curses, then stares at you in surprise and covers her mouth in embarrassment. “Morninglord’s merkin,” you repeat, mimicking her intonation. She bursts out laughing, face flushed. You give the game a shot. Cirrus rolls a Strength Check! 5 + 0 = 5 The hammer slips out of your hand and grazes the loaded spring. The fireball barely budges. You are not, it seems, a match for even an emaciated kobold. Maribel throws you a sarcastic look and you spend another token to try again. Cirrus rolls a Strength Check! 5 + 0 = 5 “loving thing,” you murmur quickly, and you ferry the children along to the next game. ——— Quel insists he wants to try to win a pet fish, so despite your best judgment you let him try to toss a white ball into a tightly-packed array of fishtanks. Quel rolls a Dexterity Check! 6 + 0 = 6 He is thankfully as bad at this game as you were at the Strongman game. Since Rowangrave is near the sea, all sorts of potential prizes were at stake. You don’t know how you’d explain to Sister Margrite that the children had a new pet squid. ——— Your eyes are drawn to a shooting gallery. It looks a little expensive, but it is calling to you. There is a stuffed owlbear cub prize for a perfect score, and you need it. “You always like these violent games,” Sabine says while stepping down from your shoulders. You hand several tickets to the dwarf in charge of the game. He hands you a mock flintlock pistol and a bucket of corks. Your goal: shoot seven glass bottles off a shelf. You only have eight shots. You take a moment to examine the toy pistol. You cock the hammer and feel its resistance—or rather, its lack of resistance—as you pull the trigger and hear a weak click. Investigation Check: 2 Failure The idea of knocking a glass bottle over with a toy this weak baffles you. Still, you hope to redeem yourself after your poor performance earlier. You take a deep breath and focus, taking aim at your first bottle before pulling the trigger. Attack Roll: 14 + 3 = 17 Hit! Damage Roll (1d8): 6 + 3 = 8 To the surprise of everyone, including the dwarf gamemaster, you load the toy pistol with a cork, aim at a precise location above the center of mass, and manage to tip the first bottle over. It falls from the shelf and lands on a cushion with a dull thud. Without hesitation, you load the next cork with focused efficiency and fire. Another fallen bottle. You repeat this action five more times, and all seven bottles fall. You even have a cork to spare. “Woah, Cirrus! Yer just like Threnna, from the stories!” Geth says in amazement. The dwarf asks you which prize you’d like and you immediately point to the owlbear cub plush. He takes it down from the wall and hands it to you and you hug it and squeeze it. It is soft. It is so, so soft. Maribel stares at you. At first you think it is the judgmental gaze of a twelve year old at your childishness. But as her glance shifts up at you, then down at the plush, then up again, you realize what she’s after. Charisma Contest! Maribel rolls 16 + 1 = 17 Cirrus rolls a Natural 20! “He’s mine, Maribel,” you say. “I swore an oath, just now. To be Hoo-bear’s loyal protector for now and forever.” The girl puffs her cheeks. She is impetuous. But she has no retort. Hoo-bear is yours. [You gain item: Hoo-bear] You turn to leave and barely miss bumping into someone. Three figures in white stand before you, a man and two women. You freeze for a moment. There is something about these people—they seem dangerous somehow. You have passed by several travelers, and even some adventurers over the course of the evening, but this is the first time your instincts have fired off a warning to you. The stronger of the two women, a toned and muscular woman with a short pale mullet, wearing a tanktop and a warrior’s white overcoat tied around her waist, approaches you and the children. For just a moment you think upon the utility knife in your back pocket. “Mind if I try that game next?” she says. You stand there dumb and then realize that there is no danger after all. She takes the toy gun from your loose grip and reaches into the bucket of corks. The dwarf raises a hand to demand her ticket, but she has already cocked the hammer and fired. The shot sounds through the night, a boom like a firework. With a single shot she grazes the left side of the first bottle in the line, and it shoots sideway with an equal and opposite reaction, knocking into the rest of the bottles and scattering them to the floor. All eyes are on the woman, and the dwarven gamemaster seems concerned, even a little angry, at the show she’s put on. “Galea, you don’t know your own strength,” the man in white says, his voice smooth. He has the air of a knight about him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a roll of tickets, hands them to the gamemaster, and says, “She should have paid up first, but you’ll honor these tickets, won’t you? The girl here would so love to have that prize.” The dwarf wordlessly takes the tickets and hands the woman named Galea an owlbear cub plush. Incredulous at first, Maribel’s face lights up when the mysterious woman hands her the plush. “Look, Cirrus! My very own Hoo-bear! Oh, they’ll be twins! Thank you, miss.” The woman