How close to Anzacom?

In reply to DM (msg #11):

The recognition cools Asher's blood and as he begins to form the words to speak, he hopes that what he is about to say will be proven wrong, "while I cannot be sure, it appears that we may now be in cursed lands. These look much like the peaks of the ranges that lie to the east of my home, and if that is true, we have entered the "dreaming lands". Here the vile merchant mages lead all trade and movement through the place under threat of mystical loss of men and goods. According to the mages, those who cross these lands without their aid will be devoured by the land and spat out in some other place entirely."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:07, Mon 09 Mar 2009.

Gilrak listens to the Monk's revelation - tugs at his beard - and lets out his own thoughts with a grumble:  "According to the elders of Khazadmorin, the powers that curse this land affect large groups of unescorted travelers.  Makes sense if ya think about it -- keeps out the rabble.  Orcs, Humans, and the like..  The dwarf lets out an amused grunt at this - and continues - "A group our size shouldn't be bothered by the Dreaming Lands' effects.."

The old man stirred up sullen red embers of the dying campfire with his ironwood staff.  “Plenty o’ folks be fleein’ t’ th’ west…’bout th’ only place left if’n ye don’t have yer heart set on fightin’.  Still, other folks be comin’ into th’ City, lookin’ fer adventure, gold, or some sorta mischief.”

The party was seated along a small stream amidst a cluster of cottonwoods, close to the ancient trading route linking Rimsedge to the western lands.  The sun had set some time ago, and the old man was a member of a group of travelers fleeing the strife and commotion that had overtaken the lands around Rimsedge.  Carts, mules, and horses were scattered about the copse of cottonwoods, and several men armed with long bows and scimitars kept watch.  The sound of soft talk arose from the other small cooking fires that burned low in the bat-laced dusk.  The old man was the ostensible leader of the refugee group, and had waved down the party as they had approached at sundown.

“Y’see, boys, th’ main Rimsedge armies be marchin’ t’ th’ east—reinforcin’ Mizhach an’ tryin’ t’ finish conquerin’ Taaz.  Narvil an’ Arkenhem be worried ‘bout th’ Rim, I hear tell, but so far th’ pressure’s only polit-kal, if’n ye ken my meanin’—no armies on the march yet t’ th’ west.  We had a pretty clean fare-thee-well outta the Rim, but it weren’t cheap.”  The old man looks ruefully at his hands and sighs.  “Time was, mebbe we’d have stuck ‘er out an’ made some scratch, but these days…”  He trails off, and then resumes.

“Th’ Rim ain’t never been what ye might call ‘easy’ t’ live in, but if’n ye could turn a quiet eye t’ some shadowy folk, then ye’d be alright…generally speakin’.  But wi’ th’ wars, there be a newer, nastier element what’s moved inta th’ City.  Them brutes from th’ Lower Planes an’ such.  Best t’ tread lightly when ye arrive, an’ if’n I was ye…I’d be pointin’ me boots t’other way.”

The companions—humans, half-orc, halfling, and dwarf—part ways with the refugees heading westward under J’Cale’s guidance.  The early morning mists of autumn rise from the cool earth and cluster thickly along the serpentine length of the small stream.  Mules, carts, horses, and various folk mounted and afoot move off to the west, as the small party of adventurers continue eastward.

Days and nights have been spent along this caravan route.  Days of warm and sleepy sunlight, rain, and the nighttime crisp intimations of frost during the lonely watches of the dark.  Days and nights of blue skies and dense gray clouds.  Days of dusty travel and nights spent beneath sky tapestries of jewel-like stars.  Days and nights of monotonous journeying and quick, fierce bloodletting.  For while the way eastward into Rimsedge lies open for now, the predators of the caravan routes—orcs, trolls, ogres, gnolls, wolfriders—are still a menace to any travelers along those lonely ways.  And yet, every time, the would-be ruffians and highwaymen have fallen to axe, blade, arrow, mace, and mystic incantation.

The party draws deeper into the Dreaming Lands and closer to the fabled City of Rimsedge.  An early autumn day, late in the afternoon, and the vista to the east is hazy and sun-drenched.  The country is comprised of dry grasses and tough-looking shrubs interspersed with outcroppings of dusty rock.  Distant and uninviting, scablands appear to the north on the remote edge of vision.  Green serpents of riparian trees wend across the landscape, following the course of unseen rivers and streams.  The whole viewscape leads the eye gradually downward, to the great river valley of the Wounded Bear.  A series of distant, impossibly tiny buttes shimmer at the very remotest range of perception.  One of these will be Rimsedge, and the party’s long road to that dubious place appears to be drawing to a close.

The Phanarian mage quietly regards the sun-drenched, panoramic view down to the distant river valley, then speaks softly.

"Rimsedge is there, the largest of those buttes," the wizard points a finger.  "There are vast, slave-worked fields to provide produce and meat to the populace...at least, there were when I soujourned with the caravans.  I would expect outriders to intercept us when we get a bit closer--they always did when our caravans drew near the City."

