The large majority of mortals are not aware of a substance called platinum-alloy residuum.  Used by a tiny number of extraordinarily powerful beings as a writing material, when it is seen, it is the sign of the rise or fall of kingdoms, the beginning or end of eras, or something else amazing or terrible.

But, then again, you are not normal mortals. You have seen the amazing, done the astonishing and have become sources of legends.

Each of you receives a simple piece of parchment that has words written on it, clearly written in platinum-alloy residuum. The words seem to jump out of the page at you, almost speaking in your your mind:

Greetings, remarkable one. This letter proceeds to you from the very hand of Bahamut, the Platinum One.

I have watched your activities and noted your motivations. I have heard the stories and investigated them. You are one of a few perfect allies for a mission that I would offer you. The purpose of this letter is to persuade you to accept that mission.

I have been at war with my sister, the being known as Tiamat, for time spanning many thousands of your life-spans. We have, for much of that span, been giving and taking ground in our battle. Neither of us is satisfied with our situation, however, and seek an edge to use on the other.

I have uncovered word of a potential weakness in Tiamat's plan--a key gambit of hers that is now exposed to me to exploit. As she is clever, no being directly related to me can attempt to attack this weakness for reasons I can explain later. I cannot even leverage my own mortal clergy in this matter.

Thus, I reach out to you. I know you have reasons to seek the demise of Tiamat. I do not know if you are motivated to help me, but I can offer you rewards to provide compensation if the mission of bringing about Tiamat's fall is not compensation enough.

At the very least, I would ask you to join me on Sigil, the plane of gates, three days hence in your calendar. If you agree, simply retain this parchment and, at any time on that day, open the scroll and speak the following word: CONSENT. That will enable the ritual contained in this artifact to transport you. If you do not do so that day, then I will assume you do not find this of interest and this artifact will return to me.

I hope to make your acquaintance in person in the very near term.

Cordially, Bahamut

You have absolutely no doubt that this document is from whom it claims to be from.

Please post a response to this thread with what your character was doing when they received this note. If you want ot have a private thread to play out a longer scenario with skill checks or the like, say so at the end of your post and I will set up such a thread for your entertainment, which we will share with the others when it's complete.

   Agon closed the ancient tome carefully and stood up, stretching with a small groan as the book floated back to its place on the bookshelf. Standing in the small private reading room, head thrown back, his green eyes stared the ornate ceiling without seeing it.

   The research is going well. The new ritual should be finalized in a few weeks.

   A silvery flash to his left announced that his spider familiar was done with its nap. "Let's go back home", the mage announced as soon as it had settled on his shoulder. A floating, glowing orb of light followed them out of the study.

   He could have teleported back to his apartments, but he had always enjoyed walking through libraries - they felt like home.

   Going through carpeted hallways, between towering bookshelves and down empty flights of stairs, he occasionally stopped to peer into a few lit rooms. Despite the late hour - or was it early ? -, he saw scribes concentrating on their meticulous work, students preparing for their next classes, and of course acolytes going through the various tasks necessary to run and maintain such a large library - one of several in the Timeless Sanctuary.

   Nodding to those few who looked up from their work and bowed respectfully at him, the sage finally exited the ancient building. He stopped at the top of the large steps, enjoying fresh outside air as he surveyed the landscape for a moment.

   Everything seemed quiet save for his familiar, who shifted restlessly on his shoulder. With a last look at the rosy dawn sky, he pressed his right fist to his left palm. With a soft warm pulse, one of his enchanted rings instantly brought them back to his apartments.

   The spider familiar immediately jumped from his shoulder down onto the desk. Agon's eyes followed it, then surveyed the room carefully, before closing his eyes and checking the various magic wards. Everything seemed normal.

   And yet, someone had got in while he was out. A strange scroll addressed to him floated above his desk, spinning silently...

Harald glowered at the being who sat on the edge of the table across from him.  A small pile of gold pieces sat equidistant between the two and both stared unblinkingly at it as if it were about to disappear - which indeed it might!

"OK ya wee eedjit.  You have had it this time."

Harald closed his right hand about the haft of his axe, Foeslayer, and his left hand clutched the old battered domino of Tymora which hung around his neck.  "Ah'll count tae three and then we go - right?"

The creature nodded.  A brief jerk of its tiny head was enough to show it was ready.

It slowly shoved back its sleeves, knotted its little fingers and cracked them before wiggling them in anticipation.

"One... two... thre..."

