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Enemy of my Enemy

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(no subject) [Jun. 26th, 2007|10:15 pm]
Enemy of my Enemy

((OOC: Yep. It's back, after what... four months? Blegh. On with the show!))

The party wasted no time in leaving behind what was left of the kitfolk village and hurrying away from the area with the Ghostfang scouts in tow. Eventually, they put enough distance between the ruined town and themselves to outrun the chill that lingered in the area. They set up camp as best they could beside the road in the lingering darkness, hoping to get at least a few hours' rest before dawn. Less than an hour had passed, however, when two mounted figures came trotting up the road. One seemed to be roughly human-sized; its mate was perhaps half its size, and rode a creature closer to a dog's size than a horse's.

As the riders drew near, Garen, the leader of the Ghostfang, called out to them. "Take it slowly, travellers, and let's have a look at you. We've had one hell of a night, and we're taking no chances with strangers 'till daybreak." A feral snarl issued from under the hood of the smaller rider, but it ceased its noise when its fellow rider spoke.

"Stand down, Garen," the larger rider replied. "You know me, and I'll vouch for Lumbie here."

"Bird?" Garen asked.

"The same," she said, drawing back her hood. "Now, what can I do for you?"

((OOC: For those who have forgotten, these two came from our very first session - Bird was the governess of the town of Muffin's Honor who sent the party to Devian in the first place, and Lumbie was the kobold on exhibit in the freakshow as "The Lizard Boy."


Meanwhile, unknown to the PCs, the Royal Coroner to the Imperial Court of Emperor Marcus Argentus was also having an interesting night...))

The High Chancellor was an impossible man, Khelmort thought. Even a dwarf could only tolerate so much stubbornness. What was the point of performing autopsies on all of these dead criminals if the Chancellor would only refuse that the results be forwarded to the watch? Khelmort had learned a great deal about this vigilante killer that the Morning Press had dubbed "the Wolf" - his methods were constant, as was his choice of victim. Every corpse had been a career criminal; each had its throat ripped out, its lungs punctured just above the lowest rib, and the main artery leading from the heart severed. Death would have been by exsanguination and mercifully quick, likely a matter of seconds. A savage modus operandi, to be sure, but Royal Coroner Khelmort also saw a deliberate professionalism in it.

Even the Press knew and said as much, though. As he stomped back from the palace to the morgue, Khelmort felt far more frustration at what the Chancellor forbade him to tell anyone else. Rumors of wolf-men had flown since the first killing, but Khelmort had proof, proof that should have seen all the night watch re-fitted with silvered weapons. The Chancellor, ever unmovable, refused to take any chance of an information leak causing a general panic. Khelmort sighed as he pushed through the heavy oak-and-iron back door of the morgue. It couldn't be helped. Not if he wanted to keep his job, anyway.

It would all be a waste, Khelmort thought, if he got sacked. The bright tile hallway he followed from the door, the examination room it led to, all of it - it'd all go to rot and ruin without him. Nobody, he knew, would be able to carry on his work. He'd made two hundred years of painstaking study to get there, and no one would fill his shoes if he blabbed and got fired. As he stepped into the examination room, he ran a hand along one steel basin, admiring for the thousandth time its workmanship, the flawless reflection of the gasless ceiling lights - his own inventions. Khelmort yawned, stretched, and pulled on a drawer handle beneath the basin, removing one wand from the box within. He walked over to the examination table and gave the corpse on it one long last look.

"Well, mess," he told it, "it's been a long night, so the rest will have to wait 'till morning." He waved the wand over it and, satisfied that the magic would keep the cadaver from decaying, placed the wand back in the drawer and headed for the door. As he stepped outside and locked up, he remarked, "Not that whatever we find tomorrow will ever see the light of day."

"Oh, I don't know about that," a voice growled behind Khelmort. One black-clad arm swept about him, gripping him like a noose, and Khelmort felt the prick of a blade under his chin. "Let's take this somewhere more private, old boy," the growl suggested. "The alley sound good to you?"

"You-" Khelmort began.

"I thought so." The figure behind him dragged Khelmort around the corner in its steely embrace. "Now, master dwarf," it said, "can I trust you not to turn around if I let go of you? I'd bet my bottom copper that a bright one like you knows who I am by now anyway, eh?"

"I suspect you are the Wolf. Bearing that in mind, I'll stay put." Khelmort was too busy trying to commit the voice to memory for his own to betray any fear.

The arm was gone as quickly as it'd grabbed him. "Good man. I hate to hold you at the point of my sword so. We want the same thing, you see - or at least, one thing in common."

"Do tell."