The rest of the party, reminded of Aidrin's employment with the caravans and Merchant Mages at the onset of the wars, nod slowly.

As the evening draws near, the party continues to move eastward along the ancient caravan routes.  Soon enough, the pastoral elements that had figured strongly in the distant view of the Wounded Bear river valley begins to give way to a far more grim reality.

Occasional ersatz milestones occur along the caravan route--generally consisting of an old spear or pike, or perhaps merely a sharpened cottonwood branch, mounted by a decaying head.  These scavenger-picked, grossly decayed and odious things are mostly human, and enountered by the party infrequently at first.  Soon enough, however, these grisly trophies become more abundant.  And the overall nature of the mounted heads moves from being merely disturbing to being profoundly so.

As the party nears Rimsedge, the mounted heads begin to assume a semblance of movement.  Eyelids flutter, mouths move weakly, and the occasional twitch of neck muscle engenders a slight pendular motion of the rusty pike upon which the head is mounted.

As the party draws closer to the City and the lengthening shadows herald the close of day, dim forms can be made out in the gloaming.  Darting though the dusk quickly and with wierd preternatural speed, these things snatch off the strange fruit impaled upon the forest of spears and pikes near the City and scamper away...gnawing hungrily upon their prizes.

As the party moves among the ghoul-haunted forest of spiked and pathetically restless heads on the approach to Rimsedge, a ghostly form slips forward to catch up with the companions.  Coat matted with blood and filth, eyes red-rimmed and rheumy, ribs starkly outlined beneath the dirty fur, the blink dog butts its head against Garryn's thigh, and swings it muzzle over to Caylin.  Heaving a sigh, the animal trots alongside the human thief and halfling archer...apparently having arrived at whatever it had been seeking.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:52, Tue 05 Oct 2010.

The mage looks about uneasily.  "The influence of the Lower Planes is strong here," he mutters.  "Rimsedge has always held more than a modicum of infernal tang to its air...but this," he trails off.

The high, broad mesa that constitutes Rimsedge looms in front of the party.  Carved into the sandstone of the mesa, Rimsedge is a honeycombed series of dwellings, avenues, passages, stairways, alleys, catwalks, boulevards, and apartments, ranging from the cramped and claustrophobic to the broad and palatial.  In the middle of the mesa, a vast chimney--a cylinder of open space running from the top of the mesa to unknown depths--opens to the sky.  The top of the mesa contains the freestanding mansions and fortified manors of the very rich.  The teeming interior of the mesa houses the rest of the Rimsedge populace...beggars, whores, cutthroats, slaves, sellswords, hedgewizards, predators, prey...the full gamut of humanity, demi-humanity, the inhuman, and the inhumane.

In the deepening dusk, lights shine forth from the vertical face of the mesa.  A vast gate--the Portal of the Wasp--yawns before the party several hundred yards away.  The pikes and spears bearing their ghastly burdens thin as the party draws closer to the Portal.  Ignoring the party, an armored ogre marches out with a cluster of spears, each bearing a head, over his shoulder.  The barking of ghouls erupts nearby, and the ogre bellows some inchoate curse to warn the undead off.  Far overhead, riders in formation swoop on winged reptiles, their aerial phalanxes appearing small at this distance.

"Welcome to the Rim, I guess," Aidrin mutters worriedly.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:42, Tue 05 Oct 2010.

The vast, interlaced network of Rimsedge has proven a challenging one for the party.  Ensconced at the Solemn Sprite—an inn recommended by Sparrow during his admonitions to the party prior to their departure from his fortified inn—the companions are faced with various training exercises to advance their respective skill sets.  Thankfully, the mechanisms to allow for this training seem to be operating smoothly…with the occasional hitch.

Gilrach is accosted by drunken Duergar one evening.  Three broken heads and some minor dismemberment later, the Rimsedge Akeito civil patrol—eyes reptilian cold—allow that this was generally a minor incident.

Perrato, returning to his rooms one evening late, is beset by a silent pack of frigid, shadowy forms.  The follower of Vagrani continues to his lodgings, purchases a small tumbler of good Phanarian whiskey in the inn’s common room, and ruminates on the souls of the damned he sent to a blissful non-existence.

Asher, upon departing from his meditations in a small, non-descript series of rooms previously held by Sparrow, finds himself in the midst of an apparent chastisement of an old slave woman by her owner.  After the whip has descended one more time, Asher steps in to escort the old woman home.  The owner would likely experience some disorientation after he regained consciousness, but that was to be expected.

Garryn and Caylin, out with the re-nourished blink dog, walk back from their day of training.  A deserted square near the open portion of Rimsedge…a sound like tearing…and suddenly the empty space was alive with black canid forms, breathing fire.  Moments later, the square was still and the erstwhile flame-breathing black dogs were recumbent and subsiding into nothingness.  The rogue, the halfling, and the old blink dog continue back to their rooms.

Totmacher returns early one morning, bloody and spent.  He does not speak of the previous night.  Rumors abound the next week of some sort of avatar of Gruumsh the One-Eyed visiting the City.  Totmacher, uncharacteristically, says nothing about this.

