Midnight bounty

The heavy oak door to Orthos' dormitory flies open and in Qroc flutters, clearly still somewhat inebriated from the festivities earlier.

"Whoooo! Okay. Baby humans. Good work, babies. You came through! If I were interested, I'd ask what took you so fuckin' long. But I'm not, and it doesn't matter anyway, so.. yeah, great job!"

"Adventurers. You all look so funny! I love you guys. Anyway. You like treasure, right? Yeah, it's all about the ducats. Hell, it's bread and butter to you cunts."

He snaps his fingers and a small bag appears in his little clawed hands.

"Here you go, Orthos," he says, producing an aged, crusty tome from the bag. "It's a book full of... whatever it is you conjure. Spirits? Bullshit? I dunno. Anyway, it's all yours! And some coin for your troubles," he adds, pulling out a small sack plump with gold and clumsily tossing it at him.

"Um. As for the rest of you fuckers... I don't really know you or what you like, so I can't promise that there's anything in my bag specially for you. I mean, there's plenty of gold to go around, sure..." He smiles wickedly. "But there is also a more interesting alternative."

He pulls out a shabby deck of cards.

"Shhh. Don't tell the Master I took these. I'll deny it and make your life hell. He never uses them anyway. Too unpredictable, he says. But also very powerful. How powerful, you ask? These cards can totally change your life - for better or worse." He giggles knowingly.

"So who wants to go first? Will you take whatever's in my special bag here? Or will you chance a draw from the Deck of Many Things?"

Denouement

[This isn't going as quickly as I had hoped, and I'm sensing a lack of interest. So rather than continue to distract from the opportunity to play your characters, I'm just going to narrate a resolution. I'm sorry if this disappoints anyone who was looking forward to solving the mystery. My thanks to those who put their time and energy into this subplot.]

“Wyvernsting,” Harrowsong concludes after examining the needle. “Not the deadliest of poisons, but potent nonetheless.”

“And in ready supply,” Duke Youngblood surmises. “All one would need to do is infiltrate the stables of the Winged Corps.”

“And have good reflexes,” Quentachi adds. “Would I be going too far to suspect the Cataract’s unwholesome hand at work here?”

“I would give it at least a 72% probability,” Virgis affirms.

(The Cataract: the underworld’s equivalent of the Inquisitors; these “monks” operate as thieves and assassins, using their psychic endowments to cloak their presence and manipulate their foes.)

Plutus marches over to Belarva’s courier, still recovering from the effects of the poison, and hauls him to his feet. “Where did the dart hit you, boy?”

“M’arm,” the young man slurs thickly, as if he had just gargled with cotton.

“Stand exactly as you were when it happened. Was it this arm? No. This arm, then. Show me where! Good. Now watch my finger, and stop me when it approximates the angle at which the needle protruded from your flesh. Try to remember!”

The other magi wait patiently as the Arch Evoker mentally calculates the trajectory of the assassin’s missile. Suddenly, he points to a piping troubadour: “YOU!”

“Here we go,” Quentachi mutters, rolling his eyes.

Plutus storms over to the confused player and grabs his fife from his hands. “Just as I suspected! This instrument is hollow!” He throws it to the ground and seizes the man by the throat. “Confess!” He demands.

“One moment, Lord Plutus,” Virgis says. “Let us give this fellow a chance to explain himself.”

Plutus softens his grip just enough for the piper to talk: “Forgiveness, milord, but I don’t remember… we were playing and then… I don’t know what happened. I felt like I was waking up, and then that man over there was collapsing, and milord had disappeared…”

“A likely story!” Plutus crows.

“A plausible one,” Virgis says.

Dame Harrowsong agrees. “The Cataract can induce others to act without any recollection, as if possessed. I have seen it myself.”

“Am I going to die?” The piper asks meekly, on the verge of tears.

“I have an idea,” Quentachi offers. “If you will permit it, Lord Virgis, I will cast an enchantment over the entire room to cause everyone to slumber. Only the most disciplined minds will be unaffected. Therefore, anyone other than ourselves who remains awake must be the assassin.”

“Proceed,” Virgis says.

Quentachi begins to chant softly…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....






