Tyrann
 
 Spoiler: Background lore / common sense 
The town of  Alaris  is a place of sharp contrasts, where privilege and desperation coexist within the same walls. Nestled against the ever-encroaching wasteland of  the Sea of Ash , Alaris means "Sky's Refuge" in Elven.

 The Heights of Privilege: Silvercrest 

At the very center of Alaris lies Silvercrest, a noble district perched atop a plateau that overlooks the rest of the town, walled with thick, solid stone fortifications that offer a sense of security—and exclusivity. The homes here, spacious and finely constructed from imported stone and wood, stand in stark contrast to the ramshackle buildings below. Wrought-iron gates guard private gardens, and within the walls, it is not uncommon to see servants attending to their masters’ whims. Slavery is an accepted, though discreet, part of life in Silvercrest, as long as the servants can pass as something vaguely human.

The Skyhold looms over even the grandest of homes, its black stone spire piercing the sky like a dagger. It is here that the town’s skymarshals, who patrol the Sea of Ash on their fearsome wyverns, reside. The marshals’ duties are varied, but their chief responsibility is to protect the Silvercrest's residents from the wild undead that roam the wasteland just beyond the outer walls.

 The Necromancer’s Guild and the Farmlands 

Behind the plateau of the Silvercrest stretch the Farmlands, an expanse of tired soil coaxed into producing what little it can under the management of the Necromancer’s Guild. These necromancers, tolerated—if not openly respected—within Alaris, control a tireless workforce of undead laborers. Every morning, the zombie farmers shamble out of the desert under the watchful eyes of their necromancer overseers. They tend to the withered crops with dead hands, toiling through the day before retreating back to the Sea of Ash at sunset to heal and recover.

The farmlands provide the town with real food, but the yield is meager. Only the residents of the Silvercrest and the necromancers themselves can count on having fresh produce at their tables. For the rest of Alaris’s population, particularly the “lower” races, real food is a rarity, often reserved for special occasions. Most survive on conjured sustenance, its taste bland and its effects unpredictable. There are whispers of Ablemann Syndrome, a condition caused by consuming too much conjured food, which leads to strange, unwanted transmutations of the body. For those living in The Belt, however, it’s a risk they must take.

 The Trash Belt 

Encircling Silvercrest in a crescent shape, The Belt—more commonly known as the Trash Belt—is where the vast majority of Alaris’s population lives. Goblins, kobolds, ratfolk, and other ‘lesser’ races crowd into this district, its bottom layer composed of crude stone houses left behind by a well-meaning druid long ago. Those simple stone structures, though, have long since been swallowed by a sprawling slum built from discarded materials scavenged from the noble district above. Crooked roofs, patched with tarps and broken boards, lean into one another, while narrow alleyways twist and wind in a chaotic maze.

Living space in the Belt is so scarce that the district sprawls haphazardly both upward and outward, with makeshift homes piled on top of one another like precarious stacks of old crates. The law, such as it is, decrees that no building can rise more than five feet beneath the towering outer wall, which looms thirty feet overhead, creating essentially one big flat roof over the entire belt and casting the lower levels of the Belt into almost perpetual darkness.

Down there, in the gloomy depths where light barely touches, the thick, hot, dense air carries the scent of mouldy stone and rot. Yet, despite the oppressive conditions, life persists. The inhabitants, ever resourceful, have adapted to the scarcity of light and space with remarkable ingenuity. Narrow passageways twist through the slum like forgotten veins, dimly lit by flickering magical lighting that only make the shadows seem deeper. Though not patrolled by the Skymarshals for obvious reasons, the underbelly is not exactly lawless. It is ruled over with an iron fist by a shadow mob, who are actually reasonably benign as long as you can pay your monthly protection money.

 The Markets of Alaris 

While the Silvercrest Market is reserved for the wealthy and the well-bred, offering expensive goods like fine wines, imported luxuries, and overpriced potions, the markets of the Belt are a different story. The Upper Market, or as the humans call it, the Trash Market, is a makeshift affair set up daily on a patch of relatively stable rooftops of the slum that offers a mix of scavenged goods and hastily repaired tools. Adventurers and relic hunters often come here to barter for supplies, but the market is heavily policed by the marshals, and only those deemed trustworthy—or too useful to ignore—are allowed to trade.

The Lower Market, on the other hand, is a dark and dangerous place, buried deep within the winding tunnels of the Belt. Here, in the endless gloom, anything can be bought for the right price, from cursed relics to dubious magical potions. Like the rest of the underbelly, the Lower Market is policed by the Shadow Mob, who demand protection money from the stall owners. It’s not uncommon for a treasure seeker to buy a rare and valuable item only to be mugged in the next alley and see the same item back on sale the next day.

Navigating the Lower Market requires both caution and cunning. The unwary are quickly parted from their possessions—or worse. Yet for those who know the rules of the game, and who can afford to pay for protection, it’s the best place to find the rare and dangerous items that can make or break an expedition into the Sea of Ash.

 The skymarshals 

Above the grime and chaos of Alaris, the skymarshals patrol the skies on their fierce wyvern mounts, casting long shadows over the town below. The skymarshals are an elite group of riders, equal parts law enforcers, scouts, and emergency responders, known for their gleaming black leather armor and the shimmering blue badges pinned to their chests. Each skymarshal is handpicked and rigorously trained, bound to their wyvern partner in a pact that is as much magical as it is practical. These fearsome reptiles, with their scaly hides, sinuous tails, and acid-dripping fangs, are as wild as the desert they fly over, but under the firm hand of their riders, they become an invaluable force of protection.

Wyverns circle Alaris constantly, their wings beating heavily against the wind, the sound of their roars mingling with the ever-present clamor of the town. From above, the skymarshals can spot trouble long before it reaches the gates, whether it’s a pack of feral zombies breaking loose from the desert or a group of smugglers attempting to slip in under cover of darkness. When not patrolling, the skymarshals are stationed at the  Skyhold , a towering roost of stone and iron perched in the middle of Silvercrest, surrounded by jagged spikes and guarded night and day.

The skymarshals maintain a tenuous balance in Alaris and the Sea of Ash, respected by most and feared by many. They are as likely to swoop down and save a trader from a stray zombie as they are to chase off a thief trying to escape with stolen goods. To the people of Alaris, the sight of a wyvern silhouetted against the sunset is both a comfort and a warning: order, however tenuous, is still enforced where the light can reach.

 Ablemann Syndrome: The Unwanted Curse of Conjured Cuisine 

In the border towns that cling to the edges of negative energy deserts, conjured food is a daily staple. With resources scarce and traditional farming often dangerous, the ability to summon meals from thin air is both a blessing and a curse. But as with most things in this strange, half-broken world, there’s a hidden cost. Enter Ablemann Syndrome: a bizarre and thoroughly unpleasant condition that strikes those who rely a little too heavily on magically conjured sustenance.

Named after the unfortunate wizard Tibald Ablemann, who famously turned his hair into seaweed after a month-long diet of conjured crab stew, Ablemann Syndrome is a peculiar and erratic affliction caused by overconsumption of conjured food. While magically summoned meals can fill the belly and keep hunger at bay, they are, by their very nature, imperfect replicas of real food. When eaten in moderation, they’re usually harmless, but consume them too often, and the magic that created them starts to play tricks on the body.

Symptoms of Ablemann Syndrome:

The effects of Ablemann Syndrome are as varied as the spells that conjure the food. It’s as if the transmutative energy that’s held within the conjured food lingers in the body, eager to finish its work. Most of the time, the symptoms are minor, but they’re rarely pleasant and always unpredictable:

 
 Random Skin Changes: Ablemann Syndrome can cause patches of skin to change texture or color without warning. One day your arm might be smooth and pale, the next it might be rough as a lizard’s scales, or worse, bright blue and faintly glowing. These changes can be temporary, but in some cases, they linger for weeks. 
 Unwanted Hair Transformations: Hair is a common target of the syndrome, transforming into strange textures or substances. Thick, wiry hair might suddenly become soft and feathery, while eyebrows can sprout into wild vines, tentacles, or, as was Tibald Ablemann’s curse, slimy strands of seaweed. 
 Animalistic Features: The syndrome has been known to briefly bestow animal traits on its sufferers. You might wake up with goat pupils, feathered fingers, or a faint, furry coating on your ears. These changes rarely last more than a few days, but they do make blending in quite a challenge. 
 Taste and Smell Distortions: A less visible but equally disturbing symptom is the warping of taste and smell. Food may suddenly taste like mud, metal, or something indescribably awful, even if the dish itself is perfectly normal. Smells, too, can turn offensive, and those with Ablemann Syndrome often find themselves haunted by phantom odors of sulfur, rotting fish, or wet fur. 
 Unexpected Weight Fluctuations: Another common symptom is the sudden and inexplicable shifting of body mass. One day your belt fits snugly; the next, you’ve gained a stone in seemingly solid rock or lost it just as quickly. These changes are usually more inconvenient than dangerous, but they are disconcerting nonetheless. 
 Partial Transparency or Glow: Some sufferers develop a faint, ghostly transparency in parts of their body, usually the hands or feet, or worse, start to glow faintly in the dark. It’s never enough to be truly useful or harmful, just enough to make a trip to the market that much more awkward. 
 
