Posted 08 Aug 99
It is late evening during the "Feast of Genin".
The night is hot and humid, which is quite typical for the dead center of summer
on the plate. It would appear that the entire city of Tychuss
has turned out for the festivities this year. There is food and feasting
everywhere one turns. Pigs roasting over the fires, grease sending sparks into
the air, laughing of the crowds, children constantly under foot, only the truly
soul-less sort could fail to find fun, food, and drink tonight.
".. they're at tit agin. When they start bettin' tis anyone's guess how
it'll turn out," says a grizzly toothed drunk pointing toward a pair of
regally dressed graying men. "Remember last time, when..," he trips
over his own feet. "Damn! Spilled me ale.
A young finely dressed teenage boy approaches and timidly taps you on the shoulder. The lad says, "Excuse me. Pardon the intrusion to the festivities, but Lord Vastair humbly requests your presence in his pavilion." He gestures to the huge multicolored tentlike structure behind.
"He says it is of the utmost importance and will recompense you for any
time that you feel is wasted. If you would follow me, we can not waste any
more of your partying."
The pavilion is a large lavish affair with servants hustling and bustling
about. There are already several others there seated at a large oaken dining
table virtually overflowing with food and drink. The boy opens the flap to
allow you easy access. "Please have a seat with the others. Lord Vastair
will be speaking in a few moments. Feel free to partake of whatever you
wish." The page whispers to you, "The pheasant is especially
succulent." With that he departs.
The general conversation would indicate that everyone here arrived via the same
sort of notification and no one knows any specifics, as of yet.
A thin slightly graying nobleman that you saw earlier enters the pavilion,
followed by another noble somewhat shorter and more plump. The thin man holds
his hands in the air, "Friends, as you know myself and Lord Chunnel are
probably the most notorious wagering men that anyone could ever hope to find.
We have recently entered into a wager as to the survivability of the eastern
wilds.
We have hand selected and mutually agreed upon you as potential participants. We have hopes of enticing at least a small portion of you to meet our challenge. We disagree as to whether a small non-seasoned, non-professional group of strangers could make it two weeks into the eastern wilds and return alive.
We are prepared to offer each of you three crown for your trouble. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Three crowns is at least 3 year's wages for most of you. Well, we had to strike a fair cost, since there is a certain amount of danger.
Should you accept, you will be outfitted and sent into the wilds with a small magickal compass that will lead you to your target. The target is approximately two weeks out depending on your rate of travel and terrain. The target will be a compass that points back to Tychuss. So getting lost should not be an issue. The monetary compensation will be paid to each participant that returns. Half that amount will be paid to a predetermined beneficiary for anyone killed while in the wilds.
Should you decline, you can continue to eat and drink your fill and leave when you wish. My page will pay each of you 10 dram for hearing us out. If anyone later decides that they want to join, we depart at first light.
If you are joining, step up to the head table and sign the contract or make your mark if you can't write.
Thank you for your attention."
Pheylan
A boyishly handsome slender youth, not more than 16 years
of age, walks from the middle of the crowd to the center of the head table and
then looks around the room. As he scans the assembly, you notice his lightly
tanned complexion, piercing deep blue eyes, and unruly short brown hair. He is
dressed as an acolyte of Larani with a long dark brown overtunic, lighter brown
leggings, and soft brown shoes. His overtunic is marked in the upper right-hand
corner with the small symbol of a sword pointing downwards on a vertically
divided half-red/half-white diamond (the symbol of Larani). A well-worn leather
cord hangs around his neck, holding a small, round object tucked into his tunic
that is noticeable only by it's slightly discernible bulge.
After briefly scanning the crowd, he bows to Lord Vastair and Lord Chunnel in turn. Then, in a voice loud enough to reach the back of the assembly, he addresses the Lords:
"My Lords, I am Brother Pheylan, a Laranian acolyte of the Order of Hyvrik. My needs and the needs of my Order happen to coincide with yours, and so I would be happy to sign on for this undertaking. Of course, upon my return I would like the three crowns donated to the local Laranian church."
