[CW/Feedback] Crescent Vignettes

[Suyoi]

When I ran some of the latter games regarding the Shadow of the Crescent D&D universe I compiled, I would often fill the time between games with little NPC dialogues and interactions for my players to read. Most often, these didn't give away any real clues, hints or unbalanced out-of-character knowledge; rather, they were used to give the flavor to the scenes they had played as well as to jog the memory of the players as to what transpired within the game itself. A few of these are rather short, and they do come from different periods of the game world. I'll try to post them as close to the order as I can.

There are a lot of setting details and if anyone wants, I can add a glossary.

This first one comes from right after the quiet ending of the second age, The Age of Houses and tells the story of Aldo, a nimble tailor who only wants to bring his familial house, House Laeric, back into the prominence it once experienced before being decimated by the player characters' House. It also gave them a little insight to the El-Sharan Guild of Mages which one of the players helped organize from just a bunch of pseudo-isolated wizards and scholars into a powerful watchful force separate from the ruling queen, Eska Rathagal, the Red Queen.

Aldo barely finished rinsing his shaved face before he heard the domineering triple rap upon his shop door. Pulling on his scarlet, linen surcoat, the young tailor took one last at his reflection in the rippling water. His grey eyes wavered back at him, his bushy brown hair as kept as it could ever be on short notice. The impatient customer gave another three raps. The tailor snatched a loose towel and patted his face dry. With a gruff toss, Aldo released the cloth, let out a sigh and motivated himself down stairs. A glow caught the bottom step.

A few scant rays were peeking through the woolen curtains, rays filled with the thickening heat of the morning. The shop reverberated as the streets were navigated by vendors, merchants, adventurers and guards. On a normal day, Aldo would have whipped the curtains open wide, adjusted his displays, swept out the floor and lit an oil incense to brighten the mood. Instead, those tasks would have to wait for the day’s first customer, musty mess and all.

The door unlatched to allow entry. The tailor knew better than to gape at the woman; years of tending to the needs of wealthy clients had taught him some decorum in regards to shock. Wearing an oversized orange hat, a billowy silk dress, cut high and exposing an insipid cream-colored under-gown, was none other than one of the cities’ most verbose mages, Ariasla of House Mulos. Her gift for nattering on was the stuff of legends. Unaware of the opened door, the mage raised her hand once more, still gazing out into the street, watching the pedestrians.

“Please pardon me for making you wait, Dayim Ariasla,” the tailor said, less rushed than he thought he could muster. “Enter and come in out of the heat.” Aldo swept a short bow, extending his arm for the mage. His grey eyes caught sight of the under-gown, noting the hem had come undone. Surely, she would be interested in purchasing something for a foreign ball or local event. The tailor swallowed audibly, his nose twitching at the trailing scent of ginger and sage from the mage.

“Thank you, Aldo. I do say I would have gotten here sooner if I could have. My! This is a new work of yours, is it not?” Ariasla let her pudgy fingers grip a modest, navy, silk court gown. “It could use some pearls… or maybe you could drop the neck line. I haven’t seen many wearing those high-neck dresses in the past few years. Well, except on the older crones.” She flitted amongst the other dress dummies, but refused to comment further.

Aldo closed the shop door, taking a moment to unroll his eyes from the back of his head. When he turned, his face was a mask of amiable concern. “You are a very keen observer, as always, Dayim Ariasla. What may I and my humble shop provide you?” The tailor took a few steps towards his customer. His hands went behind his back and he straightened his coat from the bow.

“Well, to be honest, I had to come and seek you out. You are the only one in this diminutive city with any real talent. This morning, I was finishing some of the ointments for the Guild’s apothecary studies. Nothing really, mind you, just different mixtures and blends of oils, herbs, and lards. Identification is a large portion of that study, but most of the pupils simply want to watch things catch on fire or melt. It happened all at once, Aldo. I was assaulted, assaulted mind you, by two newly aggrandized mages, Edath and Mitros. They have neither respect, nor even a touch of ability for apothecary in the pair of them, Aldo! These two barely apologized; I thought one of them was chuckling under their breath.” Ariasla motioned towards the small fitting rooms with a graceful, albeit thick, index finger. “In here, if you would be so kind.”