Aidrin focuses on his training, and avoids any unnecessary confrontation.

"What the...?  Who are you?"

"Yeah, well, shit.  You come up creepin' on me, and gods damn straight I'm edgy.  But, if you're buying...well, that's alright."

"Yeah, that's right...you got the accent.  I'm a Paldorian myself, son of Sargod, born and bred.  You look and sound like you're from that good part of the world, too.  You are?  Well, all right then.  Troutbridge?  Yeah, I do know it—close to Cameron, ain’t it?  Used to run some caravan duty through those parts.”

“Well, don’t mind if I do have another one, thank you.  Your health, guv.”

“What’s that?  Nah, I lost the eye in the Trade Wars…some bastard Thrailian took it—lucky sword cut, Mithras damn it.  Never got around to gettin’ the thing regrown…I’m used to it now.”

“Say again?  Rimsedge?  Hunh.  Well, if you’re still buying.  What do you gents go by?  Garryn…Perrato, my pleasure.  Perrato, you’re Palonish, eh?  My mam came from thereabouts…y’know Harcez?  How about Vedia?  You do?  Cheers, padre.”

“So…the Rim, eh?  There’s a kettle of fish, a hornets’ nest, and a demons’ lair—if you don’t mind wildly mixed metaphors, my drink-buying friends.  Another?  Can’t say that I’m opposed.”

“Anyways, you want to know the ins and outs, eh?  Well, this IS the Sprite, and you wouldn’t be here unless you had some connections.  So…”

“They say that there are twelve Lords of Rimsedge.  I don’t know if that’s the case anymore, but it was pretty close to the mark before these recent wars.  Hmmm?  Who are they?  Well, I can only tell you what I and every other sellsword knows, but if it…huh, y’read my mind, guv…another round is always a welcome diversion and a bit of a memory jog.”

“Lord Gunari is a big operator these days.  Canilian, but you wouldn’t know it.  He’s dead set on conquering Canile for the Rim, and he’s the biggest slaveholder and trader in the Rim…and that’s saying something.”

“Lady TuuLikki is from the WitchHarrow Wastes…she’s just plain bad.  Her tongue and her sword are equally fuck-you-uppable, if you’ll pardon my Uarthian, padre.”

“The Merchant Mages are, and always have been, one of the factors here in the Rim.  Don’t know who it is manning the helm right now, but they are major players.”

“The Thrailians are back, too—and that’s a different set of cards from a few years ago.  I can’t say anything about the hows and whys, and I wouldn’t if I could…self-preservation, you understand.”

“Lady Cyanosis is an ancient blue dragon, and part of the Lords Council.  She doesn’t stay in town, as best I know, but she’s got plenty of minion types to keep her interests afloat, so to speak.”

“Some weird planar types…I think they may hail from that fucked-up City of Sigil…seem to be making some waves these days.”

“The Underdark contingent is always something to consider.  They’re usually led by some Drow House, but I’ll be damned if I can remember which of them is claiming primacy these days.  Best steer clear of those fuckers…I NEVER do business with them.”

“Rumor has it that some ancient vampire or lich is pulling some strings in the City, but I can’t say one way or another.  Another group to stay well clear of, if you want my opinion.”

“And there’s some kid…and I do mean a kid.  He looks like some five year old tyke, but they say he’s some ancient mage with his own island.  Black Island or Black Mage…something like that.  He’s a pretty recent player.”

“Well, yes, I’ll take one more.  But then I’m off, lads.  Good to meet the both of you, and best of luck.  The West ain’t the most represented of folk hereabouts, and we do need to raise a glass or two when we find one another.  Cheers.”

Late afternoon sunlight crept through the chinks in the ragged leather hangings comprising the walls of the Dead Birds, and lay on the dirt floor as if wounded.  The air inside was hot, still, and foul with the stench of sweat, shitty drugs, and a collage of bodily excretions.  A couple of goblins ducked in, squinting and whining from the sunlight outside.  They wandered over to an upended crate, signaling to the grizzled orcish bartender and dumping the contents of their patched canvas sacks onto the top of the crate.  A number of little rat corpses tumbled out, and the goblins busied themselves with skinning knives as the orc limped over with two cracked mugs of cheap beer. The fat black flies-in-residence began to take an interest in the proceedings, and the gnoll passed out in the corner stirred fitfully as the goblins unconcernedly flung rat entrails in that direction.  The orc moved back with a bottle of wine and a handful of copper, setting both in front of the goblins and picking up the skinned and eviscerated rodents as they were thumped down onto the table, finally walking back to the rude kitchen.