looks over in your direction, makes eye contact with you. “You’ve got potential,” she says. She fixes the knot on the jacket tied to her waist and walks away. The man throws a devil-may-care smirk in your direction, and he and the other woman walk off too. As they walk away, you notice an emblem common amongst them: a brooch depicting what appears to be a silver full moon. The scene dies down. ——— It is 9:50 in the evening. It’s nighttime, and the revelry is in full swing. All around you people are drinking ale from steins, wearing monster masks, and singing folk songs to ward off monsters. ”Mandragore, mandragore, Stay down in the soil! I’ve worries on my mind And twice my load of toil! Drider, drider, Keep spinning in the dark…” You’ve used up most of your tickets. You still plan on taking the children to see the Vistani camp, but there’s enough time, if you wanted, to buy more tickets for the children’s sake. Spend more money on the children before going to the Vistani camp? A. Yes. B. No. Cephas fucked around with this message at 18:32 on Jul 16, 2023 |
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Jul 16, 2023 06:40
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B. To the Vistani camp! It's getting a bit too busy here.
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Jul 16, 2023 14:23
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B gotta get those fortunes told so we know who'll be the hero and who'll be the
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Jul 16, 2023 14:31
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ALL the money to the kids, because we won't need it where we are going! (To get a job, that'll give us money back)
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Jul 16, 2023 14:48
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[Head to the Vistani camp.] It has been time enough at the game stalls. The strange trio in white left you feeling uneasy. You are not sure how, exactly, the woman named Galea pulled off her trick at the shooting gallery. Was it magic, or some other strange power? You and Maribel hold your toy owlbear cubs as you lead the children through busy crowds. You notice now how passing strange some of the revelers are—knights from the northeastern kingdom of Morgause, in their dark iron armor; groups of tonsured scholars in their flowing robes. Are they all here merely to celebrate? Or might this gathering serve many purposes, as many as there are disparate interests in the Lands of Mist? A trodden dirt path splits from the paved stone road, leading to a field where many wagons are parked. In customary Vistani fashion, the wagons are tightly packed from end-to-end, forming a semicircular perimeter. The change in culture is tangible. A large bonfire is roaring, its flames ectoplasmic blue. “Lookit that!” Sabine says. “Are they witches?” Nature Check: 11 Success “They might be witches,” you say playfully to the girl riding on your shoulders, “But that flame isn’t magic. Look, someone is throwing metal dust into the fire to make it that color.” “Then what about this strange smell? It’s wafting from over there!” says another child. “Apotropaic.” The voice that speaks the word is deep, accented. In the flickering light of the bonfire you see a lizard man, a dragonborn, whose brass scales reflect strange hues cast by the blue fire. “We burn artemisia and alliums to ward off evil wherever we go,” he says to the children. They repeat the botanical words to themselves in wonderment. The dragonborn looks to you with a warm and enchanted glimmer in his eyes. “Come and sit by the fire. We have tales and tonics, and you will hear such music as you have never heard in all of Rowangrave.” “Is this Madam Eva’s caravan?” you ask. “Ah. No, it is not,” the dragonborn says pointedly. “It is mine. I am Thaundry.” He pauses for a moment. “Madam Eva was occupied this summer, and so my caravan took her route. Do you have need of a fortune teller?” “I’d like to have my cards read.” The Vistani’s expression brightens, and he slaps you on the back. “Good! Good! We have a card reader, an excellent new card reader. Comes from the Feywild. Do you know the Feywild, children? It is the land of pixies!” He laughs heartily and the children are delighted. With open arms he shepherds your group to the campground, takes Sabine off your shoulders and hoists her onto his own. You sit by the fire for a while, and cold sweet drinks with muddled herbs are proffered to you. A dark elf plucks a rosewood zither, seriously at first, with tremolo in the strings, and then the melody quickens and other Vistani begin to clap along. You gaze into the blue fire as a woman with furry ears tells the children a ghost story from a distant land. “You spoke of Madam Eva,” Thaundry says, taking a seat next to you. “I am guessing that you had hopes for more than cards.” “It’s my eighteenth birthday come midnight… I was thinking I might want to join the Vistani. Leave Rowangrave and travel the Lands of Mist. When I spoke to Madam Eva at last year’s Festival, she said such a thing could be arranged.” “Indeed it can be. With Madam Eva, or with me.” Reflected blue fire dances over the dragonborn’s gold iris, his