Session Zero

@Aldrusian: How about a mentor who was part of a secret tradition? Since whatever religions exist seem to be largely practiced in secret anyway, it makes a lot of sense for devoted individuals to exist at the fringes of society, and to recruit followers from disenfranchised groups, e.g. impressionable street urchins. You'd probably start out just joining in so you could get a meal, but over time develop that deep and abiding love for your god that led you to be inducted into the mysteries and carry on the traditions.

That would work too just keep in mind that you would have essentially been worshipping a dead god until one day surprise he's back! That sort of faith wouldn't go unnoticed.

Imagine keeping your faith for years while people look down on you for it, then one day you're saying your prayers as usual and your god literally answers you. What a moment!

Also, the interesting thing about Tinel is that given he is the God of Magic, Knowledge and Truth primarily I could see his church sweeping up the foremost scientists, mathematicians, scholars etc of the time. Imagine a church that combines the arcane, the divine, science all under the one wheelhouse. Imagine what that could do for society.

@kadeton I think Elendin would be pretty easy to locate. After the expulsion from her apprenticeship, she moved from the room she'd been renting to another, cheaper place - primarily to make it harder for her family to reach her to demand she return home - but she stayed in the arts district. She's been consulting everyone who will give her the time of day - doctors, scientists, etc. - to try to get them to investigate what's happening to her. She wants to believe that it's some sort of medical condition that, if properly diagnosed, could be cured.

@somebox I think it would make sense if we knew each other. Ventures actually quite chatty, they’re trying to figure out what’s happened since they last turned on.

I have no issue if you some of you want to have an established relationship :)

Depending on how you want to run the initial meet-up, Elendin and Margaret could have corresponded, and arranged to meet at some neutral location? Then whatever you have planned could occur around or on the way there. It's just an easy way to skip some of that initial "So who are you and why should I trust you?" stuff.

Whatever you think would work best with your current plans is good. :)

I really like the idea of the warforged's first encounter being with svirfneblin - that's got to give you some weird ideas of what the world is like. And then the two of them travelling to the surface together is really sweet.

@Genisisect Nice, it would be like meeting an old friend in such a strange place. Balara is generally cautious and curious, and would be interested in helping Venture in his mission. (I asked if they spoke because of Fluchschmiede ;P)

You should have all of this sorted before we start. The event we start with wont be the kind of thing where you can have an idle conversation.

@ Somebox I figured that's why you were asking. Most of my characters do talk, I just liked the idea for that particular character to be mute as it seemed to fit with their backstory and would present an interesting role-playing challenge. It would easily work out that your village was the one that Venture turned up in, maybe you were the first living thing they bumped into and the two of them really hit it off...

I'd imagine that since my character just arrived in this world, he'd have no established relationships.

Con check coming up.
That should have been a 1d20 + 2, so consider that a 14.

I didn’t even notice the call for con checks...

Good thing everyone mentioned it.

@kadeton How do you see Margaret approaching Elendin to arrange a meeting? You mentioned correspondence, so I'm thinking you mean some version of written mail. I would say that Elendin would probably not respond to the initial inquiry if it appeared to be primarily research- or knowledge-oriented. El is seeking a way to get rid of what is afflicting her; she's not interested in being someone's case study. So if Margaret's initial correspondence doesn't at least hint at a possible path to Elendin's goal of a "cure," it would be ignored.

If, however, Margaret drops hints that a medical (or even magical) resolution is possible, that's the hook that would motivate El to respond to her. Eventually, if extermination of her powers doesn't seem likely, she'll be looking for a way to sublimate them, or to control them sufficiently to continue her pursuit of an artistic career.

Well, everything that has been said about the god of magic and building the temple from scratch sounds great. It's like taking an upper when you're really down. Yeah, I know I'm dating myself but if you knew how old I really am you'd get faint and fall down. I'll stay away from the spellbook with the note but I'm sure I can come up with something reasonable.

Oh, and here's the con check.

Thank you I will make a note. I am just really glad you decided to stick with it. I like the idea of having someone that has been around these games for as long as you have around. I may have been playing for close to ten years but I have only really been into dnd for about 6 months. So experience is a good thing to have.

In other news, I have decided to put a timeline on this since most people have submitted sheets. We're going to kick off tomorrow. Please make sure you roll a constitution check before play starts....because of reasons. Could you all do me one last favour and add your backstories to your character sheets? It will just make it a lot easier for me to refer to at short notice.

"Fog. Bloody, stupid, fog."

Rorin’s curses were swallowed up by the opalescent mists that were swiftly descending about the caravan as it crept towards Esterwyn. After days of hard travel overland towards that fabled port, the merchant company had just sighted its outermost walls over the horizon as the sun began to set. Sore from long days sleeping rough, Rorin and his men had decided to cast caution to the winds and press on into the night; hoping that with a little luck they could finally sleep in warm beds.

Then, out of nowhere, the fog. Gossamer wisps falling about the company like spider silk one moment; the next a fog so think you could barely see your hand in front of your face.