He speaks the last part with a devious grin, almost as if expecting the outburst of reactions that follows such a statement. He quickly reads through the document offered on the table and then picks up the offered quill and signs his name with a short flourish. Then he turns to the crowd and, after a brief pause to allow the assembly to quiet, begins to speak again:
"I have signed on with these Lords, to undertake their objective, and so will do it alone if need be. However, I would prefer some company for mutual protection and defense. Who will accept this challenge with me?"
[DM - I'm glad we're getting started, and I'm really looking forward to playing in your world.. This should be a good game.]
Farlont
A young medium built muscular fur-clad warrior with dark
brown hair, dark eyes, and a near-single eyebrow stands. To say he is not
handsome, would be giving him a compliment. To accuse his mother of having an
affair with a zun, would probably appear to be more accurate. Although with his
obvious muscles, I doubt anyone would dare say that to his face.
He raises his stein above his head and yells at the top of his lungs, "That's the kinda stuff I'm talkin' about! Let's go kick some ass!"
[I drain my ale in a single gulp]
I try (unsuccessfully) to hide my wince to the alcohol, which undoubtedly makes any nearby females fight not to loose their recently eaten meal.
"Don't sign on any of these sissies! I have some friends that can make this much more interesting!"
[I got your bulge, right here Pheylan! I flex my muscles to the point that my clothes begin to rip a bit and slam my fists on the table.]
"I can't read nor write real well. Mark me down! If you try to screw me and not pay up when I get back, not you or your fancy words are gonna be able to save you from my wrath! The ale is free, right? Well, bring it on, I appear to need a refill!"
Varlus
"As much as I would like to take you up on this
challenge and prove that WE SISSIES could survive this little bet just as well
as my muscle-headed friend here, I must decline. I am afraid that I have
obligations here and prefer to stay here in Tychuss and further my studies.
Thank you just the same. Good evening."
As Mavari Varlus leaves, you immediately recognize him as a shek p'var, Peleahn to be exact. Every aspect of his countenance says he is a Peleahn, from the typical conservative white Peleahn robes, to the short monk-ish bowl cut of his brown hair, to the complete lack of physical presence. Just as Jenzig stand out in a crowd, he seems to almost beg to be ignored.
[I leave as soon as I can manage to push my way out of the tent. I don't even know why I am wasting my time partying.]
Shaizan
Shaizan sits with his hands folded in his lap. Upon
Pheylan's thinly disguised megalomaniacal outburst, he narrows his eyes and purses
his lips in distaste. He tugs at the sleeves of his purple robe, and opens his
mouth to speak when he is interrupted by Farlont's display.
Shaizan looks at Farlont with a distasteful gaze, raises an eyebrow and then edges his chair away from him. Shaizan turns his head forward and clears his throat.
[Said to Lord Vastair]
"Three CROWNS, milord? Just what kind of 'danger' are you talking about? Where are you sending us to that our survival for two weeks is worth THREE CROWNS?"
The pavilion is getting rather loud and unruly as the displays vary from disgust to disbelieve to greed. There is a small line forming at the sign-up table.
Lord Chunnel can be heard to mutter, "The number of signees is turning out greater than we had hoped! Should we limit the number of acceptances?"
"No, by no means. Unless, you do not have the money or means to back those that you have selected," Vastair says smugly.
Upon hearing Shaizan's words, Lord Vastair stands and clears this throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that the amount of money being offered is only compensation for your time and the possibility of danger. The three crowns was the amount that Lord Chunnel and I agreed upon as adequate compensation after considering all the factors. Since our wager is between two extremes, no danger and imminent death, we had to come up with amount somewhere between that. Basically, by accepting this challenge you are betting that whatever you encounter will be worth the three crown. If you are not a betting man, you had best bow out gracefully. There is no shame in declining the challenge." Lord Vastair laughs a full belly laugh. "Although, I would hate word of your cowardice to leak out to some of your guilds. They may not reciprocate my sentiments." He continues to laugh, but manages to hold himself together enough to point to where the next signature should go on the contract.