 

Two hours ago, you passed through the gates of Silvercrest. The guards there had eyed you with a mix of disgust and amusement, treating you like a pest they couldn’t quite justify squashing. They’d made you wait, thoroughly inspected the letter you handed over—summons to the Skyhold handed to you by the shadow mob—as well as every inch of you, all while smirking behind their polished helmets. Their questions came sharp and quick, and when they were satisfied you weren’t carrying anything too dangerous—or too valuable—they’d let you through, but not without a final shove and a muttered insult under their breath.

The reception in the Skyhold wasn’t much better. The towering structure loomed overhead as you entered, the distant screeches of wyverns echoing from its peak. Inside, the air was cool and polished, with guards in crisp uniforms glancing at you as though they expected you to steal something the moment their backs were turned. The stone floors gleamed, and you felt every speck of dirt on your feet was being noticed and judged.

The guards who dropped you off at this room barely hid their disdain. "Wait here," one had snapped, his hand lingering on the hilt of his sword as if daring you to make a wrong move. "Don’t touch anything, and don’t make a mess." The door had clicked shut behind him, and now you’re left in the waiting room, seated on an uncomfortable wooden chair, surrounded by four strangers.

None of you know each other. And now, you wait.
DeTess
Lady Red shifted around uncomfortably. Normally, when she had dealings with the city center, she would assume her elven form and dress up, but given the details revealed in the letter she had decided it might be better not to showcase that ability too much. Instead she'd assumed her in-between form, more obviously monstrous than her elven form, with clearly visible compound eyes and sharp fangs. For clothing she'd chosen a simple off-white tunic and black pants, and covered the whole with a dark-red cloak to try and ward off the worst of the stares. The clothing was actually of quite decent quality for someone living in the slums, but that did not change that, she felt incredibly out of place using her current form while in an environment as luxurious as the Skyhold. At least the others called here looked equally out of place.

 "Ssooo..."  she spoke after a moment, her fangs imparting a slight lisp to her speech.  "Do any of you know what thiss might be about?"  she asked. Her invitation had been quite light on details.
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout, a Nezumi of Pitch black fur, with a white tuxedo patch down his front, and almost cuff-like white fur at his wrists wore a menagerie of  clothing .

He was indeed barefoot, but around his ankles he wore stained clothe that used to be white spats, but now was a grayish brown. He had brought his finest burlap sack to wear, having scrubbed off the words that once were painted on the side, across his hunched back, was now a stitched holy symbol of the God of Chaos. Atop his head appeared to be a paper machete wizard hat that had been brushed with some animal fat to waterproof it, and then painted with a variety of blues and blacks to mimic the night sky, or he simply didn't have enough paint to make it one color. The sack he wore had no sleeves, but he wore a pair of old socks over his hands and arms up to his elbows, his fingers sticking through holes in the toes, much like fingerless gloves. At his side from his belt hung a wooden covered bound.... book  labeled.  Spailbook .

He looks up to the woman addressing him and his gives a slightly too wide smile with his rat teeth grinning.

 "They must have noticed my greatness! Of course they would summon me, Scrapsnout Arcanaslouth! The most powerful wizard in the trashbelt!" 
DeTess
 "Are you now?"  Lady Red replied, doing her best to keep her doubts from creeping into her voice.  "Ah, but maybe I sshould introduce mysself as well. I am lady Red. Though most people simply call me Red for some reason." 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
When the Mob gave him the message, Zilrak's first instinct was to run.
Sadly, they'd thought of that, and were standing in the only exit, leaving him no choice to accept the complimentary "escort" to the gates of the Big Folk place.  They must have wanted to take more from him.  He knew.  They didn't have enough, and they wanted more.  But maybe they wouldn't pay enough attention?
As the guards search him, Zilrak does his best to keep his good claws hidden, and his treasures kept unmentioned.  His answers to the guards questions about silly things like where he lived, what he worked for, why he killed the marquis, and other silly Big Folk things were answered simply, with things like " Home. "  " Zilrak! " and other almost non-answers.
But it seemed that the dragons were smiling on him, because they ultimately escorted him into one of the giant empty warrens with a minimum of kicking, before tossing him into a room, filled with strangers.

Pushed roughly into the small chamber by an unkind boot to the back, a small blue kobold slid roughly across the polished floor, the cloth covered chain covering his torso screeching slightly on the stone.  His bright yellow eyes seem to dart around the room, and his blue, scaled skin is clearly visible around his clawed feet, large tail, and bare arms.  His equipment seems... scavenged, clearly assembled by unskilled hands, and his only weapon seems to be something that almost resembles a crossbow.  Across his back lies an almost comically oversized backpack, although it seems to be empty.  And behind him, streaking on the floor, lies a track of dust, from the small creature's clothing.

As he recovers, and leaps to his feet, all two feet of kobold spins around, taking in the room, and the strangers within it.  " Big folk strange-strange!  Why Zilrak take-taken? "  The kobold, Zilrak, had a rather high pitched, almost guttural voice, and the word are voiced with almost no gap between them.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d20+12)[ 13 ]  Slight of hand(Conceal his kukris)
 

 
 
  
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

When he had received the missive, dropped into the gutter and tucked into the sewage grate near the warren where he made his lair he had felt a tail whipping twitch of nervousness. Now, skulking into the gates of the Skyhold his beady eyes ran along the roofs and walls of the grans manses. He knew some of them well from his previous more clandestine forays into this part of town.  Still he marked his route well lest he not be allowed out peacefully.

Joining the others he glanced around the room, whiskers twitching and a hand resting on the hilt of a throwing knife tucked under his ragged black wraps.  "Strange strange to be here no?"  he asks in a sharp squeaky voice. He watches the spider lady warily and smirks slightly at Scrapsnout, a switch to the sharp nezumi tongue &lt;You come here too Scrapsnout? Do you know what the bald ones want? &gt; before nodding to Red and Zilrak.

 
 
  
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout sniffs at the air as each person speaks, as if seeking their own personal scents.

 "Well Lady Red, Zilrak, What are your talents, mayhaps we can figure out something we have in common, Is everyone here a master of the Arcane Arts? 

His nose twitches when he hears the nezumi tongue.

&lt; "No. maybe they want our treasures. Or worse... our food." &gt;
DeTess
 "I know a sspell or two, yess."  Lady Red replied.  "Though you'd think that the academy-trained magess of the 'civilized' people could eassily fill a need like that." 
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug
 

Krug was actually delighted to receive the summons and gladly accepted it. Someone important knew who he was and how to find him. He finished his drink and whispered to himself    "Marshal Arren Falconrise"   several times in awe as he passed through the gates to Silvercrest.


Krug wiped some drool from his chin.   "I am Krug. I'm a master of biting stuff and helping trees grow - But mostly I bite."   He said simply and grunted twice. More drool dripped down from his massive underbite. Two large teeth poked up and threatened to escape his mouth when he talked.


The sturdy, 6 foot tall Mongrelfolk crossed his arms.   "The bad news is if you are here with me, then someone is desperate or needs someone disposable. Maybe you bit the wrong people.  " Krug chuckles.


Krug scratched at a large brown-ish red splotch on his patchwork leather armor. He hoped it was just dried blood. The drool continued to flow.
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
When the large rat-thing asked it's question, Zilrak waited to see if anyone else was going to answer, but, eventually, answer he did.  " Big folk take-take.  Dragon magic mine-mine!  Zilrak take back. "  His defiant words spoken, Zilrak takes a closer look around the room, looking for other exits, things of value, or some explanation as to why he was dragged here.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d20+6)[ 25 ]  Spot?
 

 
 
  
Tyrann
The door creaks open, and the guard who escorted you earlier stands at attention. " The marshal will see you now, " he says, his tone clipped and formal.

You step into the room, vast and cold, its stone walls looming upward, casting shadows that stretch toward the ceiling. At the far end, behind a massive desk of dark, polished oak, sits Marshal Arren Falconrise. He commands the room as easily as you imagine he commands his wyvern—without a hint of effort, as though everything here bends to his will. His black leather armor clings to him like a second skin, every strap and buckle precisely where it needs to be, giving him the look of someone who expects danger at any moment. Over his chest, the blue insignia of the skymarshals gleams, a cold reminder of his status among Alaris’s elite defenders.

Falconrise’s face is sharp and angular, every line on it etched by years of command. His beard, streaked with silver, is trimmed short and neat, and his hair, slicked back, shows the same touches of gray at the temples. But it’s his eyes that hold you—cold, steely, and unyielding. They sweep over you, and it’s like being sized up for a task you might not survive. There's no warmth in those eyes, only calculation, as if he’s already decided your worth.

Behind him, flanking his ornately carved chair, two towering suits of armor stand guard, their polished surfaces gleaming in the low light. You get the sense they’re not just for show.

" Sit, " Falconrise commands, his voice as sharp as the edge of a blade.

The chairs in front of his desk are small and plain, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the room and the marshal’s own seat of power. You sit, perhaps feeling a little smaller, a little more insignificant as Falconrise leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze sweeping over you once again.

He lets the silence stretch on, a flicker of disgust crossing his face as his eyes land on Krug’s drool, then quickly shifts his focus. " Right, " he says at last, his voice cold. " Thank you for coming. "

The thanks sounds anything but genuine. His eyes narrow as he continues, " You’ve been summoned because there’s a situation that requires… specific skills. Skills I’m told you lot possess. "

He picks up a dossier from his desk, briefly scanning the contents before looking up.