black sclera. You look over at the children. Your little siblings. Already your heart is set. Thaundry shows you to a wagon with a little sign hanging over its doorway: “Mx. Lias, Spirit Medium.” You peer behind you as you enter the wagon, and Thaundry is entertaining the children. ——— Lavender balls of light quiver in the air of the wagon, casting softly onto draperies of dark velvet. The room smells faintly of amaretto. An androgynous youth, perhaps the same age as you, sits at a round table, resting their chin upon crossed fingers. They greet you with a coy smile and half-lidded eyes. “Welcome, seeker of fortune. I am Lias, and I speak for the spirits.” You take a seat across from Lias. Their expressive eyes grow wide with wry amusement. “Will you perform a Tarokka reading for me?” you ask. “My. An oni. I’ve yet to read an ogre’s fortune. This meeting must be destined by the fates.” Lias opens a hard leather box with a blue felt interior, carefully taking out a deck of cards. They begin to shuffle the deck, glancing up at you. “While I’m preparing the deck, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? Or about this land—I’ve never traveled here before. Oh, and… Please, feel free to take off that festival mask.” You take the mask off and set it aside, revealing your face to the fortune teller. Choice 1: What race are you? A. Half-Drow B. Half-Orc C. Tiefling Choice 2: What do you share with Lias? A. The origin of the Long Night Festival. B. The circumstances of your birth. C. What life was like in Quietbell. D. Your plans for tomorrow. This decision will be left open for a couple days. Cephas fucked around with this message at 19:17 on Jul 16, 2023 |
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Jul 16, 2023 18:28
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1.C 2. A, show off some of our festival knowledge. BraveLittleToaster fucked around with this message at 18:47 on Jul 16, 2023 |
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Jul 16, 2023 18:33
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Be a big fellow D we might be roomies soon
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Jul 16, 2023 19:42
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C A
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Jul 17, 2023 14:27
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[You are a Tiefling.] [You tell Lias about the history of the Long Night Festival.] You reveal to Lias your pale blue-grey skin. Your long hair, the color of spent ashes, curls untidily into wisps and tendrils around your face and down to your shoulderblades. Two jagged, short dark horns emerge from your forehead. Your long, smooth devil’s tail, tipped like a spade, flicks to and fro anxiously as the fortune teller examines you, a coy smile never leaving their lips. Cirrus posted:Name: Cirrus Mist ––– You think on what to talk to Lias about as they shuffle their Tarokka deck. Not one to dwell on yourself, you decide instead to tell them about the festival. “The Long Night Festival,” you say. “Sometimes we get travelers asking why it takes place on the shortest night of the year. There are two reasons.” Lias shifts their glance up at you momentarily and smiles, an indication of their attentiveness. Your tail flicks, involuntarily, in response. “Ah… The first reason is, the festival is in remembrance of The Long Night, an era that ended two hundred years ago. This land was once blighted and cursed by the Darklord Malafina, a fell sorceress who commanded an army of darkness. When the heroes Aldric, Elfmaid Threnna, and Bjornmir the Mighty banded together and defeated Malafina, they ended The Long Night and brought tranquility to the land. So we honor their victory on the eve when night is at its shortest. The second reason is simply that it may be a short night for our sphere, but it is a long one for us. The festivities do not end until dawn.” “It is a good tradition,” Lias says, straightening the freshly shuffled deck of cards. “There are not many places of respite in the Lands of Mist, and Rowangrave is among those honored few.” There is experience behind the youth’s words, you can tell, and your appraisal of the fortune teller deepens. How different a life they must have led so far, compared to yours, to know of countries beyond the enveloping mist. And Thaundry had spoken of even more–that they had hailed from the Feywild, a land of myth and fable to you. “Speak to me your name and what you wish to know, seeker of fortune.” “I am Cirrus Mist. At midnight I turn eighteen, and I will be free to stake my claim on this world. I wish to know what the future holds.” “Very well. The Druid’s Cross will reveal your fate.” Lias draws several cards and lays them out upon the table, facing you.  