Shameron
In the back of the room sits a young maiden surveying the
scene before her. At first glance, she appears to be elven, but upon closer
inspection, one finds themselves wondering who her parents were. She is of
medium build, but has rather muscular arms (for a female). Her features are
striking, but she is not beautiful in the classic sense. She has rather
unusual milky white, almost cream colored hair that flows down her back
stopping just a few inches from her waist. A leather strap is intertwined
with her loosely braided hair and two feathers are tied to the strap at the
end of the braid. Her elven ears are barely discernible through the hair she
wears over them. Her dark brown (almost black) eyebrows are a startling
contrast to her light colored hair. Her emerald green eyes are slightly
almond shaped with long dark brown lashes. Her skin is very tan which is
rare for an elf.
She is very uncomfortable with this large group of loud and drunken strangers and wonders why she has been asked here. The warm sultry night coupled with the large crowd makes her feel like a caged animal and she regrets not removing her studded leather armor earlier in the evening. She also secretly wishes she could remove her [forest green] tunic, [off-white] chemise shirt, [light brown] leggings and [soft leather] moccasins and swim in a nice, cool stream or pool to remove the stench she smells coming from many of the barbarians around her.
She is about to leave when the young man's bold announcement catches her attention. She thinks he is a rash and rather foolish lad and wonders if he has the skills needed to survive in the eastern wilds. Although she has spent a great deal of time in the wilderness, she has never been to eastern wilds and decides the idea of traversing the wilds appeals to her (and possibly look after the lad).
She decides to quietly approach Lord Vastair to find out more about the eastern wilds. [Rather quietly] "My lord, can you tell me more about the eastern wilds? I'm rather curious why you feel they are so dangerous that you would be willing to pay strangers three crowns apiece just to spend two weeks in the wilderness."
Lord Vastair turns to look at elven maid, "My dear, that is the whole basis for the bet. On one side, the eastern wilds are choked full of blood-thirsty zun lying in wait to hack down anyone that steps off the main road. On the other side, the eastern wilds are full of basically peaceful wilderness creatures and the worst that could possibly happen is a ravenous rabbit might nibble your bum while you are asleep."
His brow wrinkles quite severely. "One at a time please, and legibly." He laughs, "You want to be able to collect your money at the end, don't you?" Returning his attention to Shameron. "Perhaps I was not entirely clear. The journey is two weeks out and two weeks back, or a month round trip. This, of course, entirely depends upon the number of miles that any given party decides to travel in one day. The trip could be as little as three weeks total to forever."
Several attendees can be seen passed out at the feasting table. Lord Chunnel appears almost red in the face. "I told you this was a bad night of the year to start this wager. They are only here to take advantage of our food and drink. I only hope none of them think they are going to be coherent to start in the morning."
Pheylan
After his announcement, Pheylan moves to the side of the
table away from the food, beverages, and the greatest amount of noise. Quietly,
he watches the other individuals moving towards the table, silently wondering if
they act from bravado, from the influence of the freely-flowing wine and ale, or
if they just lack even the basic mental facilities of an Agrikhan. Pondering
this last thought, he smiles widely as the large, fur-clad unibrow barbarian
concludes his speech.
[To Farlont - Sorry, couldn't resist :) ]
However, the smile is quickly erased by the abrupt question from the mysterious purple robed man in the crowd. Looking slightly disturbed, he turns back towards the Lords and focuses his complete attention on Lord Vastair's response. Pheylan seems somewhat relieved at the response, although he frowns slightly at the Lord's obvious attempt to motivate the hot-blooded.