Another day shift, thought Glantar as he sat on an empty barrel, smoking the last of his hash and tobacco mixture in an old clay pipe and sipping at the Phanarian whiskey he had brought into the place.  Tunnel ferrets working the vermin patrol in the sewers, returning from the main city with their spoils.  The City’s paltry pay for working as a tunnel ferret was supplemented by anything the tunnies could bring out of the warren of catacombs that underlay the City.  Dirty and dangerous work, and usually taken on only by goblins or kobolds, although that was mostly due to their small size--coupled with the fact that work of any sort was scarce for the humanoid population in the City.  Glantar sighed and regarded his scarred and muscled forearms ruefully.  Two weeks since any work had come his way, and the past month had offered up only stopgap jobs of hired muscle or bodyguard for some Deepearth creeps.  Glantar shifted on his makeshift seat and poured himself another shot of the Phanarian whiskey, figuring that a decent, high paying gig was due to come his way soon.

The barkeep drifted over to Glantar.  Glantar looked up at the ruined face of the orc, noting the patch over the left eye had been decorated with small glass beads and trash since the last time he’d been in here.  The barkeep slid the mug of the ale that Glantar favored as a chaser onto the makeshift table.  Sighing heavily, the orc scooped the mixture of shaved and battered copper coins off of the table surface and into his dirty apron, mildly eyeing the wickedly curved dagger Glantar fingered all the while.

“What the fuck you doin’ here still, halfbreed?” the orc murmured, gazing over at the busy goblins.  “Still breaking heads for the Deepearth crowd?”  The orc focused his good eye on Glantar.  “Looks like you’re making a fine livin’.  And don’t be stingy with the gratuity, asshole.”

Glantar set the knife down and stared up at the orc.  “Don’t give me any of your shit, Patch.  Used to be, this place would actually draw more than just flies.  And what the fuck is this supposed to be?  Beer?”

The orc snorted and moved back to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Why’nt you go see Kez Kur?  He’s been asking for ya, and you sure could use something to do ‘sides drink up my good ale.”

Glantar glared at the retreating back of the bartender, and then he sighed.  Patch was right--the coins weren't exactly spilling out of his belt pouch.  But Kez Kur…that half-ogre son of a bitch was bad trouble.  Moodily, Glantar finished his beer and whiskey.  Not to mention that alcoholic sorcerer that Kez Kur kept around--Melkadech the Tiresome, or something like that.  Glantar rose, shifting his shoulders so that the weight of the flail on his back was evenly distributed, and sheathed his knife.  He moved towards the rent in the leather tent side that constituted the door, pausing only to hurl his mug at one of the goblins.  Ducking quickly, the goblin was back up with a drawn short sword.  Glantar snorted and continued out, followed by hissed curses and Patch's bellowing.

Outside, the shantytown that surrounded the mesa housing the main city seemed to doze in the late summer heat.  Patched tents, ramshackle sheds, and simple holes in the ground covered with boards and skins abounded.  Glantar strode through the dusty paths, threading a course into the stockyard district surrounding one of the city's gates--the Portal of the Wasp.  The shantytown was populated with humanoids, set adrift from their respective tribes or looking to make their fortunes in the shadow of the city.  Coming across the long plains to the east, or descending from the mountains to the west, there was no shortage of new arrivals--replacing those killed in brawls, or the escalating wars, or ravaged by disease, or used up in the dark machinations of the city.  Goblin, orc, kobold, hobgoblin--all were represented in the sprawling and impoverished half-city of the shantytown.  Even the more chaotic races--ogres, gnolls, and the occasional bugbear--seemed to find their way to Rimsedge--City of the Mesa, home of the Merchant Mages, and straddling the east-west caravan routes of continental Arret.

Glantar peered toward the city proper through the heat haze that shimmered from the ground.  Rimsedge itself was contained within a hollow mesa, honeycombed with alleys, byways, and apartments in a jumble of levels.  The outer cliffs of the mesa were pocked with windows, and showed balconies, stairways, and turrets all clinging insect-like to the dusty cliff faces.  The center of the mesa, and the marketplace of Rimsedge, was a vast chimney opening to the mesa's top and extending one hundred feet or so beneath the surface of the plains surrounding the city.  This was the centerpiece of Rimsedge, a twilit and teeming space where anything could be bought or sold--including the fabled poisons and weaponry shipped up from Deepearth, and the weird items that sifted in from the Planar realms.  Stalls, booths, and permanent shops littered the floor of the chimney and clung precariously to the sides, catwalks, and bridges that laced the air above.  Here the Mercenary Guild had its headquarters, and the Guild posted jobs on a daily basis.  Here, also, he might find out why Kez Kur was asking for him.

Glantar squinted toward the Portal of the Wasp.  The entrance fee for those with humanoid blood was the equivalent of five silver--enough to buy a flop, a meal, and a cheap bottle of sweet wine for the night.  Glantar carefully counted the bits of coin in his purse.  He gave a dark rumble, deep in his throat.  He had just enough to effect entrance into the city proper, but little else.  If there were no jobs at the Mercenary Guild, he would have wasted his time and the last of his money.