The tailor assented, moving to pull open the curtain into the enclosure. He was relieved to see the room swept and silver-stained mirror clear from smudges. Ariasla stood atop the small platform in the center, lifting her dress before the curtain fell. With a harrumph, the mage continued her onslaught. “Those two were never anything but trouble, Aldo. After I regained my composure, right before I gave them a piece of my mind, I noticed one of them had ruined my under-gown! My under-gown that was a gift from Lady Borrya of House Waterdeep for the salve to keep the urns from tarnishing, scandalously destroyed!”

Aldo’s heart sank deep into the pit of his stomach. The rich must fuss over little things for they have no big things to concern themselves with. His personal mantra seemed to ease a bit of the exasperated feeling. Pulling out some thread and a needle from a small alcove in the stone, he started weaving in and out, practiced to perfection. After a few stitches, Aldo found the place where he could work and let his mind be active and attentive to his customer. The woman blabbered on, unending.

“I tell you, Aldo, I will not have this!” Ariasla harshly muttered under her breath. Aldo shivered himself back to attending to the plump, furrow-faced matron. His fingers ached as he worked with needle and thread hemming her linen under-gown. Tirelessly, the tailor hastened his work, eager to be done with the mage’s task. The crystal lichen cast a pale ivory glow, illuminating the modest dressing area. Titanwood and granite circled around the pair, a warm breeze swirling from under the wool curtain. Enclosed spaces had never been difficult unless he was servicing Ariasla. Her girth was not large, per-say, but her ostentatious personality seemed suffocating at times. He adjusted himself from squatting to hunching over as Ariasla continued ranting about this and that. His trained ears picked out a few important comments.

“Edath and Mitros are barely out of there Neophyte station. Mitros shouldn’t have been aggrandized above Scholar! He has been heard of prompting other sources of magic. Edath is too impressionable.” Letting loose a blusterous burst from her unending breath, she continued in a more muted tone. “Whatever the Potentates decide, I will always abide by, but some times I wonder where their sense trails off to. I’m so glad I have you in my confidence, Aldo! You are truly a good listener,” Ariasla purred as an afterthought.

“Mmmh,” Aldo uttered, admiring his finished work. The snapping of his knees alerted the mage of the completion of the under-gown. “Thank you, Dayim Ariasla. Your praise and continued patronage is a blessing.” Wiping the sweat from his forehead, the tailor swept open the small curtain, sucking in a breath of stale air. The heat was climbing quickly, but it was a comfort to be free of the pretentious client. “If it pleases you, Dayim Ariasla, I would bring you drink?”

Stride for stride, the woman’s robust bosom heaved in her path out into the shop. Smoothing out her skirt, she replied, “No, Aldo, this will do.” Placing a few gold coins from her thick, leather purse into Aldo’s hands, she continued in a fluid tone, “I am sure this will cover the cost. May you be ever-fruitful in your business.” Ariasla waltzed to the exit, barely letting the tailor open the door into the busy El-Sharan street. Her turquoise gown melted into the bustle of morning traffic.

The tailor dropped the coins into his safe box, rolling his soft, grey eyes and pursing his lips. No point in counting that; he thought, moving towards the dressmakers’ dummy holding the navy, Demareskan silk gown. His rough fingers trailed along the sleeves. Not many seamstresses in this city could craft such a dress. Aldo felt his eyes measure each segment of stitching, appreciating the modest neckline and silhouette. Scratching at his thick, linen surcoat and breeches, his face softened. A shame no one would be prouder of sewing the silver ivy than I. He quickly amended his thought. A shame no one would want me to sew the silver ivy. Pivoting on his heel, the man turned to the workroom. He strode to continue the few menial tasks left from the night prior.