Tarokka Deck, Wizards of the Coast, 2020 The fortune teller’s expression darkens. “I’m sorry,” Lias says. You see their throat clench. “This is a horrible fortune.” They breathe deeply and place their head in their hands. Their prior assurance and composure withers. In festivals prior, you have had your cards read to you before. Never has a fortune teller seemed so reluctant to speak. Now Lias stares down at the cards, their hands obscuring the bottom half of their face. “Lias?” “Sorry. Right. Let me read this to you.” Their voice grows solemn, incantatory. “You will lose something of yourself, and that loss will haunt you. You will be harried and hunted. Something shall be revealed to you. Great pain awaits you, either yours or others’. Your thoughts shall dwell with the Darklord, with power eating power. Seek out unknown power. You must learn to shape raw power, for you walk the path of death and ill omen. You will not know your hopes from fears. But if you survive this journey, Cirrus Mist, you will have the power to protect. You will have the power to banish.” “What…?” “So speaketh the spirits.” Lias averts their gaze from you, quiet. Then they look you in the eyes and their expression eases. “They’re only cards, Cirrus. Do not look so rattled! How your tail quivers like a threatened alleycat. They’re only cards. They will not reach out and strike you.” Insight Check: Natural 1 You reluctantly accept Lias’s consolation. Unsure of what to say next, you think to reach for your coin pouch, taking the small bag from your pocket and untying its leather string. “You do not need to pay me, Cirrus,” Lias says, returning the drawn cards to their deck. “I overheard your conversation with Thaundry. If you mean to join our band, then you will be family. We do not take money from family.” The mood lightens, and Lias taps one of the hovering balls of light, causing it to change its hue to a soft pink. They begin to speak again when a hurried little knock comes on the door. It is Geth standing at the entrance. He looks to you with excitement. “Look, Cirrus, the moon! It’s started.” You step outside the wagon with Lias and look up into the night sky. The full moon is blood red. It is the hunter’s moon. A falling star flits across the night sky, passing in front of the moon, and descends into the dark woods as it crosses the horizon. You see the horseman’s card laid upon the table in your mind. You will be hunted, it says. The distant churchbell sounds, a low and soulful peal. It is midnight. It is your birthday. You turn to Lias in the moonlight. “We have to be going,” you say. “Thank you for… reading the cards. And for everything. I hope to see you again tomorrow.” “Spirits protect you,” Lias says. You gather the children and leave the Vistani campgrounds, making your way to the city gates as promised. The sound of wistful music grows more distant with each step. ––– The festival crowds have grown eerie in the red light of the moon. Folk gaze up at the sky and speak softly among themselves. Your flock of children grow sleepy and weary of the trek back–even Maribel, the oldest, yawns and drags her feet. Sister Margrite and Father Velholme stand by the side of the road, awaiting your arrival. Margrite takes the children from your shepherding, places her hands upon Sabine’s shoulders. “Cirrus is very tired and is going to find a place to sleep tonight,” Father Velholme says. “Children, wave good night.” He stares at you coldly among the children’s waving hands. You take in the sight of the children, of your family, one last time, and turn to continue toward the city gates. You are free now, you think to yourself. Free from the Orphanage. Free from the scorn of Quietbell. You will never have to go there again, where people call you goat-child, devil-child. Where they call you knife-tail, and refuse you entry and hide their children from you and accuse you of the death of their livestock. You will not need to suffer their foolishness with a strained smile, or accept and encourage the superstitions of the children you care for. You will not need to pray to a god who hates you. You think of Geth by the blue fire, his hands damp with the perspiring drops of the chilled Vistani drink. You think of Maribel with her twin owlbear cub. Of Quel donning his ridiculous mask. And of Sabine kicking your shoulders too hard as she rode upon you. Of feeding and consoling and teaching the children for every day of your life. You accepted Father Velholme’s bargain–leave quietly without saying goodbye. But your devil’s heart cannot remain silent. You turn back on the road, quickening your pace. All you want is to say goodbye. To wish them all good night. You return to the spot where you departed, but your family is no longer there. Darkvision. You catch feint movement from the corner of your eyes. Something is moving at the edge of the forest. The children…? Yes, you see the group of them, with Father Velholme taking lead and Sister Margrite pushing them along. But why would they take the children into the forest? Perception Check: 17 Success They are taking the children to the fallen star. What do you do? A. Confront Father Velholme and Sister Margrite. B. Follow them from a distance. Cephas fucked around with this message at 22:46 on Jul 21, 2023 |
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Jul 20, 2023 03:27
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B. Taking a group of lovable children you grew up with towards a fallen star is inherently suspicious! But better not to confront them until they feel they're out of sight and let their guard down, I think.