As Glantar moved closer to the stockyards, the lean-tos, tents, and holes of the shantytown began to give way to ramshackle wooden buildings and sprawling barns interspersed with corrals and holding pens.  The low cries of the semi-tame bison, sheep, and goats of the plains competed with the rumble of hooves and the screams of the animals in the abattoirs.  The long-haired, tattooed, and wild nomads of the Dreaming Lands--and their horses--predominated in this district, driving their bison from the northern plains regions into Rimsedge, and often staying a few days to buy steel weapons and carouse.  Glantar grunted.  Smuggling magical or masterwork weapons to the tribes was a lucrative affair, because the sale of such weapons to tribals within the vicinity of Rimsedge was strictly regulated, and because tribal warriors would pay premium prices for weapons to allow them to raid the east-west caravan routes.  Glantar shook his head.  Without a decent mount, some starting gold, and one or two partners, he couldn't hope to move arms to trade this year.  So much for that idea.  And word in the fly-blown tents that passed for taverns had it that the Thrailians had already cornered the arms trade market.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:19, Sun 31 Oct 2010.

Glantar passed a small band of hobgoblin City Guards, their faces implacable and their broad-bladed stabbing spears held at ready.  The cacophony of animal sounds became intermingled with cheers and cries emanating from the Tenttown Arena.  Glancing back with narrowed eyes, Glantar noted that the hobgoblins merely watched him in a desultory fashion.  Their visages vaguely resembled Glantar’s own—flat-featured, lower canines protruding, and steely-eyed.  There, however, the resemblance ended.  The hobgoblins’ faces were covered with the ritual scars that marked each individual as such.  Hobgoblin tribes were, as a rule, fanatical in their devotion to the group.  The guards here in the City were generally outcasts from the established tribes, and thus sought their own identities within the strictures of the City Guard itself.  Their facial markings were a mix of tribal iconography and the human–influenced art that dominated Rimsedge.  Musing thus, Glantar noticed that his lingering gaze had aroused some attention from the group of guards.  Looking away studiously, Glantar strode down the dusty by-way randomly, realizing belatedly that he was headed directly towards the ramshackle wooden bleachers and makeshift observation stands of the Arena.

Hesitating, the big half-orc considered his meager resources and limited options.  A trip to the Arena and a little luck in some gladiatorial combat could go a long way to replenishing the funds in his belt pouch.  Then again, a bit of bad luck in combat or a severe enough injury could prove disastrous—both in the Arena and afterwards.  Squaring his shoulders, Glantar abruptly decided to chance the Arena and its dangers.  Being humanoid and low on funds in the City of the Mesa was a piss-poor combination, and needed rectification.

“You’re an asshole, you’re never on time, and you have no sense of work ethic.”

Bloody after his turn in the Arena to gain admission to the main City, Glantar sighed, pausing before his reply.  “No argument there, half-ogre.   However, I am a little more patient and concerned these days.”  Glantar grimaced at this admission, but was forced to acknowledge its veracity.  His period of thoughtless brawling, wenching without any standards whatsoever (a mycoid prostitute was a particularly wincing memory), and the general abandon of an exceedingly chaotic adventuring youth were long over.  “Both of us,” Glantar continued, “are humanoid in this City—not necessarily a good thing—and have lived lives far beyond that allotted to most of our kind.  You’re surprised that I’m still around?  Hmmm…me, too…but that is the case.  You’re surprised that I can string a few more words together to form a sentence…y’know, one with some syntax and a degree of grammatical structure?  Me, too, but there are reasons for that, as well.  The things you pick up in our field aren’t necessarily limited to allowing you to lift an extra ox over your head…they got things that improve your mind, too, Kez-Kur.”

A low growl.  “I know that, boy.  How do you think I ran that shit-string we used to call an adventuring party?”  The aged half-ogre shifted in his seat at the Solemn Sprite, rapping his heavily scarred knuckles on the grimy table and signaling for another round.  Kez-Kur, the half-ogre in question, stared at the half-orc in front of him.  Both were heavily muscled, heavily armed, and no one in the Sprite sat in any of the immediately adjacent tables.

Glantar snorted.  “You were always the one that imposed some degree of order and planning on our looting and pillaging, however fucked-up it was.  Don’t be too surprised that I eventually took some of it to heart.  It helps when you’re looking to survive in this place.”

The half-orc leaned forward on his elbows, dropping his voice.  “What do you want, Kez?  The last time you asked for me, I almost lost an arm, a leg, and other shit I didn’t even know that I had to lose.  I don’t need your bullshit…or your psychotic wizard pal Melkeezadech and his incomprehensible batshit craziness.”

The drinks arrived, ferried over by an alarmingly graceless construct.  Kez-Kur smoothly lifted the two mugs from the tilting tray of the ersatz waiter, setting them onto the table in front of them.  “The mongrel-faction is back into play—they’ve got some unknowns working things for them.  They’ve taken the Thrailians down a notch or so, calming the extraplanar influences, and word is that they’re pulling elements back into place…a bit.”“

Yeah? And?”

"Find the unknowns. Enlist ‘em.  Get them on our side…on our payroll, whatever.   I want to hit Sigil before anyone here can recover.  We need to get a crew over there for a quick recon, maybe move some merchandise over here, and then see how things play out.”  The half-ogre drained his mug.  “You can do it, Glantar.  You always could.”  He got up to leave.