" A spider masquerading as a high race in a low place. " His eyes land on Lady Red, a faint sneer curling his lip. " At least you’ve got the good sense to blend in. "

He turns to Zilrak, his gaze icy. " A dragon in his own mind, no doubt. We’ll see how far that gets you. "

Next, he fixes his gaze on Sniktch, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. " A rat, likely to have pinched more than your fair share. Fine, as long as you keep your paws off what doesn’t belong to you. "

His eyes shift to Krug, lingering a moment too long on the drool hanging from his lip. " You’re ruining my floor, " he mutters with thinly veiled disgust before moving on.

Finally, he settles on Scrapsnout, trying—unsuccessfully—to keep the disdain from creeping into his expression as his eyes linger on the Spailbook. " And you… well, let’s hope you’re more than just a novelty. "

Falconrise leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, the wood groaning slightly under the weight. " Let’s get down to business. An expedition into the Sea of Ash went missing. Specifically, Kellen Aranthor, second son of the Aranthor family. A fool who thought he could make a name for himself by venturing into the Drowned Temple. "

He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. " He’s disappeared, along with most of the men he hired. My marshals managed to recover seven bodies, all dead. But Kellen wasn’t among them. "

His gaze sweeps over you again, his expression unreadable. " Your task is simple. Find him, or proof of his death. If the boy’s alive, bring him back. If he’s dead, I’ll settle for his sword, his signet ring, anything that proves we can put this mess to bed. "

Falconrise leans back in his chair, fingers tapping the desk rhythmically, the sound punctuating the heavy silence. His eyes, cold as steel, sweep over you once more, calculating. " Succeed in bringing the boy back alive, and I’ll pay you 3,000 gold pieces each. " His voice is firm, leaving no room for doubt. " Bring me proof of his death—his sword, his signet ring—and you’ll walk away with 1,500 gold each. "

His gaze hardens as he continues, each word delivered with the precision of a blade. " There will be no compensation for any deaths on your part. I don’t want any infighting. " His eyes flick from one to the next, making sure the message lands.

" There is no extra gold for any other survivors you might stumble across. They’re not my concern, and they shouldn’t be yours. "

Falconrise leans forward slightly, the weight of his authority pressing down on you. " And if this becomes public—if I hear even a whisper on the streets—there will be a bounty on your heads. Make no mistake, very few people know about this, so I’ll know exactly who to trace it back to. "

He lets the silence stretch, a final moment for the weight of the task to sink in. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he sits back. " Any questions? "


 
 Spoiler: DC 15 kn. Nobility and Royalty 

The Aranthor family are not local to this part of the world. Kellen Aranthor must have travelled quite some distance to get here.

 
 Spoiler: DC 20 kn. Nobility and Royalty 

Kellen Aranthor is likely a son of Lord Thalion Aranthor, a duke from the sprawling estate of Eldoria Vale.

 
 Spoiler: DC 15 Geography 

Eldoria Vale is a picturesque region nestled in the distant foothills of the Mistral Heights. Rich in natural beauty, it is characterized by rolling green hills that cascade down into lush valleys, where vibrant wildflowers bloom in a riot of colors during the warmer months.

The Vale is dotted with quaint villages, each with charming stone cottages and bustling markets, where local artisans craft goods from the abundant resources of the land. The people are known for their hospitality, celebrating seasonal festivals that draw visitors from neighboring regions. Anybody is welcome—if they're of the right race.
 

 
 Spoiler: DC 30 kn. Nobility and Royalty 

Kellen Aranthor is indeed a son of Lord Thalion Aranthor. The second son, as Falconrise already mentioned. He is known for being adventurous and somewhat reckless.
Eldrin Aranthor, the first son, is known for his lack of common sense and tendency to follow in his father's footsteps without thought.
Aerin Aranthor, the youngest son, is gifted in magic and attending a prestigious academy; he is said to have a quiet confidence and a strong sense of responsibility. It is rumored that he might inherit his father's title and estate.

 
 Spoiler: DC 35 kn. Nobility and Royalty 

Another figure that comes to mind when you hear that name is Varyn Aranthor, who, you realize now, must be Kellen's late uncle. Varyn died some odd 20 years ago, in a negative energy desert. Though you're pretty sure it wasn't the Sea of Ash.
 

 

 

 

 
 Spoiler: DC 15 kn. Local or DC 20 Nobility and Royalty 

Though Falconrise commands several other marshals, he is not the head marshal.

The commander of the marshals, Marshal Commander Velora Duskbane, is an elf and has held that post for at least 60 years. Beyond that you don't know much about her. Several Marshals are elves. You wouldn't be able to identify her in a line-up.

 
 Spoiler: DC 25 kn. Local or Nobility and Royalty 

Though rarely seen in public these days, Velora Duskbane used to be known for appearing at exclusive gatherings and noble events, often dazzling the elite with her charm. Despite this carefree side, she also had, and still has, a reputation for efficiency, personally handling the most dangerous missions. She used to be on the fast track for a job in a more prestigious post in the heartlands of the imperium. Something must have gone wrong along the way."
 

 

 
 Spoiler: DC 10 kn. Local or Geography 

The Drowned Temple is one of the few places in the Sea of Ash that has something resembling water. There are several pools of a blood-like substance there. It's called the Drowned Temple because one of those pools has a the tip of a tower sticking out of it.

If you had a map, you think you might be able to find your way there.

 
 Spoiler: DC 15 kn. Geography or Survival 

That is at least a three-day trek through fairly brutal wasteland, crawling with low-grade undead as you get deeper in. Or it could be a five-day trek through still harsh wasteland if you want to avoid the worst of the undead.

The Drowned Temple has been explored extensively—more so than other parts of the Sea of Ash, because with a Purify Food and Drink spell it becomes a good place to restock on water. The tower has no known entrance, and as far as you are aware, attempts to dig deeper have always been unsuccessful.
 

 
DeTess
Lady Red was silent while a quiet war raged inside her between her self preservation instinct on one side, and curiosity and greed on the other. It was the latter that won out, eventually.  "Iss there anything more you can tell uss about the temple and the road there? What threatss would we likely encounter out there?" 
Tyrann
Marshal Falconrise leans back in his chair, his gaze cold and cutting. " I was told you’re all aspiring relic hunters, " he begins, his tone dripping with barely concealed impatience. " So let me put it plainly—the short answer to your question is wasteland and undead. The longer answer? " His lips twisted in a humorless smile. " If you can’t figure out how to navigate that on your own, then I’m wasting not only my gold, but something far more precious—my time. "
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Climbing up one of the chairs before just standing on it, Zilrak might almost have looked adorable if you thought small kobolds that don't know what a bath is were adorable.  Listening to the Marshal's explanation, and Lady Red's question, Zilrak speaks up, his high pitched voice carrying clearly through the room.  " Zilrak know-know temple.  But why not big folk?  How know you not try trick-trick, and keep gold and secret-secret? "

 
 
  
Tyrann
Marshal Falconrise grins, his expression, for the first time, showing a flicker of acknowledgment. " Now  that  is a sensible question, " he remarks, his voice carrying a hint of approval. " The kind of suspicion you'll need if you're to be of any use to me. "

With a practiced motion, he opens a drawer and pulls out a parchment envelope, placing it on the desk and carefully sliding it open. The paper inside shimmers faintly, almost imperceptibly, as though woven with a touch of magic. Tapping the envelope lightly with one finger, he continued, " This is a Ralthor-slip. " He pauses, his eyes sweeping over you all, watching for any signs of recognition at the mention of Ralthor, the God of Trade and Commerce.

“ Take this to the temple of Ralthor, and they’ll confirm its validity and value, ” he explains. " Just don't let anyone read the contents, as per our agreement. "

He allows a brief silence before addressing Zilrak’s second question, his gaze sharpening. " As for why I don’t employ 'big folk,' the answer is simple. Unlike you, I have limited means of guaranteeing their discretion. And, as you might have noticed, our influence extends beyond the reach of mere daylight. "

He leans in, his voice lowering slightly, every word deliberate. " Why would we get rid of assets that can be of future use? "

 
 Spoiler: Ralthor-slip 

The slip is finely crafted, the parchment shimmering faintly in the light, laced with delicate gold threads that seemed to shift and pulse ever so slightly. Runes inlaid in the margins glow with a soft, magical hue.

It might well be that not all of you have heard of these, and it's likely that only Sniktch has ever touched one.


 
 Spoiler: DC 10 kn. Religion, free pass for Sniktch 

These are not just documents—They are essentially a magically-bound contract backed by a deity willing to intervene if the contact is broken.

 
 Spoiler: DC 15 kn. Religion, free pass for Sniktch 

To craft a Ralthor-slip, one must visit the temple of Ralthor, the God of Trade and Commerce.

The process begins with listing outcomes.
In this particular case, the outcomes were as follows:

 
 A: Dissolution of the slip. 
 B: 1,500 gold pieces per head, to a maximum of 7,500 gold pieces. 
 C: 3,000 gold pieces per head, to a maximum of 15,000 gold pieces. 
 
Once these outcomes are determined, the next step is to empower the slip. This involves writing out the conditions under which each outcome will be triggered. The writer may choose to do this privately, away from the clerics’ eyes, or openly in their presence. Regardless of how the conditions are written, it is always known to Ralthor himself.

Empowering the slip also requires a personal investment—a small fragment of your soul. This ensures the sanctity of the slip, as breaking it grants Ralthor temporary rights to that soul after death, no matter which deity you follow. However, Ralthor’s afterlife for those who default isn’t all torment; some say it’s an eternity in a cubicle, managing ledgers and accounting for contracts, which is...not  that  bad.

In this specific case, Condition A was set openly:

 
 A: The resolvement of either condition B or C. 
 
