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    AvatarSteve Reed

    • This topic was modified 4 years ago by AvatarSteve Reed.
    AvatarSteve Reed

    The small lantern flickers in the corner of the room, casting its light across the wrinkled face of the old man sitting across from you. Between you, lying on the table, his tome is opened to a blank page. Taking his time, he fumbles through his bag clearly looking for something. His eyes digging through the bag, his raspy voice fills the otherwise quiet room.

    “Heard you’ve seen some interesting stuff here at the Federation, have you? Why don’t you tell old Rasputin your tales. Cement your legacy here, in our hall of records, for all of time?”

    He glances  up from his pack, withdrawing a long feathery Quill. A moment later, a small waxy figure places a well of ink before him before retreating back into the shadows. He dips the quill, shaking the excess ink off with a finesse that betrays his slow movements, before moving its tip to the page. One eyebrow raised, he leans in, intent to listen.

    “Go on. Share your tales with me!”

    He grows silent, and waits.


    (This is an attempt you get some of the PCs to share some information about their characters, stories you have lived through, exciting moments to share, all through this meetup group. Not everyone gets to play at every table! Share your story! By participating, I will enter you into a raffle of sorts with a chance to win cool prizes, from Gold to Magic Items to Stamps, all during our Tuesday Night meetup sessions!




    “It happun’d inna instant,” Meat growled quietly. “I didn’av time ta think, I jus dove fer th’ground.”

    The hulking barbarian shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the tragedy began to unfurl in his mind. “Me an the human was sent in ta back up the clerics, heard they was takin’ a beating an needed some help.”

    Meat remembered the fleshy undead humanoid, strangulating Kearin with it’s ropy appendages, and the blood that flowed freely from his armor.

    “We saved ‘im though, started choppin’ our way through hordes a’undead. I can’t ‘member how many I cut down.”

    Meat paused, and felt an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time; regret. For as long as he could remember, the young half orc had only ever looked out for his own best intentions and damned the rest. However, since joining the Federation, Meat has come upon something that he has never had before: a family. He grew attached to the myriad of fellow adventurers, considering them endeared siblings that he would gladly lay his life down for.

    “We got cocky…I think,” Meat scratched the back of his neck. “The human opened a door, opened it up to somethin’ mean. It looked like a skull, but it was floatin’ in th’air and on fire!

    “As soon as I saw’d it, I hit the floor. I felt somethin’ big then, somethin’ big an’loud. By th’time I come round to my senses…”

    Meat trailed off, muttering to himself, lost in the horror of the scene as it played out before him.

    “It killed two of ’em it did. Took ’em out in an instant.”

    Meat’s hands balled up into fists and his greyish green knuckles turned white.

    “I should’ve done somethin’, anythin’, and now they’re dead, gone…couldn’t even give ’em a proper burial…”

    Meat pushed himself to his feet, he was tired suddenly, and turned away from the Old Man with his book and quill. He paused, shuffled around in his pouch, and pulled forth a crystalline quill with an inbuilt ink reservoir. He observed it for a moment before leaving it on the chair.

    “You can hav’it, don’t much like it anymore.”


    “You know,” Aethan began, contemplatively, “I’m fairly certain I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people here in Sigil who might recognize a dragonmark, let alone the significance of an aberrant dragonmark.  And yet, I’m still going out of my way to hide it, even here.”  His hand reflexively rubbed the arm under his shirtsleeve where he knew the strange mark, the source of his magic, was hidden, then forced himself to stop with a nervous glance over his shoulder.  He sighed and shook his head.  “I’m still not used to this… this life.  Even after a year in Sharn, and I lose track of how long it’s actually been since arriving here and joining this Federation, I still almost expect to wake up in my family’s home.  And then I’m reminded why that can’t be.