The voice laughed a short, curt chuckle. "I admire your pluck, dwarf. What we both want is for the notes in your satchel - aye, THOSE notes, the ones the Chancellor saw - we both want them to find their way to the public."

"If I may be so bold...?" Khelmort asked.

"Why do I, of all people, want them published?"

"My very thoughts." Khelmort stared unblinking into the darkness, waiting the Wolf's reply.

The growl moved closer, until Khelmort could feel hot breath on the nape of his neck and hear it whistling through bared teeth just behind his ear. "I want the filth of this city to know what hunts them."
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Four little, five little, six little RP posts... [Feb. 22nd, 2007|12:00 am]
Enemy of my Enemy

((OOC: Der sechste campfire scene! Nothing else to say, so on with the show!))

Re-stocked and re-provisioned, the party left the draconian city, with little love lost on either side at the departure. Two days of northbound travel brought the group out of the ash wastes and into the rocky foothills of the mountains where the dragon Llergan was said to make his home. A further day's surveying and searching turned up a narrow pass that led up the valley formed by two arms of the largest mountain in the range. Almost as soon as the pass began, it gave way to a simple stone stair, not quite two wagons' width across, that led further up towards the mountain's summit. Braziers without coals smoldered on either side of the steps, fed magically by some unseen fuel, keeping the steps free of the snow and ice which howled down from the mountain's summit. The stair itself bore only the simplest of ornamentation: a few characters of the draconic language were chiseled deep into each step. Those in the party literate in the dragons' tongue had no trouble making out the inscription on the first step: simply, the number one.

Slowly, the adventurers hauled themselves up each step, as the inscribed numbers climbed into the hundreds and then the thousands. Each supposed landing led only to a new flight of stairs. The sun marked their slow progress with its own, finally settling behind the mountains. As the daylight failed, a warm yellow-white glow that radiated from the magical braziers became apparent in the twilight, lending heat and light to the adventurers in the last leg of their climb. Perhaps an hour after dusk they came at last to a great copper double-door, green with age, set into the side of the mountain. The nearer door stood ever so slightly ajar, and after several minutes' concerted effort, Gabriel was able to drag the door fully open, its bottom edge dragging and grating against the stone paving tiles below.

The room inside was spacious and dark. The only light source came from a fire lit in the grate in the center of the octagonal chamber. A pot of rice boiled, seemingly unattended, over the fire. A few paces back, just on the other side of the fire, an ageless elf in simple cotton robes with long, silvery hair sat on a small, thinly stuffed cushion. He stared perfectly straight ahead, unblinking - and perhaps unseeing? - as he spoke in a deep, sonorous voice. "Do come in. Thine travels kept ye longer than I did expect, but it is no matter. The food, I think, hath only just finished cooking."
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Campfire mk. V. For reals this time: "Letters!" [Feb. 4th, 2007|01:01 pm]
Enemy of my Enemy

Okay - at long last, here's the newest installment of the community RP. Sorry it took so long to get it written up, but school has been kicking my ass. But lookit, this one has a title! OooOOOOoooh! So, without further ado...

The party members were still loosely gathered around the inn's common room, eating breakfast, when a young lad of about fifteen came in through the front door. He had a familiar face, and after some thought it was easy enough to recognize him as one of the old workers from Muddletude's laundry who the party had helped to get a job as shiphands. The boy made a straight beeline to the party's table, slinging a messenger bag down off of one shoulder. Panting breathlessly as if from a long journey, he said, "Good morrow, my lords and lady. I've come with some letters that have been forwarded here after being sent to your residence at Deepfathom Manor." The boy pulled a stack of sealed envelopes from his bag and left them on the table for the party to sort through. "If you'll excuse me, I'm right knackered after the long ride, so I'll be in my room..."

Roland's LetterCollapse )

Dregnor's LetterCollapse )

Malfurion's LetterCollapse )

Mink's LetterCollapse )

Kyne's LetterCollapse )
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Sir Game World Info IV, esq., M.D., Ph. D. [Jan. 21st, 2007|09:14 pm]
Enemy of my Enemy

Can it be... the fourth miscellaneous game info post, at last? Yes! Since we're (for now) caught up on info on the areas the party will see in the immediate future, I thought I'd post about a prominent organization in the game world - the Order of the Crimson Crown. They're a sacred knightly order who have served the Emperor for roughly two hundred years. Aside from filling a few important roles in the Talsoran Empire, they're relevant because Gabriel the Amazing Sword-o-Matic is (probably, unless David changes his mind) going to multiclass into the prestige class that represents them... eventually. As you'll see, he's got his work cut out for him...