This made it so that only 15,000 gold pieces had to be deposited to prevent a potential afterlife with Ralthor.

Conditions B and C were then written privately, ensuring the exact terms were known only to the contract-maker and Ralthor himself:

 
 B: Hand over the sword or the signet ring of Kellen Aranthor, second son of Lord Thalion Aranthor, to Marshal Arren Falconrise. 
 C: Deliver Kellen Aranthor, second son of Lord Thalion Aranthor, alive and well, into either the custody of the Skymarshals or to the Skyhold of Alaris. 
 
 

 

 
DeTess
Lady Red frowned at the marshal's dismissal of her question. It made her wonder if he truly wanted to see this mission completed. The presence of the Ralthor-slip somewhat reassured her though.  "If nothing elsse, that meanss we're guaranteed to get paid when we complete our tassk."  she shared, for the benefit of those present unfamiliar with the item.

She thought for a moment. It seemed unlikely any other questions related to the temple would be answered, so she'd waste her breath if she pressed any further on that topic. But the whole cloak and dagger approach made her worried about another possibility.  "Iss there anyone who would benefit from our failure, ssomeone who might sseek to ssabotage our effort?" 
Tyrann
Marshal Falconrise leaned back, his gaze steady as he listened to Lady Red’s question. He took his time before answering, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “ There’s always someone who benefits from failure, " he began, his voice calm, almost conversational. " Especially when it comes to noble families. ”

He let that linger for a moment, eyes flicking briefly to each of you. “ Kellen’s not the only son, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. There’s an older brother, and a younger one too. As for who might want to see him gone? Well, succession is a messy business. But whether his disappearance was by design or misfortune... that’s not something I’m prepared to speculate on. ”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone growing a bit cooler.  “I’m not in the business of noble politics. I’m in the business of getting results. But if someone does try to stop you, I suggest you keep your wits about you. You might learn something useful. "

With that, he settled back into his chair, his expression neutral. “ I’m counting on your resourcefulness. This isn't just about surviving the wasteland. Keep your eyes open. You may find there’s more to uncover than just a missing noble. ”
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 


Kurg nods.   "oooh, good question. "   He says to Red.


He thinks for a moment and glances at the ceiling - lost in thought.   "Krug knows of this place. Not been there.  But knows of it. It is a known place to many. I can probably get us there. 1500 seems fair to Krug. Krug can explain more about the area later. "   
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnouts whiskers twitch and wiggle as he listened. He slowly considers the facts being presented. He nods to Krug when he mentions knowing the way, scrapsnout just needed a map and he could figure it out.

 "Couple of questions, can you provide us a map. Does your boss know about this ?, and do we need to sign that bit of cloth to get paid? 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Zilrak mostly listens to the Marshal's explanation, before losing interest, and spending his time looking around the room, waiting for the meeting to end, the scary big folk to let him leave, and then maybe figure out a better plan for Zilrak. 
 
  
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 
  "Hmm, more questions from Krug - if you have answers. How did those seven men die and how long ago did Kellen leave the city?"   Krug grunted and got up out of his chair. He started moving towards the door.
Tyrann
Marshal Falconrise’s gaze lingered on Scrapsnout, his tone betraying more than a hint of strained patience. “ No need to sign anything, ” he said, tapping the Ralthor-slip with his fingers. “ Just hand this over to the cleric when the time comes. The guard outside will provide you with a map. It’s detailed enough to get you there—provided you can read one, of course. ”

He gave a fleeting glance to Zilrak, who appeared more intrigued by the room’s furnishings than the conversation at hand, before shifting his focus to Krug. “ As for how the men died, ” he continued, his voice as cold and empty as the Sea of Ash itself. “ They were found near one of the ponds. Looks like they got caught off-guard—probably by the storm that hit the area around that time. Two of them were floating face-down in the water, no obvious injuries. The others? Five of them, scattered along the shore, their clothes soaked red from the pond. We suspect they waded through it before collapsing. No obvious stab wounds or signs of struggle, but they were just about to turn—zombies, most likely. ”

He leaned back slightly. “ As I said, we think the storm might’ve had something to do with it. Or perhaps something else entirely. The pond is marked on the map. It’s not the one with the tower. ”

His eyes followed Krug as the mongrelfolk began to rise from his seat. Falconrise’s voice grew icy, cutting through the room with quiet authority. “ Kellen left about two weeks ago, and I’d recommend sitting down until I say otherwise. ” There was a sharpness to his words, a subtle reminder of who held authority in the room. “ Now, unless there’s anything else, I suggest you get to work. ”

 
 Spoiler: DC 23 sense motive 

He did definitely register the question about the boss. He just didn't answer it.
 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Sensing the coolness in the big big folk's words, Zilrak manages to pull his attention back to the Marshal, just in time to re-iterate the supposed mission.  " Go-go, find-find, bring thing, don't die.  Pond bad, maybe storm bad, big folk bad, how get back here?  Big folk not like in high place. "  He pauses for a moment, one clawed finger outstretched, clearly trying to think of something, before his eyes widen, almost in disbelief.  " And food-food water-water?  Desert dry-dry and pond bad-bad. "

 
 
  
DeTess
Lady Red nodded in agreement with Zilrak.  "We musst assume the pond is contaminated and bring enough water to get to the temple and back... But maybe ssuch concernss are best discussed while we're preparing for the journey." 
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout holds his hand out to the marshal.

"I suspect you'll want the target to have some quality food to eat on his journey back home? Something that will return his strength to his limbs, something that wont... insult his pride? Yes?."

Picking up on the marshals silence his eyes narrow.

"Plus you know... if our mouths have food in them.... it'll be harder to talk to anyone as we leave town."
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 


Krug sheepishly sat back down as he had clearly misread some social cue or another.

  "Desert dry-dry and pond bad-bad."   Krug repeats and nods at Zilrak.
Tyrann
Marshal Falconrise's gaze flicked over the group, his face a study in neutrality until—unexpectedly—he burst out laughing. The sound, rough and sudden, echoed through the room. “Well,” he chuckled, wiping at his eyes, “ I did not see that coming, but with hindsight I probably should have.” 

His hand disappeared beneath the desk for a moment, and with a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, the door swung open. A guard, waiting just outside, stepped in immediately as if summoned by some unseen force.

" Give them the envelope I handed you earlier, " Falconrise instructed, his tone suddenly all business again. The guard nodded, handing over a sealed packet. " Inside, you’ll find the map I mentioned and an amulet of protection from evil for each of you. Wear it. The desert will kill you in a day without it. ”

The marshal paused, eyes settling on the guard.  “And enough rations—real rations—and water for three weeks. " Then back to you. “ Don’t waste it. ” His words carried a weight beyond mere sustenance—perhaps a reminder of the unforgiving landscape ahead.

He stood, his presence filling the room.  “I expect results. Bring back the boy or at least something useful. Otherwise, don’t bother coming back. And do not make mention of that you're working for me. People might guess. Don't tell them a thing. ” With a final nod, he dismissed you with a flick of his hand, leaving little doubt that the conversation was over.

The guard led you through the winding halls of the Skyhold, muttering as you descended. “ The amulets will keep you safe, but only just. Without them, the desert drains you, bit by bit. Negative energy. Stay in the wasteland long enough without protection, and you’ll be walking back as one of the undead. ”

You were escorted out by a patrol of four knights, their armored footsteps echoing through the streets. The townsfolk’s hostile glares followed you as you passed through the gate back into The Belt, but this time, the knights’ silent authority kept them from doing more than scowling. Even the guards at the gate, though clearly displeased by your presence, merely offered filthy stares instead of the usual cruelty.


-----------


As you prepare for the journey into the Sea of Ash, a few considerations come to mind. You might want to secure a mount—though a regular horse won’t survive the wasteland without protection. The Necromancer’s Guild offers skeleton mounts, along with control stones to keep them in line. The price is steep, though—about one and a half times the usual. But be warned: those control stones are fragile. If the stone is destroyed, or if someone manages to turn the undead against you, the mount will become a threat. Plan accordingly.

You’ll also need to think about provisions. A way of carrying enough rations and water to avoid relying on the ponds—Zilrak was right to be cautious—and something to ward off the biting cold that sweeps the desert by night.

Where you go to gather your final supplies is up to you, and you can assume you'll find what you need at the prices mentioned. If you're looking for the Necromancer's Guild, it's outside the city walls, near the farmlands behind town. Be prepared to get frisked before entering, but anyone with the coin is welcome there, no questions asked.
Darius Vibrtrar
Once outside scrapsnout looks to his new fellows in... adventure.

"Well then, I suggest we go get some.... skeletal mounts to haul things. I'm fine running across the dunes as fast as some horses... but some of you look... as slow as a human."
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Dismissed and escorted out of the palace with the massive kegs of water weighing other down, Zilrak pockets the paper and amulets he was given, slipping them into one of the pouches on his oversized bag as he was banished from the place of big folk.

After leaving, Zilrak looks to Scrapsnout, and shakes his head.  " Horses rich-rich, Zilrak not.  Can get warm thing for desert.  Cold-cold at night. "  Then, a thought occurs to him.  " Maybe talk to knowers?  Knowers know things, sometimes? "

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Translated:  Zilrak does not have gold to buy a horse, or a dog, or a cat.  But maybe we could spend a bit of time looking for rumors, to see if anyone has returned from the temple recently?
 

