In the ruins of a long forgotten city; in the middle of a long forgotten, and frankly, undesired desert; at the intersection of three warring countries; a deeply-cowled figure sits cross-legged on a raised dais.

The wind howls as whips of sand lash the figure... who remains still, the only indication they are not one of the marble statues in the area is the sharpness of detail and the movement of fabric.

For a long time, nothing happens.  Then for an even longer time... nothing continues to happen.  After months, no, years, no; centuries... finally something happens.  Six figures, approach the dais, in pairs from three directions.

They walk in silence, the only sounds are crunching footfalls, howling wind and swishing sand.  After an interminable time the figures reach the dais in perfect synchronicity.

They array themselves around the dais, and wait in silence.  For a beat it looks as if they came here for nothing, then suddenly, a wall of sand flies away from the figure, and deafening silence imposes itself.  The interlopers do not react such theatrics and wait in stillness rivaling that of the shrouded figure.

In a whisper like the tearing of paper, but commanding in the sudden silence...

Have you all completed your tasks?  Have you created and harnessed your external locii?  Are you ready to end this?

The silence that implies their contempt at those questions is broken by a small rotuned, figure as a nasal voice cuts the silence like a chainsaw.

...Well, I don't believe that any of us has fully harnessed the power of the external locus...

they laugh nervously for a second and continue oblivious to the contempt rolling off of the others for the intrusion upon this moment.

...I estimate that we have only harnessed a small percentage of what a locus is capable of; it will take years, maybe centuries to fully...

The voice trails off as they realize their social transgression.

...Sorry.

Then without further adieu, let us proceed.

With that the figures each adopt a unique stance, voices raise in chant, song and prayer, components are removed from pouches, blood is spilled, metal shards are ignited into bright white light and an unmistakable aura of power emerges around each of the 6 figures.  The auras around the 6 newcomers begin to intermingle, and swirl in tie-dye patterns through the air... except when they come into contact with the first's aura, which remains still, clear, and impassable.

Colors fill the bubble and sand begins to raise up off of the ground to float inches above the surface.  When seen from the outside the bubble distends, ruptures, and the colors pour forth like a fog across the ground.  The wind suddenly changes shapes as all of the sand that has been picked up raises high into the air, then crashes down onto the bubble rushes outwards, then stillness, the power of the storm being spent.

The fog slowly lifts over a very different landscape.  A well that had long since run dry now has plentiful water, long destroyed cobblestone streets are now in perfect repair, ruined buildings, homes, and great public works of art, restored to their previous splendor.  The group of seven have birthed an oasis from the desert.

Welcome, to Old Theradane... restored.

A sharp sound followed by another breaks the reverence for the moment as the small rotund figure begins a slow clap that is not reciprocated by the others.

Oh... right.  Sorry.

Shoving their hands into their pockets they join the rest of the group in awkward reverence for their achievement.

So... Now what?

Now, is the time to build, and once we are ready, we will attract a new population.  This city-state is founded on our desire to be free from the scourge of war.  We will not take part in the squabbles of our neighbors; we will be the parliament born of strife... and this is our city.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:54, Sun 18 July 2021.

It was raining when Amarelle Parathis went out just after sunset to find a drink, and there was strange magic in the rain. It came down in pale lavenders and coppers and reds, soft lines like liquid dusk that turned to luminescent mist on the warm pavement. The air itself felt like champagne bubbles breaking against the skin. Over the dark shapes of distant rooftops, blue–white lightning blazed, and stuttering thunder chased it. Amarelle would have sworn she heard screams mixed in with the thunder.

The gods–damned wizards were at it again.

Well, she had a thirst, and an appointment, and odd rain wasn’t even close to the worst thing that had ever fallen on her from the skies over Theradane. As she walked, Amarelle dripped flickering colors that had no names. She cut a ghostly trail through fog that drifted like the murk beneath a pink and orange sea. As usual when the wizards were particularly bad, she didn’t have much company. The Street of Pale Savants was deserted. Shopkeepers stared forlornly from behind their windows on the Avenue of Seven Angles.
This had been her favorite sort of night, once. Heavy weather to drive witnesses from the streets. Thunder to cover the noise of feet creeping over rooftops. These days it was just lonely, unpredictable, and dangerous.

A double arc of silvery lights marked the Tanglewing Canal Bridge, the last between her and her destination. The lights burned within lamps held by rain–stained white marble statues of shackled, hooded figures. Amarelle kept her eyes fixed on her feet as she crossed the bridge. She knew the plaques beneath the statues by heart. The first two on the left, for example:





The statues themselves didn’t trouble her, or even the lights. So what if the city lit some of its streets and bridges with the unshriven souls of convicts, bound forever into melodramatic sculptures with fatuous plaques? No, the trouble was how those unquiet spirits whispered to passers–by.

Look upon me, beating heart, and witness the price of my broken oaths.

Fuck off, Bolar, muttered Amarelle. I’m not plotting to overthrow the Parliament of Strife.

Take warning, while your blood is still warm, and behold the eternal price of my greed and slaughter!

I don’t have a family to poison, Camira.

Amarelle, whispered the last statue on the left. It ought to be you up here, you faithless bitch.

Amarelle stared at that last inscription, just as she promised herself she wouldn’t every time she came this way.



I never turned my back on you, Amarelle whispered. I paid for sanctuary. We all did. We begged you to get out of the game with us, but you didn’t listen. You blew it.