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Jul 20, 2023 03:34
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B yeah this is sus
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Jul 20, 2023 04:46
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Something B going down
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Jul 20, 2023 21:13
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A Tell the kids to run back to the city Ice the clergy
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Jul 20, 2023 21:33
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[Follow them from a distance.] This is not the first time you have slipped under the notice of your guardians. At strange hours of the day you have peered between loose boards in the orphanage to spy Sister Margrite drawing blood over parchment, Father Velholme offering unfamiliar prayers read from elusive tomes you have only seen in shadows. Creature of darkness, you have been called. But you have long since embraced that title. Stealth Check: 19 Success  The Chasseur in the Forest, David Caspar Friedrich, 1814 You keep apace easily as you close the distance between yourself and the group. From rowan tree to rowan tree you make your cover, the sound of your soft, practiced footfalls dampened in the humid air. Soon the copse of rowan trees gives way to primordial pine forest, and those tall, swaying shapes cast the forest floor in near total darkness. Your eyes are accustomed to the dark, but the Father and Sister’s aren’t, and so you keep sixty feet between yourself and a dim lantern bobbing in the near distance. You follow the lantern as the forest breaks into a small clearing. In the red light of the eclipse, you see Father Velholme and Sister Margrite stand at the stone threshold of a ruined chapel, roofless and exposed to the elements. Engraved upon its facade is the symbol of the God of Rebirth and Renewal, the Morninglord: a radiant sun rising over a road.  The Abbey in the Oakwood, Caspar David Friedrich, 1810 The Father and Sister shepherd the children into the ruins of the chapel. From your vantage point a safe distance away, taking cover behind dense foliage, you are able to appraise the situation. Insight Check: 18 Success The children do not seem to be their usual selves. Forced to travel through dark woods after a long night of revelry, you expect some protestation or signs of weariness upon them. Instead, their body language is strangely muted; they do not hang off each other or slouch or show any fearfulness. Something smolders on the dark chapel floor, glowing hot and red. Sister Margrite takes off her cloak, swaddles the glowing thing in cloth, and lifts it off the ground. What do you do? A. Continue to evaluate the situation from a safe distance. B. Stealthily enter the abbey, preparing to intervene in whatever is about to happen. C. Reveal yourself and demand an explanation from Father Velholme and Sister Margrite. D. Don the oni mask and come up with a bluff about impending danger. E. Rush in and try to bring the children to their senses. F. Try to cause some of the old stonework to tumble with a ray of frost.
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Jul 21, 2023 19:19
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This is all highly irregular. D. Oni time. Bluff the hell out of them.
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Jul 21, 2023 19:55
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Be a tricksy creature of darkness
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Jul 21, 2023 21:21
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Be prepared for anything
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Jul 22, 2023 06:48
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G Ray of Frost on baby god
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Jul 23, 2023 03:45
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[Stealthily enter, prepared to intervene.] On either side the ruined chapel lie empty frames that once held stained glass windows. Their bottom sections stand only a few feet off the ground. Better to enter from an unexpected angle, you decide, and close the distance. The time to act may be soon. Stealth Check: 5 Failure You find a solid foothold between the stonework of the chapel side wall, boosting yourself up to the empty window frame. As you prepare to lower yourself into the chapel, the corroded iron window frame you are grasping for support crumbles into dust. Your balance shifts unexpectedly and you do not land so much as stumble into the ruined building, halfway between the entrance and the altar at the chapel’s end. You slide for cover behind a collapsed, moldy church pew, but it is too late. Sister Margrite turns in your direction, holding the swaddled, smoldering thing to her chest like a protective mother. In the dead silence of the chapel, you hear the