 
 
  
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 
  "Maybe a skeletal mule with some saddle bags. While its more expensive here, on the other hand we probably don't need to bring feed along..."   Krug wrinkled his nose in displeasure at the thought of undead 'anything'.   "It if survives the trip we could sell it back. I have room in my pack if anyone wants me to help carry their food."   Krug offers and licks his lips.

  "We could all chip in 4-5 gold and be done with it. Krug can lend a couple gold - if he gets paid back -  if Zilrak new-friend poor-poor."   Krug adds.
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

Sniktch had looked around and watched the elf, his whiskers twitching slightly as he nodded and listened. Running his fingers on the Ticket to Raltor he had nodded, sniffing the rich magic on the his fingers after touch the smooth slip he nodded.

 "Good good. We must move fast for the run to lost child to find alive. Better odds if he is fast than slow when the bleaching will take him"   When offered the amulet he will examine it carefully.

As they talk about the supplies and undead mounts the rat nods..  "I have coins. Good coins, Not my coins but now my coin"  he adds with a sly smile after the marshal has left

 OOC
I have 268 gp left from starting gold so can buy supplies and the undead donkeys
 
 
 
  
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Looking at the collection of folk not moving towards the markets, Zilrak jumps up to attract attention, before starting the long walk to the  lower market.  After a moment, he looks back at everyone.  " Follow.  We buy things.  Get skeleton.  Carry barrels. "
 
 
  
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout wrinkles his nose.

 "yes, well need those undead donkeys,
  

He attempts to usher and press the group towards the necromancers.
DeTess
Lady Red simply joined the rest of the group as they headed off for their shopping trip. If need be, she could pay, but right now she kept quiet, working out what they would need in her head as they walked.
Tyrann
You gather your supplies, either alone or as a group, weaving through the cluttered streets of the lower market in The Belt. Here, the atmosphere is a riot of noise and movement—vendors shouting over each other to catch your attention, stalls overflowing with threadbare blankets, tents cobbled together from scraps of canvas, and gear that looked like it had barely survived its last outing in the Sea of Ash. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and smoke, tinged with the odd tang of conjured food—stew, perhaps, though it never tasted quite like it should. Nezumi traders, their sharp eyes gleaming, watched every move with suspicion, while goblins lurked in shadowy corners, sizing you up. Haggling was expected here; a quick tongue and nimble fingers could get you a decent deal, though you’d best be ready to dodge a swindler’s tricks if you hesitated for even a moment.

Or perhaps you slipped through the twisting, narrow alleys of the Belt, moving through the gloom with the purpose of someone who knew every darkened corner. The Belt was never quiet, especially not as the shadows lengthened and the streets filled with whispers. Figures flitted between crumbling buildings, barely more than shadows themselves, and behind the cracked shutters of ramshackle homes, you could hear the low murmur of hushed conversations. There was no time for pleasantries in the Belt—you moved fast, your head down. Maybe you had your own stash—blankets folded away in a forgotten corner, an old tent you’d squirreled away for just such a moment. With a little luck, you’d gather what you needed without drawing unwanted attention.

For those less inclined to scrape by in the muck of the Belt, the Sky Market—perched on a patch of rooftops above the chaos—offered a different kind of deal. Up here, vendors with well-kept stalls offered higher-quality wares: thick woolen blankets, sturdy tents that didn’t seem like they would collapse in a stiff breeze, and gear free of the patchwork repairs you’d expect below. Broad daylight spilled over the scene, with the watchful eyes of marshals ensuring a certain peace, though not without a price. The traders here didn’t haggle—especially not with non-humans. Prices were set and steep, the merchants’ eyes cold and calculating. But if you had the coin, they didn’t care where it came from. A few passing relic hunters eyed you with thinly veiled disdain, though the vendors themselves didn’t blink—gold was gold, after all, and there was no shortage of buyers.

Once your supplies were packed away, your next task was to leave the city—no small feat in Alaris. The outer gate, known simply as The Bastion, loomed ahead, its approach flanked by tall, fortified walls lined with murder holes. The stone beneath your feet was smooth and worn from centuries of passage, the tunnel-like passage leading you ever closer to the gate. The massive structure was split into two—a smaller, heavily guarded inner gate, and beyond it, the larger, more imposing outer gate. The space between the gates was a kill zone, wide and open, with guards watching from the walls above.

The guards at the inner gate peered through a narrow slit, their eyes scanning you before allowing passage with a grunt. They asked few questions once you mentioned relic hunting—no one was eager to argue with those foolish enough to venture into the wasteland. If Lady Red was in her Elven form, they might give a puzzled look, though they’d wave you on. If she showed her true form, they’d chuckle, shaking their heads, as though you’d already signed your own death warrant.

Finally, the enormous outer gate creaked open, revealing the world beyond Alaris. The Sea of Ash stretched before you—an endless expanse of grey, barren sandstone, broken only by the occasional jagged ridge or distant, crumbling ruin. The wind whipped across the desolation, carrying with it the faintest echo of whispers from the desert. The sky above hung pale and cloudless, the sun casting long shadows that seemed to stretch forever. But before you could get swallowed by the vast emptiness that now awaited you, there was one more stop.

--

The path to the Necromancer’s Guild led beyond the imposing stone walls of Alaris, out towards the withered farmlands at the edge of the town. The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of decay and dust. As you approached, the landscape grew eerily quiet—save for the low, hollow groans of the undead toiling in the fields.

The farmlands were a grotesque sight. Rows upon rows of crops, gnarled and twisted, but somehow green, stretched across the land like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. And in the fields, zombies—dozens of them—moved with slow, jerking motions as they tilled the earth, their milky white eyes and sunken cheeks giving them the appearance of corpses freshly risen from their graves. Every so often, one would stumble, and a nearby overseer—a gaunt, pale figure dressed in the muted robes of the Guild—would prod them back to work with a sharp command.

The Guild’s main building loomed ahead, a ramshackle structure pieced together from stone, bones, and other less identifiable materials. It wasn’t grand or imposing, like the noble estates in Silvercrest. Instead, it looked like something that had crawled out of the ground and simply decided to stay above it, its uneven walls casting jagged shadows in the dying light.

As you neared the entrance, a pair of necromancers stepped out to greet them—or, more accurately, to inspect them. Both were humans, but barely. Their skin clung to their bones like parchment, their cheeks hollow and eyes sunken deep into their skulls. The taller of the two looked almost dead himself, save for the occasional flicker of intelligence in his cold, gray eyes. His companion, shorter but no less unsettling, wore a necklace of tiny bones, which clattered faintly with each movement.

“New customers,” the taller one rasped, his voice like dry leaves scraping against stone. His lips barely moved, as though the effort of speaking was beneath him. “What brings you to our humble establishment? Need a hand or two for the farm, or something more… lively?”

They wait, patient, as you explained yourselves.

The two necromancers exchanged a glance, the taller one’s thin lips curling into a ghastly smile. “Ah, the Sea of Ash. Not many make it there, and fewer still return. But those who do…” His voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished, though the implication hung in the air like a bad smell.

At the mention of mules, their interest sharpens.

“Ah, you seek skeletons for the desert,” the taller one says, his lips barely moving as he speaks. “Wise choice. The Sea of Ash is no place for the living beasts, not without the right protection. But our skeletons? They need no food, no water, no rest.”

He steps aside, gesturing for you to follow inside.

Inside, the air is thick with the smell of rot and old, dried herbs. The walls were lined with shelves holding glass jars of various sizes, each containing something more grotesque than the last: a pickled hand, a shriveled heart, and—floating lazily in a jar of murky liquid—a single, wide-open eyeball. It felt as though the room itself was watching them, judging them.

"Follow me," the shorter necromancer rasped, turning sharply on his heel. His cloak fluttered with the movement, and without another glance, he led you down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The air was thick with the scent of decay, the walls cold and slick with age. Every step you took seemed to echo, bouncing off the stone floor in hollow, unsettling rhythm, but there was never true silence. Something always seemed to stir just out of sight—a rustle here, a faint scrape there, like the bones of the place were shifting, never quite still.

The corridor opened suddenly into a vast, shadowy chamber. The ceiling soared high above, lost to the gloom, while rows of skeletal creatures stood in eerie stillness, their bones gleaming faintly in the low light. Mules, ponies, and light horses—dozens of them—lined up with unnerving precision. Even a few massive, heavy warhorses, their skeletal frames towering over the others, waited silently in the shadows. Their empty eye sockets seemed to watch you.

“You’ll want control stones for these beauties,” the taller necromancer explains, running his bony fingers along the spine of one of the mules. “They’re what keep these lovely creatures in line. Break one, and, well…” His grin stretches wider, a humorless smile that doesn’t reach his dead eyes.

“We deal in the best control stones,” the shorter one add, fingers grazing the pouch at his side, a faint clink of bone against metal. “But quality comes at a price. Twelve gold pieces for a mule, one hundred and fifty for a pony, two hundred and twenty-five for a light horse, and six hundred for a heavy steed. Not much more than the living sort, and far less trouble—no need for food, water, or rest.” He cackles, the sound low and sinister, as if the idea itself were some dark joke only he understood.
DeTess
 "We'll take two mules."  Lady Red pulled the coins from a pouch hidden in her tunic, well away from any wannabe pickpocketers.

 "Is it in any way possible to have a spare control stone?"  she added after thinking for a moment. Though she was familiar with many aspects of magic, necromancy had eluded her completely.
Darius Vibrtrar
 "three actually.... in case of.... accidents...." 

Scrapsnout counts counts under his clothes and places them in a cheesecloth pouch before pulling his arms and head back out of his burlap sack of a tunic and presents the coin filled cheese cloth pouch.