“You’ll be comping every fucking thing I do in this burg; you’ll be equipping me as I see fit, motherfucker; and you’ll be providing me the gold for a couple of support compadres…understand, half-ogre?”

A tight, mirthless smile.  “I understand.  Take what you need, find these tools, and get everyone to Sigil.  Now…”  The half-ogre fingered his sheathed battleaxe.  “Do YOU understand, half-orc?”

Glantar gazed levelly at his erstwhile adventuring companion. “Completely.  And pick me up another pint and the tab when you leave , Kez, you fucking total asshole.”
This message was last edited by the player at 18:08, Mon 19 Dec 2011.

"Ahh.  Glantar.  To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

The wizard, his face half-hidden in the cowl of his cloak and the weird gossamer eye wrappings he affects, never looked up from the goblet of wine in front of him.

"Kez needs your help, wizard.  You'll need to find some fools he seems to want." The hulking half-orc ducked under the lintel of the small Rimsedge tavern known as the Sorrowful Man, glancing around as he did so. That fucking wine-swilling mage...how in the FUCK can he see me before I see him...and so fucking consistently?

"Our leader is somewhat misinformed as to the immediacy of his objectives, however.  We should look down, and not out."  The man, his face remaining obscured by shadow and cloth, takes a sip from his clay wine goblet.  "The Dark Lands, beneath, are where my visions turn... they tell me there is opportunity.  The Kur seeks gain...fine, I am not one to trifle with an ambitious man...half-man...half-whatever."

The wizard drains his wine, thumping down the goblet and signalling the barkeep, hidden in the flickering shadows of the tavern, for another round.  "Allow me to introduce a certain girl who wields a particularly wicked blade, half-orc.  She comes with news that may enrich us all.  And DO allow my man to serve you whatever heinous rot-gut your piggish kind prefers."

A powerfully built half-elven woman emerges from the tavern shadows. "I ain't no girl, wizardling, as you well know.  Let's get this thing done...I ain't here for you, for your ugly buddy, or for anything else except my business and my friends."

"She knows those you seek, half-orc...she seeks them herself.  Why are you, all of you, such complete morons with only a collective rudimentary capacity for rational thought?" The cowled wizard speaks with a mild voice.

A mongrelman limps out of the shadows surrounding the bar of the Sorrowful Man to refill the cowled and masked wizard's wine goblet.  He backs away into the shifting gloaming that masks the scarred wooden bar and dim bottles as the wizard sips at his cup.

"The Lords of the Rim, my half-orc friend, are uneasy.  Our warrioress...what DID you say your name was, girl?"

The half-elf favors him with a long, measured, and withering look of distaste.  "Aine, of the Leaflock Elven people and their kin, as you well know, wizardling."

"Ahh, yes.  My thoughts were elsewhere when you chose to burden me with that particular trifle."  The wizard returns his attention to the scarred half-orc.  "I'll be as brief as I can, in order to avoid taxing such mental acuity as you may possess, Glantar.  The Lord Gunari, the Lady TuuLikki, the Merchant Mages, AND the Black Mage have all expressed concern about our Darklands friends."  The wizard pauses to sip again at his wine, his other hand waving dismissively.  "The wars proceed, so I am informed, but the Lady Matron Azrinae has disappeared from the Council for some time.  Shipments from the Underdark have ceased, and the Gates no longer seem to function as they should, half-orc."

The wizard leans forward, his forearms resting on the table.  "Without the Darklands connection for trade, the wars will go poorly.  The warrioress here tells me that her people think there is some Drow scheme to do her folk harm, and have sent her to the Rim.  Of absolutely no concern to me, true, but it appears that the vessel for the scheme in question is Rimsedge itself...and some of our friends on the Council find this of much interest--in addition to determining why trade between the Rim and the Darklands has ceased".

"And so, my semi-sentient half-orc friend, there are issues afoot that may bear some of us to a modicum of fortune.  I have sent tidings of these things to Kez Kur, and he has returned a short missive via courier."  A shadow...literally and to all observational intents a shadow...steps forth from the indistict and flickering torchlight that the proprietors of the Sorrowful Man apparently favor.  A bone-white curl of parchment dangles from tenebrous, shifting wisps of darkness that might pass for digits, and Melkeezadech plucks the parchment away from the shadow.  He sets a small vial of some dark liquid on the table, and the shadowy form reaches out with a long, wavering ribbon of darkness, engulfs the vial...and both vial and shadow are gone.

The wizard hands the parchment to the half-orc.  "These days, I'm told you can read by carefully mouthing the words to yourself, and do some simple ciphering as well, half-orc.  I always commend attempts at self-improvement, even when obviously doomed to failure.  See, then, for yourself."

Glantar, face impassive, quickly scans the parchment.  "Nothing's truly changed, you wine-sodden spell-jacked asshole.  Kez still wants these westerners found, only the client base has been altered.  You're really not telling me a whole shitload of new and useful information, but you took fuck-all of a long time to do so, you narcissistic dickwad."