You bent your knees to my killers before my flesh was even cold.

We all bought ourselves a little piece of the city, Scav. That was the plan. You just did it the hard way.

Some day you will share this vigil with me.

I’m done with all that now. Light your bridge and leave me alone.

There was no having a reasonable conversation with the dead. Amarelle kept moving. She only came this way when she wanted a drink, and by the time she got off the bridge she always needed at least two.

...I'm not proud of how that went...

Thunder rolled through the canyons of the streets. A building was on fire somewhere to the east, smoldering unnatural purple. Flights of screeching bat–winged beasts filled the sky between the flames and the low, glowing clouds. Some of them tangled and fought, with naked claws and barbed spears and clay jars of explosive fog. The objectives the creatures contended for were known only to gods and sorcerers.

Gods–damned wizards and their stupid feuds. Too bad they run the city. Too bad I need their protection
This message was last edited by the player at 02:56, Sun 18 July 2021.

In reply to Amarel Parnassus (msg # 2):

A slender figure moves towards Amarelle, tall despite being hunched against the rain.  The bright colors blending to a muddy gray in the middle distance.  An incongruously cheery voice rings out over the constant rush of rain.

Amarelle Parathis, the Duchess unseen... I see you just fine!

As the figure approaches it is revealed to be a handsome Drow wearing a constabulary of Theradane uniform with a shining captain's bar pinned to the collar.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:50, Fri 02 July 2021.

In reply to Inspector Tangleweb (msg # 3):

That one never gets old.

Amarelle snaps, a bit harsher than she meant to.  Interactions with what was... left of Scavius, always put her on edge.  She doubled her pace hustling past the Drow.

Nice night for a walk inspector.

She quickly adds, tugging her hood towards him.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:56, Sun 18 July 2021.

In reply to Amarel Parnassus (msg # 4):

You off to the Sign of the Fallen Flame tonight?  I'll be sure to have Goldclaw Grask count the silverware when you are done.

He says as Amarelle rushes past him.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:59, Fri 02 July 2021.

In reply to Inspector Tangleweb (msg # 5):

Amarelle spins on her boot heel walking backwards a few paces calling back

I'm retired and LOVING it!  Try to stay out of the rain will you?

In reply to Amarel Parnassus (msg # 6):

The Sign of the Fallen Fire lay on the west side of Tanglewing Street. Was, more accurately, the entire west side of Tanglewing Street. No room for anything else beside the cathedral of coiled bones knocked down fifteen centuries before, back when wild dragons occasionally took offense at the growing size of Theradane and paid it a visit. This one had settled so artistically in death, some long–forgotten entrepreneur had scraped out flesh and scales and roofed the steel–hard bones right where they lay.

Amarelle went in through the dragon’s mouth, shook burnt orange rain from her hair and watched wisps of luminous steam curl up from the carpet where the droplets landed. The bouncers lounging against eight–foot serrated fangs all nodded to her.

The tavern had doors where the dragon had once had tonsils. Those doors smelled good credit and opened smoothly.

The Neck was for dining and the Tail was for gambling. The Arms offered rooms for sleeping or not sleeping, as the renters preferred. Amarelle’s business was in the Gullet, the drinking cavern under the dead beast’s ribs and spine, where one hundred thousand bottles gleamed on racks and shelves behind the central bar.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:04, Sun 04 July 2021.

In reply to Scavius of Shadow Street (msg # 7):

Goldclaw Grask, the floor manager, is an ebony–scaled goblin in a dapper suit woven from actual Bank of Theradane notes. He has one in a different denomination for every night of the week; tonight he wears fifties.

Amarelle Parathis, the Duchess Unseen, he cried. I see you just fine!
This message was last edited by the player at 13:59, Thu 22 July 2021.

In reply to Gold Claw Grask (msg # 8):

That one never gets old, Grask.  Is Sophara on bar tonight?
This message was last edited by the player at 13:59, Thu 22 July 2021.

In reply to Amarelle Parathis (msg # 9):

Of course, it’s the seventeenth. Same night of the month your little crew always gets together and pretends it’s just an accident. Those of you that aren’t lighting the streets, that is.

In response to Amarel's glare I rustle over, reach up, take her left hand, and flick my tongue contritely against her knuckles.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be an asshole. I know, you paid the tithe, you’re an honest sheep living under the bombardment like the rest of us. Look, Sophara’s waving. Have one on me.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:30, Thu 22 July 2021.

In reply to Gold Claw Grask (msg # 10):

Sophara Miris has mismatched eyes and skin the color of rosewood, fine aquamarine hair and the hands of a streetside card sharp. When Amarelle paid her sanctuary tithe to the Parliament of Strife, she’d been wanted on three hundred and twelve distinct felony charges in eighteen cities. These days she is senior mage–mixologist at the Sign of the Fallen Fire, and she already had Amarelle’s first drink half–finished.

Evening, stranger. Sophara scrawls orders on a slate and hands it to one of the libationarians, whose encyclopedic knowledge of the contents and locations of all the bottles kept the bar running. Do you remember when we used to be interesting people?

Sophara mused, stirring equal parts liquor and illusion into a multi–layered concoction.

The self–made man’s holding a booth for us. I’m mixing you a Rise and Fall of Empires, but I heard Grask. You want two of these? Or something else?
This message was last edited by the player at 14:11, Thu 22 July 2021.