 "They are secondhand mules yes? No broken tibia.... no cracked ribs? No fractured collar bones? No displaced hips? No impacted spines? We are not looking for undead mules who have been ground half way down to make some giants bread already" 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
 The Markets 
Wandering through the Belt, Zilrak does his best to pick out quality pieces of gear, rather than things that were barely holding together, although his luck in this regard was minimal.  A small blanket that some lunatic had dyed pink and had some strange symbol on it, a bedroll that only had a few mostly repaired holes in it that was stained a ruddy brown, and a tent with a complimentary skylight accompanied by some spare leather that could close the skylight.
All fitted into his bulging backpack, although only just, and the small Zilrak was clearly carrying more than he really should be.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d20+11)[ 18 ]  Disguise, trying to convince others that Zilrak is a poor kobold with little worth stealing.

If he spotted a good opportunity, maybe some slight of hand to refill his coffers a bit?
 (1d20+12)[ 30 ] 
 

 The Necromancer's Guild 
When passing through the gate, Zilrak does his best to appear small and harmless, trying to encourage the guards to overlook him.
However, approaching the zombie fields, a place he had never seen before, he could only look on in wonder.  And jealousy.  The big folk had taken much from him.  These fields should be his, not theirs!  But there was no magic in his blood, and without it, well, such things were beyond him now.
Reaching the entrance to the strange structure the necromancers called home, Zilrak kept to the back, out of sight of the necromancers, and let others do the speaking.
But while they do that, he quietly approaches the collection of skeletal animals, and pokes one, trying to see if he could feel any magic to it. 
 
  
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Taking in the crowd, Zilrak quickly dismisses trying to work the hooded figure:  No one would be dumb enough to wander around like that here unless they had an in with someone they thought would protect them.  Equally so, lamps were dumb, and easily recognizable pieces of work were worse.
But the sealed box?  Well, those were another story entirely.  Who didn't want boxes?
But how to get it?  His approach would be visible to a customer, or the merchant.
He needed a distraction.

And he had the perfect mark to be the distractor.

He waited, just until the hooded figure was near a nearby stand, looking over the nearby merchant's work, hoping that the oncoming wealthy individual would distract the merchant, just long enough, before making his move, slipping around the edge of the building, and keeping low, beneath people's notices, moving with confidence, his tools at the ready as he reaches his desired target.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d20+16)[ 30 ]  Hide
 (1d20+8)[ 18 ]  Move Silently

Alas, with only one person, distractions are... hard.  There were plans I rejected...
Hiring some kids(Or something) to distract the mercant, distracted because that was a terrible idea.
Robbing the rich fellow, and putting the ring somewhere nearby, as though he had dropped it.
Lighting the rich fellow on fire a little bit(Alas, starting the fire would be a little too complicated)
 

 
 
  
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

Sniktch had pottered around the market watching the others, slinking mainly in the shadows as he tried to avoid attracting too much notice. With the haggling for the undead mules he had let the mysterious red lady lead that only offering some money drawn from a pouch tucked deep in the folds of his cloak.  He was wary in the market and mainly kept his eyes glancing up at the roof tops in case he had to make a quick escape. As they got the mules he would approach the Lady Red and nod,  "More stones goood. One for each.."  he offers clanking a small pouch at the merchant and giving a head bob to the Lady Red

 
 
  
Tyrann
 Necromancer's Guild 

Zilrak examines one of the skeletons and finds there is indeed a magical aura present. A moderate aura of necromancy.

Meanwhile the necromancers’ laughter slithered through the air, hollow and cold, the kind of sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. "These skeletons are well-crafted," the taller one said, his spidery fingers tracing the bony ridge of a skeletal mule. "Not a fracture to be found. They'll serve you nicely in the desert."

The shorter necromancer, eyes glittering with something far more unsettling than excitement, patted a pouch at his side. There was a faint clinking inside—control stones. "Twelve gold per mule," he said smoothly, his voice like oil. "Or twelve for a control stone, if you've got your own skeleton gathering dust somewhere. But with ours, you’re getting guaranteed quality." He gave a slow, unpleasant smile, fiddling with the bone necklace draped around his neck.

As if to explain, they hand you a single stone. The moment your fingers close around it, you see it—a ghostly mule, its spectral form tethered to the skeletal body before you. The poor creature’s eyes were wide with terror, as if fully aware of the power you now held over it.

"It’s not the bones that cost you," the taller necromancer adds with a dark chuckle, watching your reaction closely. "It’s the time it takes to break them in."

With the deal struck, the skeletal creatures stood eerily still, their empty eye sockets staring into nothingness, waiting. To their credit, the necromancers tossed in a few saddlebags without much fuss—decent quality, too. Maybe they were entertained by the whole thing. Or perhaps, they found some amusement in you.

------------

 Zilrak in the Markets: 

The hooded figure is drifting closer, their gaudy rings catching the faint light, just as you hoped. The merchant, eyes trained on his new wealthy customer, is suitably distracted, his back turned to you. Perfect.

You glide silently around the edge of the stall, slipping into the small shadowed space between two sagging wooden beams. Keeping low, beneath the radar of the chattering customers, you move with the ease of a practiced hand. Every step is deliberate, every breath controlled, your fingers already brushing against the tools tucked into your belt.

The locked crate sits just as you imagined—sturdy, heavy-looking, marked with that strange, unfamiliar sigil. It’s not meant for casual eyes, let alone casual hands.

And yet with a quick flick of your wrist your lockpicks are in position, nimble fingers working the mechanisms as you listen for the faintest click. One wrong move and someone might hear, but you've done this a thousand times before. Another breath, another turn, and—

Click.

The crate’s lock yields, and you lift the lid, just enough to peek inside.

A massive, coiled form lies within. Your pulse spikes as you realize it’s a snake—a big, fat one, thick as Krug's arm. Its body rises and falls with the slow rhythm of sleep, scales as big as your hands. The sight would be unnerving to anyone less experienced, but you know better than to panic. What’s more interesting, though, is what lies beneath it.

Glass vials, their surfaces marked with handwritten labels you can’t read, like eggs underneath its massive coiled up form. The glass is tinted, obscuring their contents, and in the monochrome greys of your darkvision, it’s hard to make out the finer details. But even in this light, you can tell the vials aren’t identical. The snake’s bulk covers most of them, and unless you want to disturb the creature—and you really don’t—you’ll have to settle for the three bottles within reach.

You go for the first of those bottles, and the snake stirs. A moment passes, and you freeze, holding your breath. But the creature merely shifts, sniffing the air with its tongue before sinking back into its slumber. You carefully retrieve the bottle. One down!

You then pause, weighing your options. Time is ticking. The merchant’s distraction won’t last forever, and someone’s bound to notice an open crate sooner or later. Do you tempt fate and go for more, or take your winnings?
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
 Necromancer's Guild 
With the feeling of magic thrumming beneath his fingers, it takes all the will he had to not try reclaiming the power.  No, now was not the time.  They were getting it anyway.
(Zilrak is ready to go.  Assuming his market misadventure doesn't go too horribly wrong, as it could.)

 Zilrak in the Markets 
Bottles of liquid, snakes, merchants, and rich folk.  It was all coming up Zilrak.  Without a moment's hesitation, Zilrak takes a deep, quiet breach, checks his escape route, and quickly reaches into the crate, once, twice more, grabbing the potions, before shutting the lid.
But not too carefully.  Just enough to jostle the snake, to wake it up, just a bit.
Just enough to buy him a few moments before it tries to escape.
 A few moments for him to sidle out of the immediate vicinity, out of sight of the merchant and the wealthy customer, and to take advantage of the golden opportunity before him.
Then, carefully cupping his hands togeather, casting the sound towards the crate with the now hopefully awake crate, a strange sound emerges from his lips.
A soft, quiet "squeak".  As though from a rat.
Without looking back, he continues his escape, aiming to innocently pass by the wealthy individual who would soon, with any luck, have something far more interesting to think about.
And, just perhaps, with a little less weight to worry about. 
Or at least, that was the plan...
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Well... sometimes, things just go your way, right?  Right?  😁

So... Sleight of hand for grabbing the other two potions.
 (1d20+12)[ 16 ]  Potion 1
 (1d20+12)[ 17 ]  Potion 2
Slipping them into the side pouch on his haversack.
Survival to know how much to jostle the crate?
 (1d20+8)[ 16 ]  Just enough to get the snake moving in the awake state, but not enough to alarm it.
Then, move silently/hide for his getaway?
 (1d20+16)[ 19 ]  Hide
 (1d20+8)[ 23 ]  Move Silently.
Bluff for the snake summoning spell?  Using Sound Imitation?
 (1d20+9)[ 12 ]  Bluff?
And, maybe, a final sleight of hand.
 (1d20+12)[ 23 ]  Sleight of hand to steal that ring, taking advantage of the hopeful distraction of the escaped giant snake.

If things go wrong along the way, just go for an escape, and if needed, drop a smokestick for cover.
 

 
 
  
Tyrann
Just as Zilrak's fingers curled around the second vial, a faint hiss sent a shiver up your spine. You froze. The snake, now fully awake, lifted its head from its coils, forked tongue flickering as it tasted the air. Its surprisingly intelligent eyes, glinting with a malevolence, locked onto yours, and without warning, it lunged, mouth gaping wide, revealing long, dagger-like fangs dripping with deadly poison.