"All halt!" cried Rorin. "We’re likely to fall and break a neck in this murk. Bloody hell. It’s sleeping rolls again tonight, lads." Faint groans and mutterings could barely be heard.

"Right strange weather, this" muttered Derrin as he sidled up to Rorin’s wagon. Faithful Derrin was an ox of a man – standing some six feet tall and nearly as broad. The captain of Rorin’s guards was ever watchful and more than a little paranoid. "Any manner of bandit or ruffian could lurk about in this, m’lord, and we’d not see his steel ‘til it was buried in our breasts."

Rorin laughed at that. So close to Esterwyn there was little to fear. "Take heart, good Derrin. The Oligarchy may be greedy, but it pays its soldiers well. The roads are well patrolled and we’ve naught to fear here. But all means, have the men circle the wagons if it pleases you."

Derrin grunted sourly at that, "As you say m’lor…"

FWOOSH

Sudden heat cascaded through the night, as thunder exploded and tempestuous winds blasted into the wagons. Rorin watched in horror as from the mists a lighter wagon came tumbling end over end; slamming into Derrin with bone crushing force.

"Cannon!" shouted Rorin as his wits returned to him. It could be naught else. His men were screaming; or was it the horses? The hideous caterwauling of beasts in mortal agony drowned out all else.

Suddenly there was silence. The mists were gone – scattered by the incredible concussion. Rorin cast about frantically, trying at once to find some shelter from the deadly cannon fire and take stock of his men.

Faint groans rose all about him as his men recovered themselves. The horses had fled in terror. His wagons were strewn about and his precious cargo of silks and spices lay spread out over the muddy road. Derrin was… Rorin shuddered and looked away.

A short distance ahead of them a man lay sprawled in the road. Not one of his. He was… glowing. No, a trick of the eyes. The afterimage of the explosion. The man was battered. His fine silks rent and muddied. A fellow merchant caught in the blast? He lay face down.

"Jacob! Rime! Get your asses moving! See to the men! Tanner! Secure the cargo! Whatever the blazes that was, it could come again! Get moving! Go!"

Rorin stalked forward towards the strange man. He would not leave a soul to die if he could help it. Carefully Rorin reached down and turned the man over. With a practiced hand he felt for a pulse. There! Faint, but strong. The man might live.

"Whoever you are, you’re one lucky bastard." Rorin muttered. "Jenkins! Attend me. Help me lift this man into a wagon."

"This night brings ill fortune," thought Rorin, "mayhaps this man is noble. Or rich! In saving him, I may have made something of value out of this mess."

_____

Hallion groaned, squinting against the piercing light.

"Carefully, now. You’ve had quite the night."

The voice was cheerful, painfully so. Hallion’s head throbbed. Gingerly he opened his eyes. He was abed, stripped to the waist. The room was well appointed and smelled faintly of pipesmoke. His ribs were carefully bandaged, and at his side sat an older man. Red hair fading to silver framed a grizzled face.

"Rorin. Found you face down in the road last night. You’re lucky to be alive. Some asshole was playing with a cannon, and we caught the blast end of it."

Hallion began to sit up, but sharp pain lanced through his side.

"Damn!" he gasped. "You have my thanks."

Rorin grinned at that. "Your thanks I humbly accept stranger; but your name I would have. Saving you cost me a pretty penny. Can you repay?"

Hallion paused at that, searching. Moments ticked by before he replied, "Hallion. I am called Hallion."

Rorin leaned back in his chair. "Hallion. No surname? From whence do you hail, good sir? What brings you to Esterwyn?"

Panic began to well in Hallion's breast. He was… lost. Incomplete. Something was missing. Gods! What? He could remember nothing! His name alone was left to him.

A memory bubbled to the surface.

"I remember the stars. Ten thousand brilliant pillars of flame, blazing in incandescent glory in the endless void. I was one of them, once… I think. Something – no, someone! – drew down upon the flames. The agony of it! The ecstasy! Lashing tendrils of celestial flame drawn and spun into… this."

Rorin stared at Hallion deadpan. "Aye. Well. You’ve had a rough night. Mayhaps the head wounds were worse than it appears. Excuse me."

"Damnit. He’s addled. I’ll not see so much as a bleeding copper in recompense." He thought sourly as he saw himself down the stairs to the tavern's common room.

Rorin made straight for the innkeep.

"The man upstairs? He’ll live, but he’s none of mine. Mad as a hatter, it seems. I’ll not chase bad money with good. You’ve money for his stay last night. I’ll pay no more."

With that, Rorin tromped out of the Wiley Whistle inn. He owed Hallion nothing, and frankly, he had no time for fools or madmen. He had a fortune to restore. Hallion could make his own way in this world.

@Jovian83 Just a heads-up: your narrative - which is excellent, btw - seems to be confusing Derrin and Rorin in a few places. You have Derrin speaking and acting after he was killed, so I think you're accidentally using his name in place of Rorin's.