The second is just a paragraph long. I had started it as a second vignette for the players regarding the happenings on the other side of the mainland. It involves an impetuous little mage named Cadence who has a very strange and different view on magic; he believes that magic should be given away freely for the good of all. He heads the infamous Institution for Magical Inquiry which routinely sells little 'fluff' magic items which the institution's colleagues create. Not like full-blown wands of fire or anything along that caliber, mind you, but a self-cleaning door mat, a piece of cloth which could return the shine to any metal it wiped once, a spoon that never stirred out the contents of its container, even if held upside-down. Of course, there were accidents and a lot of the items had drawbacks.

Cadence, being the leader, often had his tower stationed within the walls of South City, Demarest. Towards the end of the Age of Houses, the whole of South City had removed all internal influence from various Houses which had been plaguing the city with turf-warfare, culminating in the sacking of the city just twenty years earlier. The city now elects various councilors who hold office for a limited amount of time and cannot be of any relation to their previous seat-holder. Recent events had seen rather disturbing deaths occur for some earlier councilors, such as one being whisked away of all body fluids and left in a desiccated state at the bottom of his stairs, and Cadence wanted to get what information he could from the appointed man.

The players never ventured out east to even encounter the brat wizard, so I didn't develop the scene:

“Another one?” exclaimed Cadence, though his condescending glee was laced thick within his acclimation. “I say, being a Councilor these days is a very deadly business.” The youthful chair leaned his chin upon his forearms as his chair scooted away from the table. Lounging atop the El-Sharan long-table, his raised eyebrows moved to indicate energy as he continued. “Surely, there must be another way to proceed with the elections of such appointments, Ghesh. Er, Councilor-Appointee Ghesh. I know an interesting method, one from somewhere far east. It is trial by wit, as opposed to combat. The first one to find the roc’s tooth from the pebbles on the sand appoints the next shaman. Same objective, really. You do not wish to find the infernal thing if you truly wish to be shaman; however, if your enemies find it… they surely will choose a weak leader. More Summer wine?”

The last group I will post is is the beginning of the third age, the Age of Anguish, where the players unknowingly are all part of the events that cause the gods and deities to come plummeting to the earth. This is when the current D&D group fell apart, unfortunately, and I have a lot of material changing the lay-out and history of the Crescent involved in these posts.

The first one is right after the characters delivered, or rather almost delivered, the Blood Jade orb to Ryltar's Keep, known as the Black Keep. One of their NPC party members, as he was on watch duty, was attacked by zombies and fled with the orb in his possession, out of sheer fear. The party awoke to the onslaught the Blood Jade brought their way, killed the zombies and zombie-like putrescent glob, and tracked down their 'friend' to the keep. The mage of the party traded information for supplies with the leader of the keep, Lukhan, and the group continued on their quest to help the cleric get back in touch with their god. This is the afterword between Lukhan and Easene, an envoy for the School of New Thought (created by the same mage that organized the El-Sharan guild because she felt the El-Sharan guild had too much power and wanted her own school.)

The door at the grand hall had not closed before the Lord Commander was accosted by Easene’s dull tone spouting out a few choice elvish proverbs regarding tact and blind dragons. Lukhan let his eyelids fall, rolling out a breath. Digging into his collar bones were the gems of his station, piercing cold beneath his shirt and black surcoat. Letting the sensation block out the mage’s prattling, the Lord Commander began his march to the back of the hall, near the entrance to the cellar stairwell.

“I do not wish to continue to draw unparalleled, unwarranted criticism of the current state of affairs, Lord Commander Lukhan, but we surely cannot entrust these, well, rabble at best, to secure the remnants of the Blood Wars. I should send Jassander and -” Easene’s pursuit, though noiseless in footfalls, was still noticeable with his dribbling words; words Lukhan cut short.