"I got some leads, ass-mage, and should be at the Solemn Sprite within a few bells.  Send the half-elf over there," Glantar nods towards Aine, "and I should have a handle on at least a couple of her friends."  The big half-orc shifts his flail into a more comfortable position across his back and prepares to depart the dusky interior of the Sorrowful Man.

Melkeezadech bristles. "You would DARE, half-orc, to tell ME what to do!?!  I can have your soul devoured before you take a dozen steps!"

Glantar half turns as he nears the door to the Sorrowful Man.  "Don't pull this shit just to impress the half-elf, dick.  You and me both know where the money and power is, and some jerk-wad posturing in some shitty third-rate tavern ain't the way it really is, now is it?  Take care of your end, I'll take care of mine, and we'll all have a laugh about it with Kez and whatever psychotic members of the Rimedge Council want to get their ya-yas' out about it.  Gold and power, asshole...that's all the three of us were ever about, and this is just one more shot at pulling a little of that in."

The half-orc leaves, and the mage thumps on the table for another round of wine.  Aine, seemingly forgotten in all of this, remains standing and eyes the door to the tavern thoughtfully.

"No, girl.  I need you to tell me, once more so that it can make sense to those whom we will be seeing within the day.  Tell me, again, what it was that sent you here--so that those members of the Rimsedge Council whom the half-orc referred to will also understand."  The cowled and masked wizard speaks a bit wearily, as if he wished he were elsewhere.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:01, Tue 08 Nov 2011.

Aine's tale is neither brief nor simple, but the need to find her erstwhile adventuring companions is clear...a need that the elder Elven seers of the Leaflock Forest had impressed upon her some months ago.

Aine's adventures with Dominique had taken them both, with a various and rotating cast of adventuring companions, into the trails and byways of the Leaflock Forest.  From spelunking in the ruins of the Corvid Heights, to rescuing villagers besieged by undead in Woodshead, to whitewater rafting down the Kirduin River to aid an Elven ambassador, to the terrible discoveries in the Cordillera Barrera to the south--Aine and Dominique had established a reputation and earned the guarded friendship of the Leaflock Elves.  The Drow enampment deep within the mountainous region of the Cordillera Barrera, however, had imposed a profound change to the half-elf's life.  Aine returned from those forbidding and barren peaks torn, shattered, and within scant inches of a permanently crippled spirit.  Her Elven druidic and mystic advisors had taken her in, healed her, and listened to her story.  Dominique was not so fortunate, and his body and soul had fallen in the shadow-plagued horrors of the mountains.

Aine returned with tales of a concerted Drow attempt to not just raid the surface elven strongholds, but to bring about another cateclysmic war between the Darklands and the sunlit world.  How this was to be accomplished remained shrouded in mystery, but the information that the half-elven ranger returned with was enough to provide hints and clues as to the Drow master plan.

Eastward, the elven elders and seers said.  Eastward to the Dreaming Lands, eastward to the paradox of Rimsedge, eastward to where the skein of what the Drow intended might be further unraveled.

And eastward, thought Aine as she departed the hidden Elven city at the confluence of the Kirduin and Eaveswater Rivers months ago, was where her friends had gone...if the rumors and travellers' tales of their passage were to prove true.

"Boy...coz."

The rumbled, single-syllabled word seems to put flight to the majority of the patrons of the Solemn Sprite.

"Shit.  This is where I met Kez Kur just a couple of days ago.  He MUST have known the westerners were here...this can't be some laughable coincidence.  And this is the half-breed coz I've heard about, too."  Glantar shifts the flail on his back and sits down on one the tavern's sturdier benches, ruminating briefly on coincidences in general and Rimsedge coincidences in particular.

Totmacher, dirty and blooded from his training, looks up at the other hulking half-orc...in point of fact, the only other person in the room at this point, besides the bartender and a weird, ambulatory construct that serves drinks, albeit with some diffuculty.

"I'm looking for you, and your friends.  Seems another one of your type...a half-elven ranger...is also in town to find you.  We got some business to discuss.  Bring your comrades or whatever you call 'em, and let's have a chat at sundown.  Here."

Glantar heaves himself to his feet, shifting his armor and weaponry in one smooth motion as he does so.  Glancing back at Totmacher, the other scarred and hulking half-orc swings open the door to the Solemn Sprite and disappears into the dimly lit streets of Rimsedge.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:16, Mon 19 Dec 2011.

Evening in Rimsedge...not necessarily an occurrence that is readily observable from many parts of the largely subterranean city.  Yet the Solemn Sprite has windows that look out on the central chimney forming the heart of the hollow mesa that comprises Rimsedge, and registers a faint chiaroscuro of the daily rising and setting of the sun.