sound of flickering flame eating through the cloth. “Children! To the altar!” she says, her voice pained. The children hurry in uncanny unison, slowing down as they approach the altar, and make a line in front of Father Velholme. He looks out into the darkness, holding his lantern above the line of children, and says, “To me, Sister! The time is upon us! The child must be baptized!” Sister Margrite backs her way to the stone altar with a swiftness and surefootedness you did not know she possessed. She draws the smoldering thing from her breast and you see that it has burned through her vestment, revealing woman’s flesh beneath. In the light of the Father’s lantern you catch a glimpse of the smoldering thing. The fallen star. The meteorite. A newborn babe? A mewling cry echoes through the chapel as Margrite lays the meteoric child on the altar. “Milk of human kindness marks your covenant with man,” Sister Margrite says. Now she and Father Velholme speak in unison. “We anoint thee in holy myrrh, promised savior of man.” “Continue the sacrament,” Father Velholme says. “I will protect us from this intruder.” He leaves the lantern on the altar, stepping down. The children part for him like reeds. He holds out a palm and a flame flickers into life, illuminating the chapel ruins. In his other hand he holds a heavy ceremonial scepter. You are at the edge of the light, hidden behind a dilapidated church pew. Your presence is known but you have not yet been seen. Behind you is the entrance to the ruined chapel. Father Velholme approaches. Behind him, the line of children obscures the baby on the altar. Sister Margrite, standing over the altar, finishes reciting a prayer and draws a long, silver sewing needle. What do you do? A. Emerge from behind the pew and disarm them with words of faith and devotion. B. Dash passed Father Velholme, the children, and Sister Margrite, and grab the smoldering infant. C. Throw your dagger at Father Velholme in a surprise attack. D. Cast a Ray of Frost at Sister Margrite. E. Flee the chapel and run for your life. Cephas fucked around with this message at 04:43 on Jul 23, 2023 |
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Jul 23, 2023 04:32
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Dont like how close that needle is to our kids
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Jul 23, 2023 04:37
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D. Let's just settle whatever this meteorite baby nonsense is right now.
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Jul 23, 2023 04:52
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Welp, hosed that up right and good. Grab that Baby!
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Jul 23, 2023 05:58
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D
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Jul 23, 2023 14:07
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[Cast a Ray of Frost at Sister Margrite.] Initiative! Cirrus Mist = 19 Sister Margrite = 9 Father Velholme = 7 An image flashes through your mind of a wild hog you once put down to protect the orphanage. The cold of deep darkness, the cold of your blood, bruising animal flesh and boring in, leaving a crater of black necrosis on a lifeless body in the garden. You cannot hesitate. From the shadows you aim your finger, pistol-like, at your old guardian. The strangely pleasant chill of channeled energy travels down your arm and concentrates on your fingertip. It feels as if you have plunged your hand into a freezing lake. The blue ray flies over the childrens’ heads. Attack roll: 19 + 2 = 21 Hit! Damage roll: 1d8 = 6 Cirrus deals 6 cold damage to Sister Margrite. The Ray of Frost flies true, striking Sister Margrite in the heart. She doubles over, disoriented and shocked. But she does not go down. Clutching the silver needle tightly, she stumbles toward the line of children and jabs the needle into the forehead of the first child she can reach. Sabine. You have no time to think. Father Velholme’s scepter rises, its brass head depicting a sun whose rays are many wings, and in his resonant preacher’s voice you hear him speak magicked words. “The morning star smites thee, wicked child!” The scepter flashes like daybreak. Everything becomes obscure, as though you have been staring into the sun. Wisdom saving throw: 13 + 1 = 14 Success The magicked words do not break your resolve. Your senses return just in time to see Father Velholme looming in front of you, disrupting your shot on Sister Margrite. His raised scepter is ready to come crashing down upon you. What do you do? A. Cast Ray of Frost on Sister Margrite with disadvantage. B. Take an opportunity attack from Father Velholme in order to break away from him and cast a Ray of Frost on Sister Margrite. C. Disarm Father Velholme of his scepter. D. Attack Father Velholme with your dagger. E. Grapple Father Velholme. F. Flee.