And it's behind a cut. Because it's really damned long.Collapse )
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campfire scene #5 GO! [Jan. 20th, 2007|10:36 pm]
Enemy of my Enemy


((OOC: Ok, since i can't remember where we left off, so i will let jason set the scene. I'm just posting this to get it up and running /OOC))

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(no subject) [Dec. 4th, 2006|02:01 am]
Enemy of my Enemy

((OOC: These were the plot points that came to mind as I sat down to write this. If I forgot anyone, I apologize; go ahead and get started on this thread and I'll catch up.))

The day after the encounter with the poisoner in Turtlerun Springs dawned bright and cold. Winter hadn't quite set in, but handcarts where vendors ladled out hot spiced cider to chilly customers were already starting to line the walkways along the canals. As the morning light filtered through the wisps of steam rising from the city waters, the companions went about their business...

In the heart of the city, near the great fountain, Mink made her way to the druids' grove. Ybelia, their leader, had deliberately chosen a site unusable by the rest of the city for the grove: a sinkhole that had opened where a minor fork of the Turtlerun River and an underground stream crossed paths. The canopy of the great trees planted at the sinkhole's bottom stood even with the rooftops of the taller buildings in the city, stretching over the spiderweb of vines that had grown together into living rope bridges between the trunks. A druid pointed Mink down one vine walkway that wound its way down around one of the huge trees in a gradual slope from level to level among the branches. At the bottom, she found an elven woman in a buckskin cloak, standing by a shallow natural pool. She greeted Mink with a wan smile. "Greetings, ranger. Make yourself comfortable; the hospitality of the Riverchilder is all yours while you dwell here. I am told you bear tidings from Naroom..."

Back in the city proper, Malfurion was making his way to Silk, Sable, and Suede. He found himself walking the broad thoroughfares of a particularly well-to-do neighborhood near the outskirts of the city. The houses, though still crowned with gardens, were framed of ivy-draped brick here, and set well away from the cobblestone walk behind ornate wrought-iron gates. Eventually, he came to a gate with a sign set in the grass just in front of it, reading Vierreau Estates. The house wasn't even visible from the street; all he could see were the wide, smooth pavers that tiled the drive and the immaculately kept gardens that the drive wound through. "Devian knows the lady who lives here?" Malfurion thought as he let himself in through the unattended gates. As he neared the house - a monstrosity framed by marble pillars that stretched to the top of its third floor - he could see that a sizable party of sorts had spilled out from the house itself and onto the veranda and front step. By the look of things, they had started last night and had yet to run out of steam. He was nearly to the step when a sleepy valet stopped him. "I beg your pardon, good sir, but do you have your invitation handy?" The sudden intercession of a bystander saved Malfurion from having to decide whether dropping Devian's name here would be wise or not. "Don't you have a coach to make ready, valet? This is our new Count Deepfathom, Malfurion Fellsong - unless I miss my guess." The guest, a slender, mustachioed man in a powdered wig, pulled Malfurion off to one side. "Word travels fast in Lady Vierreau's salons, my young lord. I'm very pleased to be the first to welcome you to the peerage among the local nobility. My name is Gebienne, and if it's not too forward of me to ask, what did you want of Madame Vierreau at this time of day? You're more than just fashionably late for the party, I'm afraid," he said, flashing a practiced grin.

The bells in the tower of Paxal Cathedral tolled nine o'clock as Dregnor entered. The high priest hurried down from the pulpit and strode down the aisle between the pews. He began speaking long before the two met halfway, his voice echoing from the high, vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows. "Ah, you must be Dregnor. My name is Greynan. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you. Those who still have the strength of spirit to serve the gods are becoming few and far between; many of our flock have abandoned us for the new churches, to worship the angels that yet walk the earth rather than the true gods that the divine agents serve." Greynan's facial features drew grim, and his usually powerful, sonorous voice was now barely above a whisper. "Fewer now serve Pelor - and all the true gods - than in many, many years. Each brother lost increases the burden upon those who remain. I do not tell you this with the intention of weakening your resolve, but I would have you know the situation. These are unsteady times for the faithful - would you still join us?"
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Post session 'Campfire Scene' #3! [Nov. 18th, 2006|03:23 pm]
Enemy of my Enemy


((OOC: Alrighty! I'll start this one off, and there are 1 of 2 things that could happen:
#1: we wait for the other Pirates to get back, wide awake...
#2: we wait for the pirates, but allow people to get sleep (namely me) and post watches.
Whichever occurs does not matter to me, but i would prefer to have my spells if we are going to be fighting MORE pirates. anyways, to the scene! /OOC))

The group once again set up camp near the central tower for rest. Kyne, now quite tired and cranky because of both lack of spells and sleep, went back to sitting against the tower, rubbing the spot on his face, and being thoroughly annoyed by it. He said, in an obviously tired and cranky manner, "Well, this has proven to be one interesting side-trip...anyone ever figure out what happened with that green, bubbling metal on the floor of the map room..." he glanced around, looking for something, "Or that talking pidgeon? I think his name was Gareb."