Before the last letter burst from Harald's mouth they were both in motion.  The pixie's hands flashed towards the pile of gold pieces as Harald's axe almost sizzled as it shot down towards the table and the wrists of his tiny opponent.

Who was fastest of the two none of the bystanders could tell then, and even to this day folk all over Faerun still argue about who would have won that bet.

There was no doubt as to the speed of their reflexes.  As both burst into action they were shocked into immobility by the instantaneous appearance of a parchment of some kind right on top of their stake.

The pixie's hands froze, mere fractions of an inch from the letter and Harald somehow, miraculously, managed to stop the downward momentum of his axe just as it reached the letter, but before it touched.  THAT earned him a standing ovation from the assembled company.

Both protagonists stared at each other and at the parchment for a long few seconds before either spoke.

"That looks like  platinum-alloy residuum" said the pixie "but is the message for me or for you Harald?"

The dwarf bent forward and read the salutation.  "Looks like its for me" he growled as he quickly scanned the rest of the missive,  "an' it looks like Ah'm gonna be away for a while, ma wee pal."

He smiled broadly at his friend and, putting down his axe, he held out a finger to the pixie.  "You look after yersell, Pat, an' Ah'm sure we'll go huntin' together another time soon."

He shook hands with his friend and stood up.  "Ah'll need tae get sorted and organised so Ah'd better be off."  He gestured to the money on the table.  "Gie that tae someone that needs it an' we'll hae another go when Ah get back."

Maurice sat in his den, practicing his flute. He had been playing, almost nonstop, for a week, only stopping to eat, use the facilities, and the one time he had collapsed onto the table from exhaustion. His Ode to Corellon was almost finished, but everything he tried didn't seem to capture what he wanted. His string instruments seemed far too soft and his brass was too strident. When he played what he had written out on his flute he thought he finally found the perfect instrument, but many of the lines were just too simple.

"What am I missing?" He always went through the same situation with every song he wrote. Every time he wrote something, it would take him months before he got it just the way he wanted, and by that time, he had been though all of his instruments, reviewed the melodies in his small library, and gotten a few of his colleagues to come rehearse with him. This time was no different. He was just about to take what he had over to his neighbor, Jazzo Fairspanner's house, when he heard a knock on his door. "Who could this be?" he pondered, nearly dropping his flute and music.

He strode across his wood floor, past his harps, lyres, horns, bells, and the simple drum that his late father had given him a week before he died. He didn't play those, but they meant more than any of his other instruments.

Louder and faster, the knocking increased. "I'm coming, keep your trousers on!" he shouted. He got to the door, and noticing his hands were full, stuffed his flute into his mouth and opened the door. Standing there was Jazzo.

"I heard you from my house," Jazzo said, pushing past him into Maurice's house. He had his own flute in his hand and when he got to the den, started playing. When he was done, Maurice stared at him dumbfounded. "All you needed were some bends and falls."

But Maurice wasn't looking at Jazzo, but behind him at the floating parchment on the head of his drum. "That's great," Maurice said, handing Jazzo the music. "You finish it. I'm going away for a while and I'm not sure when I'll be back." He recognized the platinum-alloy residuum instantly and knew it had to be important. He rushed to pack what he needed as he read the letter.

In Kalistrand, the capital of the evil Kingdom of Ahlissa, a sole figure stood tall and strong in the darkened castle courtyard. A dozen troops stood in a ring around a pair of men: one tall, strong, wearing black plate-mail armor and wielding a vicious-looking sword; the other, a bent old man, defiantly standing with his hand on his thin dagger.

"You, Eldran of Nyrond, stand accused of high treason to the Kingdom of Ahlissa. What is your plea?"

The old man smiled a wry smile. "I am as guilty as you say I am." His voice cracked with the effort of speech from such an old man.

The black-armored man smiled an evil smile. "Very well. I find you guilty, and sentence you to death. Your sentence will be performed immediately." He drew his sword.

The old man laughed. "You are in error on three points. First, you and your kingdom, not I, are guilty--gulty of crimes against the innocent and weak of your own land and of Nyrond."

He straightened up to the limit of his rather limited height. "Secondly, it is you, not I, who are guilty and will be executed this day." This second statement is made in a slightly different voice--a voice carrying unusual power and force. All the guardsmen freeze at the sound of this voice, trembling despite themselves.

The black-armored man's face twists in rage. "You are an impertinent old fool, Eldran. Go ahead, draw your weapon."

The old man's smile faded, replaced with a fell look. "And there is your third error. Eldran is not my name. I do not have a name."