You yanked your arm back just in time, the creature’s jaws snapping shut where your hand had been only a split second earlier. Its strike missed by inches, but the danger was far from over—those fangs were meant for killing.

As you slammed the crate lid shut, the snake hissed, its voice a sibilant whisper that sent chills racing down your spine. “Thief!” it spat in Draconic, each syllable dripping with venomous contempt.

Heart pounding, you heard the wood click into place with a sharp sound that echoed louder than you’d have liked. For a moment, all was still. But then, thud! The snake threw its weight against the inside of the crate, rattling the lid and causing the whole box to shake violently. Another heavy thud followed, as if the creature was battering its prison in rage.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the merchant’s posture stiffen. He was starting to turn, something in his body language telling you he’d noticed something wasn’t right.
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
With no real other options other than angry snake in box, Zilrak did the only smart thing.  He sidled out of the way, slipping his prizes into his pouches, trying to move quickly enough to escape the merchant's checking eyes, while slowly enough to not get spotted along the way.  His escape route was ready, and if he was lucky, the disturbance that was about to happen would be enough.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Alas, the fun parts of his plan failed.  So... time to leave before his welcome gets overstayed.
 (1d20+16)[ 30 ]  hide
 (1d20+8)[ 13 ]  move silently
And, if he is lucky, and the distraction eventuates
 (1d20+12)[ 31 ]  sleight of hand(The wealthy nezumi)
 

 
 
  
Tyrann
Zilrak slips away into the dark, while the crate behind you shakes violently with the snake's furious pounding. You manage to stay hidden even though, in your haste, your feet weren't as quiet as you would have liked them to be; the constant thudding echoing through the streets thankfully drawing most eyes.

After about a half minute of clinging to the shadows, you've managed to put enough distance between yourself and the stall, blending into the crowd of the market before slipping deeper into the labyrinth of the Belt. Your nerves may have prickled—was the snake tracking you? It had clearly caught your scent, after all. But no one followed, and soon you passed the city gates with your new-found friends.

Things like this always blow over, don't they? Another week or two, and it’d all be forgotten. Right?

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

You get two vials. You have no idea whats in them, but they're magical. Both have a faint transmutation aura.
 
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout pulls a cloth bag containing 12 golden coins and pays for a stone and donkey to take with him into the desert, certainly wanting those saddle bags to hold water and food.... yum.

 "Thanks for the business," 

Giving time for everyone else to buy an undead donkey themselves, afterwards he Shepard's everyone towards the desert and their goal.
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 

Krug made a grim face as his stomach turned and gave a pained smile as he looked at the 'mule'. He tried his best to remain polite and respectful of necromancers.   "Least we know they won't get diseased and die on us."   He said with a awkward laugh.
Tyrann
"No, the disease of flesh is long since past them," the shorter necromancer quips to Krug, his voice dripping with amusement. Both of them exchange a glance and burst into a hollow, mirthless laughter, the sound echoing in the dim chamber.

"Thank you for your business," the taller one adds, still chuckling as he smooths down his bone-embroidered robes. His eyes gleam with something not quite warmth, but satisfaction all the same. "Do come again—if you survive, of course."

Their laughter follows you as you leave, fading into the dark recesses of the Necromancer’s Guild. The heavy door creaks shut behind you, and the faintest chill clings to the air, as if even the shadows here are reluctant to let you go.


---------------


The Sea of Ash stretches out before you like a vast, desolate ocean, an endless expanse of dark gray sand that seems to go on forever. The wind is constant, howling and relentless, carrying with it a bitter, acrid smell that gets under your skin. It sandblasts everything—your clothes, your face, your mouth—and for those of you with fur or scales, the coarse grit nestles in every crevice, itching and irritating with a maddening persistence. It’s not just sand, and it’s not just ash. It clings to you, weighing down your steps and testing your resolve with every breath.

Without the necklaces you wear, you’d feel its full effect—draining, weakening, pulling the very energy from your body. Even now, with the protective magic shielding you, it’s hard to shake the feeling that the desert itself is trying to sap your strength, as if the land hates the living. The necklaces keep you from crumbling under its force, but they can’t make it pleasant. You can bear it, yes, but the constant wind feels like a whispering reminder that you don’t belong here.

The skeletal mules trudge on through the sand, unaffected by the relentless wind and grit. Their hollow eye sockets stare blankly ahead as they carry your supplies, plodding along obediently through the ash-choked landscape. Ahead of you, two paths stretch out across the Sea of Ash, each one offering its own set of risks and rewards.

 The shorter route , straight west, would take you to the Drowned Temple in just three days. But the wind here is fiercer, and the air heavier with the presence of the undead. Stray zombies and restless spirits are said to roam this part of the desert, more aggressive at night, so rest would be hard to come by. Along this path there’s the Old Forward Post, a crumbling outpost of weathered stone, half-buried in the ash. Haunted, they say. Many who have taken shelter there have not left the same—if they left at all. People come out of that place babbling, drooling messes, and they never quite recover. Still, it’s the quicker option, if you think you can handle it.

Then there’s the  longer route , winding first eastward and then snaking back west through the Sea of Ash. It would add two more days to your journey, but the path is calmer, the undead less frequent, and the nights quieter. There are sheltered grottoes along the way, carved out of the dark sandstone, offering protection from the wind and occasional storms of negative energy. You’d find small, forgotten ruins too, places where you could rest without the constant threat of being ambushed by something already dead. It’s safer, but time isn’t on your side. The longer you take, the slimmer your chances of finding Kellen Aranthor alive—if he still is.
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Standing on the back of the skeletal mule, along with some of the water, and keeping a strangely close eye out for something that might be low to the ground, Zilrak takes a long moment of squinting down both paths, the light clearly bothering him, before he speaks, his rasping voice high pitched, and, unusually, coming from a location higher than a human waist.  " Long way better.  Go-go?  No care if big folk die.  Care if Zilrak die. "
 
 
  
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 
  "Krug votes for the long way.  For being alone in the wastes for so long, most of his companions dead. Rich city boy is probably dead or even worse off - undead. Wouldn't surprise me he has been dead all week and his body shuffles into town every day to tend to the fields at this point.  Krug prefer new-friend Zilrak be safe and not die-dead or die-undead. "     Krug explains.


Krug scratched persistently behind his left ear.   "Damn sand fleas!"   He moans.
DeTess
 "Unlesss anyone hass a way to ssafely resst on the sshorter route, I too agree we sshould take the ssafer, longer route."  Lady Red agreed with Krug and Zillrak. Once they got on the road she'd also show her new companions her full spider form, to make them aware of it before she needed it for a fight.
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

THe rat shivers as the undead heavy air washes over him, hair standing on edge in places where it jutted through torn strips of cloth. Nodding at the others he looks at the hard way and the longer way and nods to the left,  "We get good money for a head or sword. Money is good enough dead. No risk to us. Longer route will be better for us"  he agrees.
Keeping a hand on his weapon he'll also make sure to keep a wary distance away from the undead mules as he watches his new found travelling companions trying to gauge their strengths.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

general perception as he wanders along  (1d20+6)[ 11 ] 
 

 
 
  
Darius Vibrtrar
scrapsnouts whiskers wiggle and shake as they cross into the undead desert. But when they suddenly have a giant spider in the group his stance widens as if he might make a run for it. He calms himself, knowing that they must be one of the rest of them, to be on this sort of mission, and not some sort of ambush predator waiting to eat the rest of them while they sleep.

 "Lets... take the long route. Safety before risk when we get paid the same." 
Tyrann
You choose to take the longer path. Krug's steady guidance proves invaluable. With his sense for the land and the map, you manage to find paths that are sturdy, avoiding the treacherous, shifting dunes of ash that stretch out as far as the eye can see. The landscape is eerily quiet, save for the endless hiss of the wind. Occasionally, a low, distant moan echoes across the plains.

The first day passes without major incident. A few stray zombies stagger through the wasteland, aimless and uncoordinated. They\re easy enough to dispatch, falling to your blades and spells before they can pose any real threat. As night falls, you find a sandstone grotto tucked away in the cliffs, offering some shelter from the biting wind. The cold is intense, cutting through your blankets, but you manage to get some sleep despite the uncomfortable chill.

The next day, as you make your way deeper into the Sea of Ash, the horizon darkens. The sky becomes heavy and oppressive, and Krug points out the obvious signs of an oncoming storm. In the Sea of Ash, you all know what a storm means: it fuels the undead, making them stronger, more dangerous. You know you need to find shelter fast.

After some searching, you come across a half-buried bunker, its entrance just visible above the ash. It's made of dark, weathered stone, sturdy and imposing, even after all these years. You squeeze through the narrow entrance, feeling a sense of relief as the storm begins to rage outside. The wind howls, but inside the bunker, it's deathly silent.

The air is thick with dust, but the structure feels safe—solid, with only one visible entrance. As you set up your camp, something strange happens. A faint dark green light flickers on the far wall, and ancient glyphs, harsh and unfamiliar, begin to glow. The letters pulse gently, like they're alive, and those of you who can decipher magical script can see the message clearly:

"  Tza'kt welcomes you. Who are you, and what brings you here?  "

The glyphs seem to pulse in time with the wind outside, but the bunker itself remains calm.

The name  Tza'kt  means little to you at first. But for those of you with a grasp of Nezumi, aided by the magic that helps decipher the glyphs, a meaning slowly begins to take shape. It's not straightforward. The reason only those of you who speak Nezumi can grasp it lies in the unusual grammar, something completely absent in Common. In Nezumi, a subtle shift in inflection or pitch can transform a word from a noun to a verb. The art of writing these changes in the way as done here has probably been lost to time, but with the help of your magic, you can discern that the name is intended to be both a name and an action, depending on how you tilt your head to read it.