You open your eyes. What just happened? The enormous cake looks as if it has exploded, and there is a dark-clad figure holding a knife to the throat of the Duke! The other guests appear to be rousing from sleep as well, having fallen or slumped over in the middle of whatever they were doing at the time Lord Quentachi’s spell was cast.

“Don’t just stand there!” Youngblood commands the magi. “Do something!”

Virgis steps forward. “I’ve been asking myself why a Cataract assassin would be so inept in their attempt to kill me. It could not be mere inexperience, for they would know me to be a very difficult target, and would have sent the best they had to offer. I must therefore conclude that the failure was deliberate.”

He continues: “Of course, it also helped that your son warned me of your intentions in advance, Your Grace.”

“You knew the whole time?” Harrowsong asks. “Oh, Virgis. You and your love of drama.”

The Duke’s face turns violet with fury. “What? You accuse me--? Abelard! What manner of treachery is this?”

Abelard Youngblood yawns and stands up from his seat, wiping some drool from the corner of his mouth. “Hm? Oh. Lord Virgis speaks truly, Father. I overheard your machinations and saw an opportunity to advance myself. You have set a most ignoble example, and this must be corrected. Your corruption ends here.”

“Ingrate!” The Duke screams. “Cur! You conniving, limp-wristed swine! I should have drowned you at birth, you ill-bred whoreson!”

“Leave Mother out of this,” Abelard retorts smartly. “You have no one but yourself to blame for teaching me too well.”

Virgis snaps his fingers. The doors of the Great Hall unbar themselves and the shutters over the windows fly open. “You may go,” he says to the assassin. “See that you do not ever return.” The mysterious figure in black sheaths his (her?) blade, steps backward into a shadow, and vanishes without a trace. The Duke continues to remain standing, struggling against invisible bindings.

“Now let us see how Lady Belarva’s gift works,” Virgis says, his face glowing with schadenfreude. He opens the blue box once more, and makes a lifting motion with one hand. A perfect black orb, darker even than a moonless night, rises slowly out of the box, floating according to the will of its new master.

Ivor Youngblood stares in horror as the black sphere of doom glides inexorably toward him -- slowly, silently; his eyes wide, sweat cascading down his forehead, his veins popping out of his skin as he continues to struggle hopelessly against fate.

“Goodbye, Father,” Abelard says. “Thanks for everything.”

“Farewell, Your Grace,” Virgis says. “Thank you for a very entertaining party. I don't think anyone here will ever forget it."

“You haven’t seen the last of mmmmee---“ The Duke’s curse is silenced as the orb makes contact. His form contorts and twists into an impossibly thin stream of matter that spirals into the infinite depth of the orb, and then he is – utterly, inarguably, irrevocably – gone.

Virgis quickly claps the box back over the orb. “Splendid,” he says, very satisfied.

Turning to the son of Ivor, he bows. “All hail Abelard Youngblood, Duke of Kauhedl!”

Party games

Scene: The Great Hall of the College of High Summoning in Freybourne, on the day of Lord Virgis Grimrune's 194th birthday. Just seconds ago, an attempt was made on his life via a poisoned dart. The aristocratic crowd is on the verge of pandemonium with the knowledge that the would-be assassin remains undiscovered and at-large within the Great Hall, which has been magically sealed.

Virgis: My apologies if any of you had other plans, but no one will be leaving until my assailant makes him- or herself known. I understand that it may be troubling to have a killer walking among you, but please do not let it spoil your merriment. Your safety is guaranteed.

Qroc: Yeah, what he said. The food's probably fine, or else you'd all probably have croaked by now. So eat! Drink up! Keep the music playing! It's a party, for fuck's sake!

The troubadours take up their instruments again and play as commanded, though their eyes cast nervously about the room. The crowd murmurs through forced, unnatural smiles.

Virgis: This has turned into a very splendid party indeed, Qroc. So many surprises, and more to come, no doubt. Why, I'm positively tickled.

Qroc: Wow. If only I had known that's what it would take to make you happy, Master, I could have been hiring hit men all this time. Anyway, what now? We play pin-the-tail-on-the-assassin?

Virgis: Indeed...