The common room of the Sprite is beginning to fill, as a slight man garbed in neat grey attire--soft lambskin breeches and long calfskin doublet--walks in and approaches the bar.  A quiet word, and some gold appears to change hands.  The barkeep harrumphs and bangs on the bar with a heavy pewter mug, apparently ready to make an announcement.  "All right, you lot, the place is closed as of now, and you'll all be...hey, boy, no kids allowed in here," this last phrase directed at a child of five years or so who has apparently wandered into the Sprite from the street.  "You heard me, you little brat, I'll put you out on your ass meself, if'n you don't..." A flash of blue briefly lights up the dim confines behind the bar as the little boy waves his hand with a disturbing fluidity.  The barkeep ceases his tirade, freezing into a very lifelike granite statue.  The rest of the clientele undergo a brief moment of silence, and then make a concerted rush for the door--elbowing and jostling each other in order to effect as hasty an exit as possible.

"My lord, that was ill-done, if I may be frank," the grey-clad man expostulates softly after the mass exodus.  "This affair is odd enough as is, without furthering talk on the streets and byways."

"My person was insulted, and I did as I saw fit, Tephrinos. I will restore this fool to bloody flesh ere we depart," the little boy states as he hops into a recently-vacated chair.  "Where are the pawns we were promised?"

"Since my lord has seen fit to render our host...somewhat less capable of service...shall I procure some refreshment for you?" the gray-clad man asks the child swinging its legs in the tavern chair.

"I'm certain the offerings here are barely potable, but see if there is any Phanarian whiskey hidden in this terrible place, Tephrinos."  The little boy punctuates his reply by producing a small piece of chalk and beginning to scrawl upon the rough wooden tabletop at which he is seated.

The gray-clad man stoops beneath the bar and emerges with a dusty bottle.  He uncorks the container and carefully decants several fingers of the liquid into two small ceramic tumblers.  He carries one to the child's table.  "My lord."

The little boy takes a sip, and then nods.  "Not a bad distillation at all...and from the regions hard by Briarfell Hold, if I'm not mistaken." The gray-clad man inclines his head slightly.

"We are early, Tephrinos, I know.  Who among the other Council members will make an appearance, do you know?" the boy asks casually.

"Ahh, my lord.  The emissaries of Lord Gunari, the Merchants, and the Lady TuuLikki are expected."

As if on cue, the door to the Solemn Sprite opens and a kobold clad in leather armor enters.  He glances about and then sketches a bow to the boy and the gray-clad man.  "This one has the honor of being chosen by the Lady to represent her will.  This one greets you."

A slight tearing sound, and the air shimmers as a fat and balding man steps through what appears to be a rift in the very atmosphere of the tavern.  He swipes a hand across his brow, and glances around.  He beams at the gray-clad man, the child, and the kobold.  "I am Proxenetes, of the Merchants!"  He nods at the group, wander over to the bar and chuckles at the stone barkeep, rapping his knuckles on the statue's head.  He retrieves a clay mug and fills it from a cask of ale on the bar, making his way to another table after he does so.

A hobgoblin, clad in plate mail with the stylized mesa of Rimsedge emblazoned on the breastpiece, is next to arrive.  He stares hard at the assembled group, until the gray-clad man speaks.  "If you are, as I suspect, a representative of the Lord Gunari, then please be seated at this place...for we are here to discuss matters of import to us all."

The hulking half-orc Glantar steps through the tavern door next, and is followed by the even more massive half-ogre Kez Kur, followed by the weird masked mage Melkeezadech.  The trio takes a table away from the others, with Melkeezadech pulling a bottle of wine from behind the bar and Kez Kur hefting a sizable jug from a sack hung from his belt--setting it down upon the table with a thump.  He pours two ceramic mugs full of a potent-smelling liquour, shoving one over to Glantar while retaining one for himself.  Melkeezadech uncorks the wine and pours into a small glass he produces from a fold in his robe.

Finally, a mongrelman steps in through the tavern door--and stops.  "Just here for the change of the barkeep shift.  Don't want anything else."

"Please sit, my Lord.  I, if not the others, know why you are here."  The mongrelman nods, and replies softly.  "I thank you, but will tend bar nonetheless.  There seems to have been some sort of accident that has befallen my bar-tending colleague..."

The party wanders in one by one--glancing about at the odd assortment of folk gathered in the Solemn Sprite.  The scene is not unlike that of many evenings at the Sprite, so no particular suspicions arise--save for the life-like statue of a bartender.  The mongrelman barkeep, however, is familiar to the party, and the various members call out their orders to him.

A half-elven woman enters the bar next...Aine...sharp-eyed and gazing about at the occupants of the tavern.  Her eyes soften somewhat as she sees her erstwhile companions drinking and talking quietly.  Caylin and Garryn both note the half-elf's entrance, but it is Caylin who rises to his feet and says, "Lass...ye've returned t' us...come an' share a pint an' catch up."  The halfling crosses over to shake the ranger's hand and lead her back to the party's table.

The half-ogre quickly stands up and shuts the tavern door, throwing the wooden post into place to bar the door from the outside.  "Outstanding.  You're all here, let's get this shit done with, assholes."

We begin from here on Friday 11/18/11.  Looking forward to it.