    “I’m getting ahead of myself.  Apologies.”  He took a slow breath and let it out.  “It’s just that… this thing, this power, wherever it comes from… I don’t understand it.  Not truly.  I know that it’s magic, of course; we’re no strangers to the arcane in Khorvaire.  If anything, given what I’ve gathered from meeting others here, my people consider it almost mundane.  Just part of the world we all live in, something I always took for granted.  I can admit that, now.

    “I never thought of myself as anything all that special.  Not really.  My brother and sisters all more or less knew exactly what they wanted to do with their lives, my father, grandfather and great-grandfather all served Aundair with some distinction in the Last War, but me?”  He shrugged.  “I had everything I could ever need, and so never needed anything.  Didn’t want anything… except a purpose.  Seven years ago, I was the weakest fencer my tutor had ever seen, the least interested in my studies out my siblings and I.  Now?”  He held out his hand to one side, just beneath the table’s edge, and felt the now-familiar flow of magic from the mark down his arm and into his open hand as the sword materialized in his grasp.  He dismissed it again just as easily.  “Now, two years after the Last War ended, I’m doing battle with kobolds and monsters, getting mixed up in gang wars, delving for magical secrets in alien worlds!”

    He fell silent, feeling the signet ring on its thin chain briefly press against his chest under his shirt and armor.  Unlike the ring he’d taken off a dead mercenary the day he ended up stumbling into Sigil, it wasn’t magical, but it nonetheless had a sort of power.  He’d lost count of the times since he first left home, both before and during his time in Sharn, that in desperation or fear it and his family’s name had opened doors where little else could have.  Like his dragonmark it held no special significance here, no reason to keep it hidden.  No reason to flaunt it, either, he thought.

    “Maybe,” he began again, “this artificer does know something about how I got my mark.  What it might mean.  On the other hand, maybe not.  Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.  I doubt it, but… maybe.”  He lapsed into silence once more.  “I just hope that I’m doing the right thing… and I’m less and less sure exactly what that is.”


    Samm pulled up a chair and sat down. “Well you guys have quite a setup here. Way different than growing up on the streets.” He chuckled and took a deep breath. “Well my story isn’t really an interesting one, being half-elven I was never really an elf to the elves but never human to the humans so I kind of just stuck to my own path.” As he talked he looked down at  his left hand at the golden band on his ring finger. “That is until I met someone and started a family, but funding a family gets hard without money.”

    “So in order to come across some money I used my skills to……ummm……procure items,” he said sheepishly. “And I was pretty good at it too! Mind you I never stole from those less fortunate than me, only from those who probably wouldn’t even notice a trinket or two missing.” “But that all changed when I heard about a big score that could have funded my family for years.”

    “Some hot shot was staying in town and word was he had a crazy collection so I decided to take a look for myself.” Samm leaned forward in his chair and took a deep breath before continuing. “It was easy to get past the guards and get into the room which was weird because the room was filled with artifacts! But one in particular caught my eye, it was a golden scimitar. Sooooo, I decided to….hmm… help him with less stuff to dust but when I touched the sword it flashed bright light and in my head I heard a voice!” “It was a women’s voice and she said, ‘I am the goddess Tymora I need your help! If you help me I will grant many riches!'” Samm looked down at the gold scimitar he usually had slung across his back. “I said yes naturally then another bright light flashed and I was in front of my house! I thought it was a dream until I realized one of my eyes is completely gold colored where it was once brown!”

    Samm waited for the old man to catch up before continuing, “I guess now I’m in the Federation to use Tymora’s powers for good and to get gold for my family in less illegal ways.”

    Clay ToombsClay Toombs

    The door caught the autumn wind, and her hand flashed out to prevent its clash against the wall of the public house. All eyes looked up as she secured the latch, then down at their cups as her fleshy face surveyed the darkened room. Only the balding barman had a smile for her, and only because that was his job. As she hefted her bulk onto the creaking stool, he poured amber into a cut crystal glass—her glass, kept on the top shelf and kept very clean. The patrons returned to their drink and their gossip. Only some of it was about her.