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

The birthday boy

What a party! Never before have you beheld such unabashed opulence. The Great Hall seems to glow with its own light, reflecting warmly off gilded arches and a flawlessly polished marble floor. Long tables sag under the weight of enough food and drink to choke a purple worm. In one corner is perched a multi-tiered cake twice as tall as a man; in front of it, a band of troubadours, performing tirelessly for the assembly.

The hall is crowded with local aristocracy and their courtiers, dressed to the nines as they feast and drink and laugh at their own cleverness. You can see that many of the other Headmaster Wizards are also present: Lord Quintachi, sporting a fine robe of dazzling colors; Lord Plutus, wearing the official colors of the School of High Evocation; even Dame Harrowsong, Mistress Necromancer (so she can come out during the day!), her face covered by a veil of black lace. Duke Ivor Youngblood and his court have made an appearance as well to congratulate the Devil-Tamer on yet another year of exceptional longevity.

Lord Virgis sits enthroned at the head of the room, alone, his expression a mask of displeasure despite the ostensible festivity of the occasion. You are mystified by his dour face. What could be vexing him so? And then you realize that there are no presents! You balk at how such an important component of any decent birthday celebration could be overlooked, but then you wonder: what does one get for a man such as this? What could anyone possibly have to offer someone who can grant his own wishes? And then you reflect that perhaps ultimate power is not so fulfilling after all, for is it not the small pleasures that truly make life worth living?

“Uh oh,” Qroc mutters. “The Master looks unhappy! Better let me do the talking. By the way, Orthos, if this gift fails to please him, you can bet that your head will roll for it.”

Qroc flutters to the middle of the chamber. “May I have your attention please?” He squeaks. No one seems to notice, steeped as they are in conversations of their own. “Attention, please! Hey, everyone, be quiet!”

His tiny form quickly balloons into a huge infernal thing, so massive that his wings stretch from wall to wall, covered head to tail in flame and coarse hair the color of dried blood. Thick black smoke jets from his beastly nostrils as he roars: “SHUT'CHER JABBERIN' COCKHOLES!”

The party stops, the guests frozen in place with a mixture of chagrin and horror. A few people actually faint where they stand. Pleased, Qroc shrinks to his normal size and smiles. "Thank you. Ahem. Ladies and lords, esteemed visitors, Your Grace… all of you have gathered here to commemorate the one-hundred-and-ninety-fourth birthday of Lord Virgis Grimrune, Devil-Tamer and Headmaster of the College of High Summoning. Please join me in praising him and wishing many more happy birthdays to come!”

The tiny fiend claps with wild enthusiasm. The guests applaud as well, though somewhat more cautiously. Virgis has one eyebrow cocked at his familiar’s showboating, but otherwise his expression remains unchanged.

“So long has Master Virgis served this city that, to you mortals, it has no doubt seemed as though he has always been here. It is understandable, and not altogether unforgivable, that you might come to take him for granted and be lapse in expressing your appreciation for all that he has done and continues to do to ensure the ongoing supremacy of Freybourne. Well, no more. Today begins a yearlong celebration of Lord Virgis Grimrune!”

The guests look around at one another uncomfortably.

Qroc lands and bows down on one knee. “Master, pardon me for acting without your knowledge, but it has been so long that you have been pleasantly surprised that I thought it worth risking your ire. Since your last birthday, I have been conspiring with Lady Belarva of Haus Lebenskraft to find you something truly special and unique. Although she could not be present today, please accept her best wishes, and please accept this gift from us both.”

He snaps his fingers. “Bring forth the box!”

The jewel of Kauhedl

The weather is agreeable and the Road runs wide and smooth over flat grassland. Urged onward by Orthos, who seems to be beholden to some deadline, the travelers push themselves and reach Freybourne in just under a week.

Though Mercurio jokes and shares ribald tales, and Laurie’s lute makes the journey seem less long, there is little in the way of meaningful conversation between the members of the party; Orthos is preoccupied with reaching the city and makes little time for banter, while Salbadore still struggles under the weight of his recent losses. Nibben turns the riddle of his kinsman’s captivity over and over in his mind while scribbling notes furiously, and Varel finds that she misses her grove and her woodland friends more than she anticipated.