“It is not your place to determine where my soldiers are positioned, Do’Essendrel.” Each measured step was through a spiral, delving deeper and deeper into numerous and honeycombed channels. Unused in several years, the corridors and chambers beneath the Black Keep were always maintained, cleaned and tended too weekly. Though no black-garbed warriors were visible, their immaculate maintenance was evident. His oath echoed back to him ~To be ready at all times; to be without pause, without idleness, without reservation…~

Lukhan was aware of the derogatory term he used to address Easene; in fact, his men continuously called out the envoy of the School of New Thought by the moniker Black Leaf. Though not one to mince his words, it was a quick way to put Easene back into his place. The Lord Commander reached the northern corridor, proceeding to the fifth door. The alert guard swung open the door promptly, returning a salute to his superior. The violet glow of the room was quenched by the pale white-blue orb Easene conjured onto his hand. The mage’s words were soured, still holding onto the sting from the earlier insult several floors up.

“This is what was brought back from the depths of the ancient Va‘Nal holding. A spherical orb, the size of a human skull, composed of what appears to be a sanguine jade with deep violet veins. An artifact from the Revanese incursion, brought down during the reign of Queen Eska Rathagal, the Bloody Queen of Adoran, in the War of Foreign Flames. Wielded by the one called Odebach the Liberator, he used its power to flay the life from a hundred men, women and children, warping them into abhorrent undeath itself.” Easene’s voice slid into a tone of mild admiration. “It is a work of art.”

“It is failing, Easene. This piece of crystal could barely snuff out a half-dead rat.” Lord Commander Lukhan leaned over the ebonwood pedestal, steely eyes narrowing at the luminescent orb. “I do not think there is any doubt of is authenticity; from the Second Lord Commander’s words, this is what she saw. Even the descriptions of the inclusions within the veins are precise.” Black gloved-hands gently raised the orb from its’ resting place. “Easene, what does this do to your theories on the events that will soon transpire?” Lukhan tilted his head, lower lip jutting upwards slightly. The cold object was very light for its size and supposed composition.

Easene took a very small step back, only noticed by Lukhan’s keen awareness. The mage spoke softly, “If my theory is true and the… and there is a weakening of the veil between worlds, it would only go to strengthen my case regarding the Unyielding Realms. If your theory is correct and there is truly a grand reckoning on the horizon, I fear not even your men will be equipped to handle the aftermath of devastation, Lord Commander.”

“Blunt as always, Easene.” Lukhan placed the crystal back on the ebonwood stand. “There is always a chance for the inevitable end. It is only how the masses will face such a consequence from the supposedly inconsequential actions of a few people that motivates me. Who was right or wrong holds no meaning if there is no one left to record the victor. I fear there are no other options than to allow the current to continue on its path. I would get word to your colleagues at the School there is going to be much ado with the coming nights.”

The second vignette is about Loressa Coreg. The Age of Houses left the Throne of El-Sharah, or Adoran as it was called, vacant. The final queen in a long line of queens, Cetalia Nasmec, was known as The Civic Queen by those who loved her house-less approach to independence from the caste-like system. She was also known as the Mad Queen by everyone else, especially the houses who helped her gain the title of Queen. In the end, she was overturned and the five great houses, some called Royal Houses (House Coreg, House Laeric, House Rathagal, House Borren and House Waterdeep(the player characters' house) set up a Pentacracy. The Council of Five was established to basically see to the day-to-day functions of running a government and continuing rule without a single leader. Society ground to a halt, civil projects were neglected, the wealthier became wealtheir, resources were drained, crime was only kept in check by the sheer corruption of the law... not a happy place.

Loressa had come into the knowledge which indicated she was a potential candidate to become the next queen, succeeding the long-abandoned throne. Her familial house, House Coreg, had not directly held the throne, though had a few Monarch Consorts (equivalent to no-power king) and many said her claim was an utter farce. Still, she had gained enough of a following to defy the rule of her own house and strike out seeking aid in confronting the Council of Five. A well-versed swordsman, her preferred blade was a bastard sword, one of the noted hallmarks of her house. This takes place the morning of the last month of the third age.

“But your ladyship, there isn’t even a faint chance. Please, please reconsider this course of action. What you mean to do is take out the pentacracy that keeps the queendom alive,” Djoran fussed, adjusting the whale-bone under-plate for Loressa’s broad frame. Her work was made moderately more difficult in the darkness of the posted tent, but nimble and sure fingers were just as good as eyesight. “My ladyship should be pleased to know I will not bind her too tightly, to allow the precious air to enter her stubborn head.”

