Re: Sparrow's Fledglings
The dusty trail, worn into the very bones of ground--sole physical evidence of potential movement in an otherwise static landscape. The sun, a blazing, golden orb in a cerulean sky. The mountains to the west, the long, long vistas to the east, along a gradual descent from foothills to lower grassy vales, and thence to a haze at the limits of sight. The trilling of a warbler, the answering brinksmanship call of a vireo, the background orchestra of late summer insect buzzing and ticking cadences. The sweet, pungent smell of bay laurel, goldenrod, and warmed juniper.
"Where in th' feck are we?" The halfling's voice is puzzled but calm.
And...
Moments ago, in a corner of the small, walled hamlet known as Sparrows Rest, near the juncture of two of the walls. A half-orc stands, his taloned hands gently cradling a piece of parchment. A small group of scarred and capable-looking adventurers stand before him: half-orc; dwarf; halfling; Palonish, Paldorian, Phanarian, and Narvilian humans. The half-orc with the parchment begins to intone in a solemn voice, the syllables he pronounces sounding slightly warped to the ears of the listeners. A lingering, drawn-out enunciation of the penultimate word in his mystical litany, a pause before the final, exhaled endpiece of his oratory.
"Errrm, this may not put you, well, EXACTLY a few miles from Rimsedge."
And the final syllable is pronounced, the air shimmers, the warp and weave of space lurches vertiginously, and the small group of oddly-matched adventurers find themselves amidst the warm exhalations of earth, sky, and verdure in a completely unfamiliar location.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:40, Sat 28 Feb 2009.