With this, a flash of understanding crosses the black-clad man's face--and a burst of fear. This look is interrupted by an astonishingly powerful blast of lightning that erupts from the old man's dagger and pierces the warrior through, sending him staggering backwards. The warrior closes and swings his sword, which, though well-handled, misses the old man by inches. The old man then simply leans forward and touches the warrior, and lightning explodes around the warrior. The old man lifts in the air and floats backward a few feet.

The warrior, clearly wounded, surges forward, but this sequence repeats--twice more he strikes and misses, twice more the old man blasts him with lightning. On the last blast, the black-clad man, incomprehension in his eyes, swayed and fell to the ground, lifeless.

The old man turned, and as he did, his form shifted before the others. He was now taller, thinner, with lean, lanky figures, almost human but not quite. He was years younger now, with brown hair and brown eyes, as prosaic and poor a figure as one could hope to see. He spoke to the assembled troops.

"I do not have a quarrel with any of you. Flee now to tell your superiors that Prince Gellestrand has paid the price for the slaughter of innocents. They who have no name have a defender."

The guards dutifully fled, leaving the man alone to stride out of the castle.

Once in the street beyond, a beggar walked up to the man. "Zog," he said, matter-of factly.

The nameless one whirled. Genuine surprise filled his eyes. "How, my poor fellow, did you happen upon that name?" asks the man.

The beggar smiles. "You are not alone in your service, or in your ability to take a disguise. This is for you." He hands a fine piece of parchment to the nameless one, and then with a gesture disappears.

Zog, the nameless, faceless defender of the nameless and faceless, un-rolled the scroll. He read it wordlessly. For the first time in some time, he then smiled, and laughed, and then began to cry.

He eventually composed himself, stood straight, and looked to the heavens. "Perhaps now..." he says to the sky, and walked forward, plans forming in his mind for a journey unlike any he had taken before...

Thomas and Glanlotiel were sitting down at the kitchen table eating a nice meal of oatmeal, toast and juice. It had been the first morning in weeks that one of them hadn't been called by the Bronze Flame for something. Just yesterday, the little, frail gnomish man known as Mudfoot, came knocking at their door asking for Thomas to meet Cassius at the guild's base of operations for a big meeting. (Mudfoot is his nickname for all of the mud puddles he jumps through)...

Thomas had obliged and took off immediately. Luckily, with his fame in the area of Khorvaire, he was able to get a flying horse, the pegasus, loaned from the king for the day to get to the other side of the continent and be back for dinner. Cassius had all of the major players in the Bronze Flame waiting for Thomas in the meeting room. It was the time of the year where they planned out the next year's worth of goals and the income each would be receiving for the time period. Thomas had already decided it was time to move the guild further into Eberron to the other islands and make the Bronze Flame known there as well.

Cassius' brother, Birdro, would be taking five men with him to start this new branch. From there they would receive their normal funds from Thomas and Cassius, plus those from the jobs taken where they were stationed. If they were successful this year, that branch would double or triple in size with ease, and they'd be able to fund themselves next year.

After hours of discussion, Thomas, Cassius and Birdro went their separate ways and began working on the tasks handed to them this year. Thomas rode the pegasus back to Taer Valeastas from Flamekeep. He made it back two hours after Glanlotiel had finished dinner, and she was washing clothes in the washtub when he opened the door. She made him bathe before he could eat and after they had done that, they went to bed for the evening. ...

Thomas had just finished his breakfast and put the dishes away, when he noticed something in the window. He rushed outside with a dagger on his hip to see what it was. He recognized the importance of the letter immediately, as his eyes had become attuned to the platinum-alloy residuum. He took it inside and read it out loud so Glanlotiel could hear it also. As he was reading she began packing his gear so he could leave immediately. Thomas read it three times before he was completely sure he had it all.
"Well, dear, tell Joshem that he will help you run the guild until my return. I hope that this will be the last time I will deal with Tiamat. It will make our lives a little more peaceful." And with that Thomas prepared himself for what was about to come.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:13, Fri 16 Aug 2013.

Nemeroff was in his office planning his next attack against the Efreeti. It was supposed to be the final move before victory. The Genasi was concentring on maps and reports when his Lieutenant, Koshoff, arrives with a silver box.

"This is for you, Captain." he says.

Nemeroff takes the box, and as soon as he touches it, the box opens and a scroll exits and floats in front of him.

He starts to read the words, and was a bit surprised. Nemeroff has already led his men in a fight with Bahamut's army against his sister, Tiamat many years ago, but has never heard about the great dragon since that time.