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Jul 28, 2023 05:51
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B
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Jul 28, 2023 06:03
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D
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Jul 28, 2023 07:46
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B
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Jul 28, 2023 20:45
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[Take an opportunity attack and cast Ray of Frost on Sister Margrite.] Father Velholme makes an opportunity attack against Cirrus Mist: Miss. The heavy ceremonial scepter swings down at you in a wide arc. Father Velholme’s momentum works against him, and you step out of the way as he lurches forward with the swing. You have only a moment to line up the shot. You raise your finger at Sister Margrite, steadying your aim with your other hand. You have to be careful; you cannot miss. The needle is in her hand, and she is poised now to pierce the next child in line. In the air, in the lamplight and the rust-red luster of the moon, you see little droplets of blood, floating in a stream from the prick in Sabine’s flesh toward the infant crying on the altar. Cirrus casts Ray of Frost: Natural 20. Critical Hit! Cirrus deals 14 frost damage. Your Ray of Frost pierces through Sister Margrite’s neck. The blackened hole mists in the summer air, and the ray crashes into the stonework behind the altar, smattering frozen blood upon the wall. Flesh and bone and sinew go brittle and shatter, and Sister Margrite’s head falls in front of the line of placid children. Your first kill. Father Velholme’s eyes bulge. “Devil child!” he yells. “You doom us all! God give me strength!” Again he raises his scepter aloft. Wisdom saving throw: 12 + 1 = 13. Failure. Cirrus is paralyzed. Light floods your senses. It is the filtered light of stained glass, the light of the orphanage’s church. Here, in a ruined, open chapel under the full moon, a variegated pattern casts strange light upon you from a nonexistent window. Eight frames of eight stained panels color your face and the surrounding overgrown soil. The golden sun and its red rays; the green earth and Lathander’s golden path. You cannot move. You cannot even blink. Again Father Velholme stands in front of you. “Too long on the vine, wicked thing. Wither now.” He reaches out his flaming hand to grasp your head. With every ounce of strength in you, you try to break free of his spell. You call upon your devil’s blood. You call upon your desire to leave this land. You call upon your fate. Wisdom saving throw: 7 + 1 = 8. Failure. His burning hand engulfs your face. The flame fills your mouth, your nose, your eyes. The illusory light of the stained glass window catches on his hand, deep unearthly gold. In stained red light you feel your insides putrefy. Father Velholme casts Inflict Wounds with advantage. Critical Hit! Father Velholme deals 22 necrotic damage. Cirrus is reduced to -13 hit points. Father Velholme releases his grasp on your head. Pus runs, tearlike, down your decaying cheeks. The last bit of flesh melts from your jawbone, and motionless, you hear it land dully on the ground. “Accursed thing,” Father Velholme says, wiping his hand clean with a handkerchief. “Return to the mists from whence you came.” In your final moments, you see the man walk calmly toward the altar. He takes the silver needle from Sister Margrite’s headless body, and one by one he pricks the foreheads of the remaining eight children. With each child he repeats the same prayer. Another wing for the true child of light. Another wing for the true child of light. Another wing for the true child of light. Another wing for the true child of light. Another wing for the true child of light. Another wing for the true child of light. Another wing for the true child of light. Another wing for the true child of light. Like red beads run along a string, the drops of the children’s blood flow through the air toward the infant. Carmine wings for a golden child. Your siblings turn to ash, and the beating of the infant’s ninefold wings scatters them upon the wind. All hope fades from your soul. You die.
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Jul 29, 2023 04:50
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Game's over, time to go home. Sometimes the dice just gets you.
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Jul 29, 2023 04:54
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Oh well, let's go play Super Mario Kart before the pizza gets here.
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Jul 29, 2023 05:13
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 In terror then I turned My back upon the infernal band, and fled To my own place, and closed my door; distraught And like a drunkard who sees all things twice, With feverish troubled spirit, chilly and sick, Wounded by mystery and absurdity! -The Seven Old Men, Charles Baudelaire [Five years later.] “gently caress!” “Fuckity fuckity gently caress!” “Sheeeeeeeeeyit!” A barrage of drum beats. A cymbal crash. The beating of a snare like a gunshot. “Fuckity gently caress and shititty poo poo! Stupid smug halfling smartass!” You look out the window of your bedroom at the stone wall of the adjacent building. It’s still dark out. It’s not even dawn and your flatmate is losing his mind in the living room. You roll out of bed, careful not to hit anything against your eyepatch. “You think you’re pretty but you’re loving lovely! Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!!!!!!!” The pounding in your head is even worse than what Damien is doing to that drum kit. Straight, greasy white hair parted to one side, blank milky eyes, and pearlescent skin. The changeling is pouring his heart out, his trashy, rubbish heart out, in nothing but his belted black trousers, so you can see the ridges of his ribcage along his lanky sides. His gray nips are out in full force. You raise your voice to compete with the din of his extended drum solo. “What the hell are you doing, Fischer! I covered evenings last night! I barely got any sleep!” The changeling rolls his playing to a drawn-out climax and turns to you after the last sounding of the cymbal fades. “It’s such bullshit, Cirrus,” Damien says. “That bitch Kilchik stole my story!” The headache diffuses into fatigue. “What?” “My story,” he repeats. “For the Gazetteer. I was scoping that piece for days. And that smartass hobbit gets her version of the story published just because she’s shagging the boss!” You rub your temples. The wound where your right eye used to be is throbbing. Still, a vaguely familiar sensation washes over you. “Why don’t you take it easy and I can chill you a cup of water?” “You’re always trying to smooth out wrinkles, Cirrus. What if I want to keep those wrinkles? Hell, I have the right to be pissed. It’s favoritism, poo poo!” He smacks a cymbal with his drumstick. You hear a banging come from the floorboards beneath your feet. “Gods, Damien, you’re going to wake the dead.” “That lovely old man downstairs would be better off dead. Yeah, you hear that, Baldwyn!” “Stop stomping on the floor, Damien, you’re the one who started this. You’re going to piss him off again.” It’s too late. Oily, chartreuse vapors begin to rise through the floorboards. You instinctively begin to hold your breath and run to open all the windows. “gently caress!” Damien says, and inhales a whiff of the Stinking Cloud. Damien Fischer makes a constitution saving throw: 11 + 0 = 11 Failure The changeling keels over on the floor, gasping and heaving. You grab some parchment and begin fanning the fumes out of the room. “Well,” you say, “at least that’ll take care of the roaches.” You grab a metal cup and fill it with water from a pitcher. Concentrating just a little bit of your power into your fingertips, you chill the water until it’s ice cold. Bending over, you leave the cup next to Damien on the floor. “Drink that and make sure to vent the place by the time I get back, okay?” Damien groans. — — — You get dressed for your shift at the Redcap Tavern. In front of a cracked mirror you check your appearance. Heeled boots over long stockings. A skirt with a hole for your tail. A padded bustier under frilled green blouse. And a ribboned red kerchief nestled between your horns. When you dreamed of city life, you never thought you’d make your living playing a lusty barmaid. But this single shift pays as much as all of Damien’s side gigs put together. You apply some powders to your face, check yourself in the mirror, and don a hooded cloak as you head out the door. The vermin of the city watch you as you cross its musty streets. Rats in alleyways stop their rummaging and turn their heads toward you. Perched crows caw until you pass them. But among the throngs of people—Rowangrave City never sleeps—you are just one among many. — — — “I’m here, boss,” you say, throwing your cloak onto the entrance coat rack. A few heads turn as you uncover. It’s been five years, but you’re still not used to it—the gaze of cityfolk, not of hostility but of interest. Though you find the outfit a little humiliating, you have to admit that there is something nice about being admired. You serve food and drink and make pleasant smalltalk with the tavern patrons. Some of them have been there since your night shift ended. Sleep deprived, you power through the morning shift. “Nice thighs, tiefling,” an unfamiliar half-orc woman says as you serve her a stein. You throw a friendly smile in her direction and make a bit of eye contact with her. Performance check: 3 + 0 = 3 Failure She sneers at you a bit and takes her drink. poo poo, no tip. As you turn to get back to work, you overhear the conversation at their table. “Says there’s dragon nests at the foot of Tor Mountains. Abandoned now, what with things getting worse in the wilds. So he poached some dragon eggs and sold ‘em for a fortune to some wyvern riders.” “Yah, good luck raising a hatchling dragon. Buncha madmen, that lot by Firefall are.” You jot down a quick note in your notebook: Tor Mountains, dragon eggs, Firefall wyvern riders. Your shift ends without incident early in the afternoon. Cirrus gains 1 level of exhaustion. — — — It’s another day in Rowangrave City. As tired as you are, you don’t feel like going home to a hungover roommate and a fumigated living room, so you decide to kill some time. What do you do? A. Buy a pie for Old Baldwyn as a peace offering. B. Explore the sprawling backstreets. C. Visit the haunted library. D. [Dark Gift] Commune with the vermin. E. Grab a copy of the latest Ravenloft Gazetteer.
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Jul 29, 2023 19:24
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D. Let's exchange the latest news and hot gossip with our vermin pals, hear what Jerry has been up to during his wacky adventures.
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Jul 29, 2023 19:29
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| # ? Jun 10, 2024 03:48 |
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Best know our area
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Jul 29, 2023 21:50
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