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Post-RP Session 2.5 [Nov. 9th, 2006|12:18 am]
Enemy of my Enemy

There was a knock at the door, and Devian looked up from the ledger. He'd always had a good head for numbers, even sloshed. "Who the hell is it now?"

"Sir, 's me."

"I told you, I don't need anything else from the bar, Torc."

"Ya did, Mr. Devian, sir, but ya also said I should take any business what turned up and show 'em up to your office, sir."

"Alright, show them in, then."

The door opened, and Torc showed the newcomer in.

"Right, take a seat and don't say a word," Devian began. "There's some things you gotta understand about this outfit before we do anything. This is my operation, and we've got some rules; we're not those butchers who run the streets in Talsora, and I ran with them long enough to know damn well." He turned his glass in his hands, watching the drink roll about for a moment, lost in reverie, before he got back to task. "Yeah... damn well. Anyhow, you want to do any business with me, do any business in my town, you do it my way, no questions, no messes, and you work your way up from the bottom. Is that perfectly clear?"


"Good. No "sir," I like that. Gets on my nerves, the way Torc prattles on, but it's not his fault. Old boy can't help it; ex-Legionnaires never can. Say... I don't think I caught your name on the way in, friend."

"My friends call me Q."

"Q? Heh. Well, fair enough, friend. What can you do?"
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(no subject) [Nov. 8th, 2006|01:30 am]
Enemy of my Enemy

No new activity in the comm makes Jason a sad panda.

So, without further ado, Miscellaneous World-Building Post t3h Third - Turtlerun Springs!

Turtlerun Springs' most prominent and defining feature is the mouth of the Turtlerun River, a permanent planar rift to the Elemental Plane of Water. The gate itself is mostly obscured at this point - a great stone fountain has been built around it. From this basin, the waters run out into the system of canals criscrossing the city, which then funnel into the river itself. The canals could truly be said to be the lifeblood of the city and surrounding area - they are its irrigation system, its roads, and its source of fresh water to the citizens. The existence of the canals also makes Turtlerun Springs one of the cleanest cities in the Talsoran Empire - a separate grid of canals has been constructed to serve as a sewer system and beasts of burden aren't necessary even to transport heavy shipments of goods in the city's vicinity.

Still, that's not to say that the Springs don't have any agricultural production to speak of. Though the area is mostly dominated by rocky foothills whose soil is unsuited to many crops, the area produces some of the finest vineyards in the Empire, and certainly the best in the frontier province of Talsora Nova. Also, as the purity of the Turtlerun River's waters has led to a booming alchemical industry in the area, some ingenious gnomish farmers have combined the available resources and know-how to develop alchemical plant food necessary to grow crops by hydroponics. As a result, it's not unusual to see houses whose straw thatch roofs have been gradually replaced by the root systems of hydroponically grown plants. Particularly rich and influential citizens have recently found it fashionable to grow orchards of sizeable trees on the rooftops of their estates.

Politically speaking, the city basically has two strong power centers. First and foremost is Prince Ascari, the Imperial appointee who oversees the province of Talsora Nova. Ascari seldom appears in public, so little more than rumor is known about him, but it's generally accepted that he is an aging wizard who retired from an adventuring career at the request of the Emperor to serve alongside his companions as the unifying force in the region. If the stories can be believed, his companions included Bird of Muffin's Honor, Devian of Shell Cove, and Ascari's current Chamberlain, Bernhard. Their fifth companion, a cleric of Pelor, perished under uncertain circumstances in their last adventure before becoming the governing parties of their respective cities. In his memory, a great cathedral on the outskirts of Turtlerun Springs was recently built and dedicated to his patron deity. Aside from Ascari's administration, the other politically powerful organization in the Springs is a druidic order which has declared the city itself to be the grove under their protection. The order, headed by an elfmaid named Ybelia, takes an active role in cultivating and maintaining the natural elements of the city's architecture.

And for now, that's all that occurs to me about the city. Also, I realize that we didn't leave the game in the best of spots for any kind of downtime rp, but since the PCs are waiting for the pirates to get drunk and pass out, I think we have enough of a window if the characters wanted to talk amongst themselves, or to the pigeon (and if anyone remembers his name, I'd be grateful if you'd post it. I seem to have forgotten).
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