As the elvish female moves to the table and leans over to quietly confer with Lord Vastir, Pheylan finds himself drawn to her unusual features and her long braided hair. Startled to find himself staring, he quickly looks away, blushing slightly. Then, after looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed, he draws a deep breath and moves towards her side. After the Lord answers her question and has turned his attention to the drunken revelers, Pheylan clears his throat to attract her attention and begins to speak to the elvish woman:
"Excuse me, my Lady, but will you be accompanying us on this journey?"
Kiranyan
As you watch man after man sign their lives away for three
crowns, a half-elf, dressed in the purest white catches your attention. You could
have sworn that you saw the insignia of the Jenzig upon his elegant robes, but all
hopes of confirming this is lost as he is lost in the crowd...
Kendervon
"Since this group has courage, muscle and since the
brains just declined I guess I`ll be this groups brains. My Lord, I'm Kendervon.
I`ll assist this group with my wisdom.
The crowns are truly worth the risk, but I enjoy any kind of a challenge. Besides surviving is best left to the elves anyways." The young elf with white hair and purple glowing eyes, that seems to pierce everyone right down to their soul stands up and walks to the table to sign on with this group. His black rune-scribed robes rustle slightly as he moves toward the table. His pale skin and white hair almost make him appear to be an albino Drow, but that couldn't be the case.
"May the Creagans have mercy on all of our souls."
Shameron
Shameron is about to answer Pheylan's question when they
are rudely interrupted by Kendervon. She gives Kendervon a contemptible stare
and decides he's not worth the breath it would take to make a comment before
turning back to Pheylan. "Yes, Pheylan, I believe that was your name
wasn't it?, yes I do think I shall sign up. (Quietly to Pheylan only) If for
no other reason than to show our arrogant friend here just how little he knows.
(Louder) My name is Shameron (extends hand) and I'm pleased to make your
acquaintance."
She turns to Kendervon (in a rather loud voice) "So Kendervon, I take it you intend to try and be the leader of this group? You do realize that it takes a lot more than reading a book and practicing a few spells to survive in the woods. (She gives him a long stare up and down). In fact, you don't look like you could last two days in the Eastern Wilds, much less three weeks or more. I'll even wager that your parents were from some high elven court. So when was the last time your Elven body slept on something other than a soft feather bed?"
Turning to Pheylan, "Excuse me Pheylan, but I believe it's time I signed my name on this list." She turns in a huff and moves to the sign up list and signs her name. To both Kendervon and Pheylan, "There. Now there's someone with brains AND survival skills on this trip!"
Pheylan
Upon hearing Kendervon's speech, Pheylan strikes a mock
serious pose and with a grin bows deeply to Kendervon, adopting the accent of
the lower classes...
"M'lord, we're just simple folk and would be ever so grateful if'n yer Lordship, would be so kindly as to guide us with that big brain of yourn."
Laughing quietly, he resumes his normal speech patterns:
"Seriously, Kendervon... apparently you think quite highly of your mental facilities. However, I think you'll have to battle with unibrow for the position of intellectual leader for this group."
Flexing his almost non-existent muscles slightly, he continues:
"Personally, I plan to cover the muscle part."
[OK, Kendervon... I give up. What is a Creagan?]
Caledon
From the back of the room stands a lone-cloaked figure.
His hood hides most of his features, preventing all from getting a good look.
He is shaking his head in what appears to be in disbelief, until he too sees
the elf's striking features. Saying nothing he moves forward to sign his upon
the contract. As he approaches you than discover he wears the same robes as
the bold young man, an acolyte of Larani.
As he gets closer to Lord Vastair, he says, "My brethren speaks true about your needs coinciding with my Order. However, I have another want of finding the vile creatures who killed my parents and destroyed our farm. I will use your reward to help me rid Fe�gurth of every last creature."
After signing his name, he once again finds a private corner, keeping an ever watchful eye on the lady elf.