“Djoran, of all the times you feel the need to berate me, it has to be when I could have no fewer doubts of my course of action,” the lady said, lowering her hands to her sides. “I believe no rightful citizen would consider what the presumptuous Council of Five Houses has cultivated as ‘alive.’ Unless you mean a state in which they can suck the last ounce of gold out of its veins before everything collapses in on itself. This chronic state of inaction is leading us all to ruin.” Loressa’s stony tone gave a sullen wash to Djoran’s snippy morning banter.

The maid darted to the large trunk at the foot of the over-sized break-apart cot. Flipping the latches harder than she intended, she pondered pinching the lady, if only to change her monochromatic attitude. It amazed her how much of the Coreg stoicism triggered her ire. “My ladyship is, as always, correct.” The aged maid found the gold, silk stockings and lavender sachet. With a ginger toss, Djoran smirked and said, “My ladyship’s legs and fragrance. I will find the dress in time, my ladyship.” Flicking fingers meandered through leagues of silk, wool and velvet before coming upon the odd-woven Demareskan linen, high-neck gown. A happy chirp escaped the maid’s lips as she pulled the lavish gown from the trunk.

“Thank you, Djoran. It is the hardships we all face which makes us one,” the lady quietly offered. The maid could barely make out the tall form against the slivers of morning from outside the canvas walls. ~Oh, how that lady makes my eyes hurt so much! Trying to be a queen - no the queen… in times like this.~

“The ladyship’s dress,” Djoran said, after a self-steadying inhalation of crisp morning air. “I’ll let the stitching out so you may ride into the city, my ladyship, but please don’t let it drag through the muddy streets. It would take me no less than five days to clean out each patterned weave.” Applying the finishing touches, which included the gold-braided belt, scabbard-and-sword and yellow silk ribbons to the onyx main of the lady, Djoran sighed. “My ladyship will at least make heads turn.”

Loressa Coreg pushed out a burst of air through her nose, though Djoran could barely see her rare smile. The maid heard a low, humming tone, indicating the lady had her hand on the hilt of the broadsword. “I will make heads turn one way or another,” Loressa said, the dutiful phrase clouded with power. Djoran hated the blade; she moved swiftly out of the tent, pulling the knotted flaps back.

Ignoring the clinking metal of the armed footman’s plated armor, the maid waved her hand vigorously, “Draw a blade on me and you‘ll be nothing more than a stained bucket, you dolt!” She turned towards the other slow-moving men, all caught in her flailing rage. Djoran gaze settled on a young dem’essendril, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Voden! That damned nag had better have been shoed, brushed and saddled or else I will tear your poor excuse for a beard out hair by scraggly hair.” The maid leaned forward onto the balls of her feet, causing Voden to nearly stumble over the cooking pit as he dashed towards where the horses were kept. Djoran tugged down her wool vest, plucked some random fabric strings and pulled out the spare needles from her upper pocket. Her words to the approaching Captain Stodenheiss Ni’Nasmec Jur’Coreg were delivered as an afterthought. “Go on and get the rest of these louts moving, captain. Lady Loressa Coreg is headed to Adoran shortly, with your men or without.”

The last vignette I have not finished. It involves one of the final events of the Age of Anguish, at the climax of the Godsfall. Loressa faces off against Atrimonde, a man who has gathered pieces of a fallen god. The fallen god was cast out into an alternate universe (Ravenloft) prior to the first official age, the Age of Kings. The players would be off in their own fight against with a few choice gods of various settings (Eldath, Hanali Celanil, The Red Knigth, Tempus {Forgotten Realms}, St. Cuthbert {Greyhawk}) during these events had they chose to help Ryltar's Keep. It is a little bloody. It starts from Atrimonde's perspective then shifts to Loressa's perspective with a slight jump-back in time, but not too hard to follow, I hope. Artistic license and what not. It was inspired by the 5-word story thread here on the Reborn Forum as I tried to come up with a single story within just 5 words. Atrimonde's words are the 5 I chose.