    In the furthest, darkest corner, all backs to the wall, a “party of adventurers” (as all well knew they were) lamented the loss of their wizard. Strangers to this place, they alone kept up conversation in the seconds Geni took to cross the room and mount her stool.

    She did a tiny finger-dance, spoke a word in a tongue she didn’t speak, and ensorcelled the candle-dish on the adventurers’ table. Their coze carried from their candle to her ear. She half-listened and half-remembered.

    Euphegenia Weaverswidow is what townsfolk called her now, with a ward between them and evil. It was in this very pub she’d done the deed for which they feared her, and the thing she’d done had changed her to Weaverswidow from Weaver’s wife. She’d been the Burgher’s daughter before that—well-to-do, pretty, and vain. She’d run old Weaver’s son a fickle dance; tormented him in his desire. Not that she didn’t fancy the man—she did—but she scorned him, too. For how could a weaver’s son dress so shabby, and how could his guildsman father have no coin to pay her bride-price.

    But father suddenly passed from life, and son passed suddenly to wealth. Young Weaver paid gold to her father, and she paid heed to goodman Weaver. With Weaver’s gold she filled her home with little luxuries. Her belly swelled with fine eating, but alas not with new life. With Weaver’s gold she draped her person with silks and jewelry, but alas she never draped a babe—never mother, only wife. Barren rooms she furnished with library and laboratory, and barren mind with knowledge. She tutored children—others’ children—in the learning of the world, just to have the noise—by day—of children in her home. But in the silent darkened nights, she plumbed mysteries arcane, and by lonely guttering candlelight she delved the spirit world. By tedious herb-researches, and dosing of self and spouse, Euphegenia discovered the tincture by which at last she wombed a child. The bundle of cooing joy was all she’d hoped and more, but the Weaver seemed afraid of it, and in three moons she learned why.

    A mother knows when her babe is near and when it is away, and on that fateful night she sensed him leaving with their child. Rousing, nightcloak, cradle empty, downstairs, kitchen, sharpest knife, door latch, footprints, through the snow, to the road beside this pub she came. She saw her husband pass a swaddle to a coal-eyed hooded rider, who looked at her and laughed, then spun and galloped for winter’s gloom. Her curses in his wake. Raging, wailing, chasing Weaver fleeing into the pub, she caught him here at this very stool and severed her marriage bond.

    The knife cut deep, his blood ran hot, while hers ran icy cold. Her accusation slit the air, “How could you trade our babe for gold!?”
    His last defense damned her soul: “My father made the gold. The devil’s bargain was struck for you: our first born for your love.”

    To the darkest corner of the pub she said, “I’m Geni. I heard you need a mage.”

    Clay ToombsClay Toombs

    @Tyler — Nice! Finally read this. If Meat had jumped on the grenade, he’d be back up with 1 HP!

    Digging the writing talent here, Steve/Mike/Matt!

    Richard MarvinRichard Marvin

    With a dramatic flourish of shimmering green, Ember swept his coat back as the chair was pulled away from the table, as if by magick. The fine silk coat, with its vibrant emerald color, served its purpose and drew some onlookers’ eyes towards it. Yet only for a moment. In the next instant their gaze moved on to the coats owner. Bright red skin stretched over a thin, almost gaunt body. Black horns curled out from a mane of pure white hair that draped over the male Tiefling’s shoulders.  Ember’s tail uncurled from around the chair’s leg as he leaned back to sit, stretching out his legs and crossing one over the other.