"Koshoff, I have to take a care of a very important thing, and I won,t be able to lead our men for the upcoming fight." he says.

"I have no other choice. You will lead them will I'll be away. They are trusting as I trust you." he continues.

"One more thing. I have to go alone." he finishes.

"But, Captain, we need you. This is the last fight that can end the war. It's also very important." Koshoff says.

"I know, my friend, but a request from Bahamut himself is a lot more important." Nemeroff answers.

"The plan is ready, and already know it." he says.

Then Nemeroff gives an handshake to his Lieutenant and leaves.

Sitting at his desk with a large tome by Baron August Sider concerning the planes and their portals to other worlds, the air genasi sipped on a glass of wine while reading, a disembodied hand turning the pages. S knock was heard on his door breaking the silence. With a flick of his eye, the well balanced door opened after the hand darted across the room to grasp the handle.

"I, I, I, bring a message for you, Lord Paladin Sonliin." the lad said in surprise, not having heard him open the door, and seeing him sitting across the room at the desk. The hand came from behind the door and opened its palm. The child handed over the message as Sonliin stood up. Looking at the red wax seal on the scroll as it moved towards him. he shook his head as he took it from the hand. "That will be all" he said as the hand moved to close the door. Looking closer at the seal, he paused for a moment to pour some more wine in his glass but thought better as he unrolled the scroll.

Sonliin, your help is needed as our city is under attack by the Great Red Wyrm Zaliraix. He is leading an army of undead that will be here in three days. We need all the manpower that your temple can bring to help us in our time of need. Galios Galioson
said the missive, ink stains where it was rolled up and smeared before it could dry.

Heading to the door as the hand started gathering pieces of his armor, Sonlinn opened the door and called out in a voice like thunder. "Make ready to depart for battle in one hour. Commanders to the battle room."

Within the hour, the group departed to bring battle to Zaliraix and his undead army. The battle was won but a quarter of the group were to have their names written in the book of Heroes. After the battle was over, Galios Galioson, the Dwarf Paladin of Moradin stood next to the ruined body of Zaliraix. "This is the work of a larger foe as there have been dragon attacks all through the kingdoms of Oerth." he said "We have heard that Bahamut is no more and that there is a call for adventurers to bring the battle to Tiamat. They are meeting as Sigil and can use your help in fighting her since you have fought her minions before. Since you serve Ioun, they feel that powerful magic is needed to deal with her." he said

Meeting with the remaining officers, he made sure that the soldiers we transported home before he headed to Sigil
This message was last edited by the player at 13:52, Wed 03 Feb 2016.

Martha Venger grimaces as she receives the news of Bahamut's death. She feels her body tighten and shudder, tries to hold it in. Her minions are watching - she doesn't want them to see. But she can't hold it in. She screams out loud, voicing years of frustration and betrayal, a shout of rage to the heavens. Her minions back away. It's so rare that she loses control. They look at each other nervously, and try to think of excuses to leave.

There are rumours about Martha's past. Its said she was once the highest priestess of Tiamat, ruled an Empire ruthlessly. You wouldn't know it now, though: just an eccentric old woman trying to grow cabbages on the dusty field outside her house in Tanoot. She offers free babysitting to all the neighbours and teaches history and mathematics at the local primary school. But here in Sigil, which they arrived in yesterday, they are thinking to themselves: what if the rumours are true. I mean, its not every schoolteacher who gets an invitation from Bahamut to pop over to Sigil.

Martha shudders and lowers her head, crumpling up the letter in her hands. Damnations! This buggered up everything. She had been so close. Well, if Bahamut's not going to help me, I'll have to do this myself.

Ioun that clever bitch knows something, she's discovered. The gods protect their own, but Ioun might be convinced to help her, especially now that Bahamut's gone. She'll need to do this next bit on her own.

She dismisses her minions, and allows herself a little painful smile. Perhaps this is a sign. The gods are falling now, one by one. They screwed with us mortals, but now its our turn. The heavens will discover what loss feels like. And She will feel it most of all. She will suffer like Martha suffered - worse! Tiamat will break!

She throws back her head and laughs at the ceiling, at the gods. 'Ha Ha HA HA!' The sound rings through Sigil's backstreets, disconcerting her minions outside. She doesn't care. She flings the crumpled letter to the floor.

She is Martha, Punisher of the Gods. And the bitch Tiamat is top of her list. 'MwA HA HA HA HA!'