Freybourne is truly the jewel of Kauhedl, unrivaled in its architecture and civilized wonders. Magical lanterns light the streets, while His Excellency’s winged corps keeps the skies safe day and night. A complex system of aqueducts channels water from the Siannan River, while subterranean tunnels funnel the city’s waste into the sea. Apothecaries offer a variety of expensive potions and panaceas that are widely coveted by country-folk, who are often willing to spend all they have to secure a curative for whatever ails.

Though overwhelmingly human in its demographics, small bands of Gnomes and Halflings are also known to visit the city to peddle their wares, as do foreigners from distant duchies such as Qulaun and Ucidab, bringing exotic offerings of food and other cultural exports.

And, of course, there is the College of High Summoning, the gilded spires of which tower over all other structures in the city. It is not uncommon to see a learned wizard running errands about town with creatures conjured from who-knows-where to do any heavy lifting that may be required.

Life here is hurried, but orderly, and the Duke’s constabulary make their presence strongly felt to deter unlawful activity. Members of His Excellency’s infantry and navy also frequent the city, such that persons seeking to circumvent the law by necessity have to be much more clever and more subtle than most criminals in order to do so successfully.

This fact first becomes apparent at the front gates of the city, which is manned by Ducal Constables who demand to know the identities and business of all who pass through them: “Who are you? From whence do you come? Wherefore do you seek to enter His Grace’s city? Where will you be staying, and for how long?”

As the travelers attempt to come through the gate and provide satisfactory answers to these inquiries, one of the officers wearing a set of thick green spectacles stops them in their tracks. “That box!” He exclaims at Salbadore, accusatorily. “Who are you to possess such a thing, and what are your intentions for bringing it here? Present your permit!”

The Road east

After His Excellency’s forces are well out of sight, Varel crouches down by Nibben’s unconscious, bloody form. “Poor little thing,” she clucks before calling upon her powers to restore his body. He blinks his eyes open to find her sprinkling him with powdered rose quartz, his wounds fully mended.

It is early morning. The air is still and all is quiet save for the calls of birds high above, flying to some destination known only to them. Freybourne, home of the College of High Summoning, lies only a few days of easy travel to the east.

OOC: blogging and xp

Some of you don't post in your character blogs nearly enough. If I didn't know better, I would think you had lives. But I do know better, and it's more likely that you either lack confidence in your writing ability, or you simply lack the motivation to write.

I can't do anything about your poor confidence. (Have you considered therapy?) But I can offer some extra incentive to encourage posting beyond the intrinsic reward of character development.

After careful consultation with my peers, new entries posted to character blogs will now be awarded xp in accordance with the following system:

1. Entries must be at least 100 words to be awarded xp.
2. Each entry will be worth a +3% bonus to the character's earned xp for that adventure.
3. A maximum of +15% xp will be awarded per adventure.

This will take effect immediately after the next xp award.

I hope this helps. I hope it fuels your lust for writing, or at least satisfies your addiction to xp. If it doesn't work out, we'll try something else.

As always, thanks for playing!

Morning at the Road

You reach the Imperial Road just as the sun crests over the eastern horizon. Awaiting the caravan is a larger battalion of soldiers, some of whom are carrying a curtained litter bearing the insignia of the Inquisitors.

The two Captains exchange greetings, and Constantine briefs his colleague on the various emergencies he and his men have faced in their travels as well as the dire circumstances that necessitated the conscription of the adventurers, who are referred to as “civilians.”

“Your duties are hereby completed,” Constantine tells them. “As a representative of His Excellency, please accept my gratitude for your admirable service." He hands Salbadore a small pouch of coins. "There is only one matter that remains before you may go on your way.”

The cage-monster in the prisoner’s wagon spits Nibben into the custody of two soldiers, who hoist him into the air between them by his arms so that he is suspended above the ground, his little legs kicking.

Constantine sighs. "This gives me no pleasure, Master Gnome, but your disregard for the law and your attempt to free the prisoner cannot be overlooked. Understand that I am being merciful on account of your service to His Excellency; ordinarily your punishment would be much more severe."

“Flog him,” he orders.