“Ambition hasn’t killed me, yet.” Atrimonde turned the ebonwood wand’s pulsating blood jade towards Loressa’s wilted form. The tambour of his voice shifted into a less sarcastic tone, dripping with rage. “I cannot say the same for you, however, your majesty!” The crimson light spilled forth from Vile Fang, engulfing the woman’s prone form. Atrimonde’s face burned with raw power as the artifact began to draw the life essence from her opened wounds.

-----

Loressa Coreg tumbled backwards, her form sprawling like a child’s doll. Sparks flew as the steel breastplate scrapped along the castle corridor. The agony stretched on in her mind far longer than time had normally allowed the warrior; blood-matted, blonde hair masked most of her vision, the rest obscured by the double vision. Lingering on the verge of consciousness, the would-be queen played through the most recent of events, noting the lives who had been taken by the man at the other end of the stone hallway. ~Voden. Djoran. Lukhan. Ghesthalt. Stodenheis… Lost, dying in vain for my own selfish need to be queen. Would they have lived, even with the Godsfall, the invasion, and the shattering of Cascadence‘s prison?~ Loressa chided herself, groaning as she tried to push herself from the prone position. Her haggard breath muffled the soft footfalls of the possessed warlock as he approached. She could smell the acrid burned flesh of Atrimonde ~No, Cascadence… now, or something worse~ as he grew closer.

“Oh, my! Lady Coreg isn’t much of a lady lying on the ground, now is she?” The dual-toned voice seemed to screech angrily and chirp bemused as Loressa failed to brace herself upwards. “Let’s give her a hand, shall we?” Ice flooded her veins as each muscle in her body spasmed at the direction of the warlock’s arcane utterance. Her head flew back to stare into the soulless eyes of her attacker, body hovering in the air. The sounds of crumbling stone and distant explosions reverberated the castle’s foundation.

“Y-you… are not… going to rule anything… at this rate… you clod,” Loressa spat through bleeding wheezes.

“Oh, my poor, fragile child! What on this forsaken ground would I ever have done or said to make you think I wanted to rule this rutted, crumbling, drained clump of manure? I want nothing more than to watch it all burn, Loressa! It is all I have been thinking about, all that has kept me wholly driven. Years I was shattered at the hands of an outsider, a CHILD, like you.” Atrimonde clenched his fists as he orated; the skin of his knuckles ruptured, violet blood oozing from the wounds. “I was cast into the Unyielding Realms where the ideal of attempting to usurp the power within the realms was my own undoing. Endless cycles, over and over, I was a king AND a slave; I would be worshiped, almost as a god.” His tone turned sullen, and he ended his words on a powerful, maniacal crescendo, “I would be cast out, unsatisfied in the realization of power each time it was within my grasp. All because a CHILD felt it was best. A CHILD!”

Loressa had not thought of herself as a child for some fifteen years. The incorrectness of her age, coupled with the visible weakness of Atrimonde’s current state brought out a blood-drenched smile.

“You.. You haven’t… learned fr-from your own mistakes… The… the vessel you take, Atrimonde… He is dying, you fool! You chose… you chose a dying man to carry out… carry out your vengence… and even- Even if I fall here, within… the halls of my… my castle…” Loressa gagged, though whether it was her body trying to eject the blood from her lungs or the stench of the warlock, she did not know. “Your ambition will be the death… of you,” She wheezed.

Loressa was stunned at the look which overtook Atrimonde’s face: a youthful, unimpressed indifference. More arcane words dribbled out in a less dulcimer sound. He flicked his wrist, sending the woman hurling through the air as a leaf in a windstorm.

The end event is still up in the air as to who ultimately wins the fight. Loressa does gain a little help the final goddess falls. In the end, the whole game was just a way to inject the Crescent with its own pantheon. It started with a box, a horn, a dwarf, an elf, and a human and ended up with a scarred land brought back from its self-imposed exile into the waking world around it. I hope you enjoy and leave any questions and comments below. I'd be happy to answer them. Maybe even dig up more such stories and vignettes or character profiles.