    His pupil-less orange eyes stared hard at the old man for a split second, as if weighing the geezer in the scales of his mind. Before the old man could notice or even blink, Embers face broke into an easy well practiced smile. “I over-heard you wanted some tales old timer. Well I’ve got plenty, some that would burn with excitement and others that will ice your veins.” His arm reached up and suddenly a gold coin was rolling across his fingertips. He held it aloft towards the barkeep and called out, “Another round of whatever my old friend here is having and a glass of whiskey. Now seeing as I’m new here I suppose you would like to know a little about me.” Ember swirled his glass before taking a long drink of the amber colored liquid within. “I’m afraid there’s not much of a story there. I grew up here in Sigil. Mine was life of relative comfort and happiness. Typical normal upbringing. Father was a tailor. With enough important clientele that we lived reasonably well. Mother stayed home and took care of myself and my 3 younger brothers. I was supposed to take over the family business but I yearned for something more. I knew I was destined for something greater. So when my father was offered a position in one of the lands that our city of doors connects to, I opted to stay here.” Ember reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch and a thin metal case. He pulled a flat thin strip of paper from the case and began to fill it with bits of dried brown leaves. He rolled the paper into a tight cylinder and with a quick lick, sealed both ends together. “And and landing here in your guild, I’m glad I did. You see I was right about my destiny. My…talents…don’t lay in the measuring or cutting of cloth,” he placed the rolled cylinder between his lips and with a snap of his fingers, a bright burning flame appeared floating in the air, lighting the end, “No my destiny burns with a flame MUCH brighter than that.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke that obscured his face except for his glowing orange eyes and the white fanged teeth of his wide smile. “Now that the boring past is out of the way, what kind of tales do you want…ice…or Fire?”


    The Travelers Crate:

    “Seems like it fears intelligence the most” thought Crate as the beholder turned towards him. Luck was with Crate a few moments earlier but such is the nature of the chaotic alignment. If luck were to work all the time it would be law… and aint no one have time for laws.

    Crate had a vested intrest in accepting the mission that day. The federation gave crate a ladder towards his ultimate goal. Also the thought of all the souls going into designated crystals? That seems a bit too orderly and forced. That is not the traveler’s will. Death is a chaotic event by nature, with souls going to any number of places and fates. Yes crate would take this mission.

    Crate has worked with worked with this team before and they’re not that bad. Halfax, says hes a cleric but hes a rouge in priests clothing and one of the most reliable of the group. Tao, a bit to orderly but honorable for sure. Meat the barbarian, good in a fight and enjoyably chaotic. Plus the symic hybrid, we will see about that one.

    As the beholders paralization ray connected with crates form, locking up his body he knew this was a likely outcome. He exposed himself to the beholders wrath to wrap a rope around the crystal so meat can pull it free and take it away. Crate knew he didnt have the brute strength to pull it free from the machinery that held it inplace. He didnt have the time to utilize his skills to free it and the barbarian needed to be behind cover.

    A second paralization beam hit crate. The beholder not taking any chances doubled up his efforts to make sure the clearly most dangerous enemy is stoped and assuring the final blow will land.

    Crate noticed Huey peering from behind cover. Huey who just ran to Crates aid was the slave that Crate bought and, undisclosed to Huey, crates newest initiate to the traveler’s congregation and personal acolyte.

    Then a Flash…, dust, and darkness. As the beholder hit Crate with his most powerfull attack. A disintegration beam. Crates last thoughts were of the traveler. Just moments ago the traveler saved him just long enough to do his task. Now Crates soul is pulled into a world of one color. A red crystals color. Out of the arms of the traveler and into a prison.

    Then something happened… the red melted away to an impossible mixture of darkness and light and Crates soul was flung in to it. The green sleeved hand of the traveler reached out to grasp Crate by the shoulder. Unwilling to loose his champion the traveler pulled Crate in another direction. Catapulting him into a more familiar plane of existance.

    Crate awoke in darkness and salt water. Jolting from the transfer he felt his new world tip, fall, and shatter. As the clay pot he was in broke apart the salt water washed across the the stone floor. Peering up into his new surroundings he reconized the warehouse he was in. Crate muttered under his breath “Its a good thing I paid for that wizards clone spell…”

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