Once you make that connection, the meaning becomes clearer. "Silent Watcher," perhaps. Or "Watcher in the Dust." Something that suggests having been here, waiting, unnoticed and undisturbed.
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout tilts his head one way, then back the other,  reading and carefully decrypting the message.

 "Oh! Thank you for the welcome! We are traveling through the area and luckily found this respite from the storm! Watcher is it? What is it you watch over?" 

Scrapsnout sits down in front of the wall, carrying on this conversation,  suddenly ignoring all else around.
Tyrann
It takes about a minute for a reply to form fully, almost as if the glyphs were written our by hand, in super slow motion. "  Just travelling through? That is a shame. I thought you might be looking for the lost boy.  "

At this point some of you may have looked at the map the marshals gave you. This bunker is not on there.
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout pulls out a ration of  REAL  food and nibbles on his ration. The look of pure joy and bliss washes over him as he restrains himself from shoving the whole portion in his mouth. Between nibbles he reads and responds.

 "Lost boy? Do you have one of those? Who lost them? Did you find him? Whats his name, maybe we know him." 

He wiggles a little as a particular morsel hits his taste buds just right and another wave of joy comes over him.
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 

Krug opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. He then opens it again.   "These are strange lands."   he says finally and simply - leaving Scrapsnout  to converse with the... wall(?).   "Perhaps this bunker was exposed by the shifting sands and ash. Or maybe Krug led you astray.   He points vaguely at an empty spot on the map where he thinks they ought to be.
DeTess
Lady Red had approached Scrapsnout when he started conversing with the wall, but kept her peace, letting the large man lead the conversation while she slowly ate her meal.
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
After a few minutes of squinting into the bright light as the team advances deeper into the wastes, Zilrak could already feel his head starting to ache.  After the first hour, complete misery, and by the end of the first day, the only thing keeping him on his feet was his refusal to not endure.
But that night, he could do something about it, and spend the time to convert the ribcage of one of the mules into a traveling darkroom, taking advantage of the thinner fabric of his cloak, his bedroll, and the pink blanket to create a shelter from the sun that he could pop out of if needed, but wouldn't need to spend the whole day in misery.
The next day, the journey was almost tolerable.  Well, except for the storm, and the strange bunker, and the strange glowy lights that apparently meant something to the Nezumi?
But Zilrak knew better.  If someone was speaking, then someone could see and hear, so, quietly, he started to look around, keeping out of sight, and trying to find whatever means he could that enabled the strange voice to interact with them.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d20+16)[ 36 ]  Hide
 (1d20+8)[ 28 ]  Move Silently
 (1d20+10)[ 14 ]  Searching for a sensor, or a pipe, or a mirror, or... something.
 

 
 
  
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

Sniktch looked about sniffing the air cautiously and eyed the strange man with some apprehension.  "You live here? Live in waste?"  he asks cautiously not sure at all about this strange figure who had appeared from nowhere, but even more nervous about the worsening necromantic storms. Sniktch looked hard at the figure, the runes and strange glyphs etc... leaving him uneasy  "Have care my friends" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC 
 

 
 
  
Tyrann
""  Names are for the living. Come to the pool where the sky-humans found the turning. I shall show you.  " The glyps appear for a few minutes before disappearing. The wall stays blank after that.

As you delve further into the bunker, you notice three slender, glass-like tubes extending from the ceiling to the floor. They vary in thickness, the thinnest looking almost fragile. When a cantrip is cast near it, the spell is absorbed. The tube begins to glow with a soft hum, lighting up the dim space for about an hour before fading back into stillness. The spellthieves among you can steal the spell from the active tube. The other two tubes, notably thicker, remain inert and unresponsive. Despite your best efforts, all three tubes are impervious to damage. Beyond that, you find nothing more of particular interest and all pathways in the bunker are dead ends.

Despite your efforts to communicate with the wall, it offers no reply for the rest of the night. Outside, the storm continues to rage.

Come morning, the tempest has calmed. When you peer outside, you see two skeletons standing guard some 40 feet away. Their hollow eye sockets are locked firmly on your window to the outside world--the bunker's only exit. Unless you make an effort to be stealthy, they notice you and fixate on you, but they do not approach further. Their fingers seem unusually sharp, almost resembling claws.


 
 Spoiler: Heal DC 12 

That isn't the normal anatomy of a human or elven skeleton. The limbs are different, the spine is unusual and it ends in a short tail. The skull is distinct as well, resembling what you might expect if a human were crossed with a feline.
 

 
 Spoiler: Krug 

It's very subtle, but you think you might hear shuffling above the bunker exit (where you can't see).
 

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Roll initiative.
 
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 

Krug holds up a hand and points to the sky/roof and then taps his ear as a silent signal that something might be amiss.



 
 Spoiler: OOC 


At the start of the day Krug would have cast 'Endure Elements' on himself, and the two Nezumi (Scrapsnout and Sniktch). His untested theory being the desert  might  be harsher on those with fur.
 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Wandering around the bunker, Zilrak pokes at things, explores what he can, but ultimately, finds himself disappointed in the complete lack of anything to find.  Not an auspicious beginning to a journey, but only because the good things were already stolen.

In the morning, Zilrak was one of the first to look out into the bright desert, and one of the first to spot the strange big cat folk skeletons.
But Zilrak was no fool.  He was Zilrak!  He had a plan.
He slinks back from the entrance a bit, and whispers, just loudly enough for everyone to hear.  " Big catfolk skeleton things outside too.  Bad. "
Then, he seems to vanish into the shadows as he hides, and draws his kukris, waiting for the violence to start.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Looking about, then retreating slightly, but still staying near the entrance to the bunker.
Move:  Not much, really.
Standard:  Drawing weapons.
Free:  Hiding.
 (1d20+16)[ 29 ]  Hide
 (1d20+8)[ 26 ]  Move silently.

Yes, Zilrak has priorities.
 

 
 
  
DrK
[QUOTE=DrK;26090242]      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

THe rat had nodded his thanks to the strange mold man for the magical protection from the weather. At mention of the noise on the roof and the skeletons he glances at his sharp little daggers and shakes his head.
Glancing at the skeletons he tries to work out what they are. That done he scurries back, shrouding himself in shadow as he tries to hide



 
 Spoiler: OOC 


Know (religion) for Know Devotion  (1d2+6)[ 8 ] 
Stealth [roll]1d20+14[roll]
Enter: CHild of shadows stance
 

 
 
  
DeTess
Lady Red moved outside in spider form, moving carefully closer to the two skeletons, while keeping an eye on her surroundings, particularly the bunker roof because of Krug's warning.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Move action: head out if the bunker, to within 30 feet of the skeletons
Standard action: tbd

 this is not my full turn, just waiting on further description to decide my action. 
 
Tyrann
Atop the bunker you find four similar looking skeletons, bunched up and searching for a target to pounce.

A bit further two more undead creatures loom—resembling zombies yet bearing a certain intelligence in their movements, far less sluggish than their typical kind. This cat-like quality stands out in all of them, but especially so in the two that still possess remnants of flesh. One of them, in life, seems to have boasted a mane, now patchy and decayed with the ravages of undeath.

You have line of effect to all of them. Likewise, you are in theirs, and they are all very much focused on you right now.
DeTess
Lady Red waved one spidery leg, pointing it the cluster of skeletons on the roof, while letting out a half-chant, half-screech. The ground below those skeletons immediately got slippery, impeding their movement.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 

Standard action: cast grease on the roof skeletons, save DC is 15.
 
Tyrann
The ground atop the bunker becomes slick and treacherous, causing three of the four skeletal figures to tumble with a clatter. Only one remains upright, wobbling precariously.

The two skeletons you had spotted earlier surge forward, their long, jagged claws poised to strike at Lady Red. But she deftly dodges both of their attacks.

The three fallen skeletons tiger crawl out of the greasy mess, rising once more to their feet.

Meanwhile, one of the two fleshy undead shifts its position, eyeing the scene with calculating intent, moving to avoid the treacherous slick for a potential charge in the near future. Its gaze flickers between the skeletons and Lady Red, weighing its options with the shrewdness of a predator sizing up its prey.


Initiative and log:

Round 1:

 Lady Red: 24  [Moved to see top of bunker, cast Grease on 4 skeletons atop bunker]
 Zilrak: 23  [Drew weapons, hid]
Skeleton 2: 21 [Charged Lady red, now in melee with her]
Skeleton 4: 20 [On top of bunker. Was prone, spent 2 move actions to crawl out of grease and stand up]
Skeleton 5: 20 [On top of bunker. Was prone, spent 2 move actions to crawl out of grease and stand up]
Skeleton 1: 19 [Charged Lady Red, now in melee with her]
Skeleton 6: 17 [On top of bunker. Was prone, spent 2 move actions to crawl out of grease and stand up]
Smart looking zombie 2: 14 [Repositioned, could now charge while avoiding grease]
  Krug: 12  
Skeleton 3: 12 [On top of bunker, on grease]
 Scrapsnout: 10 
Smart looking zombie 1: 8
 Sniktch: 3 
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 


Krug instinctively ducks as he exits the bunker which does nothing.    "Krug Burn!"   he shouts. He plods out just behind Lady Red and turns back towards the bunker. He points at the clump of enemies and says again    "Burn!".   
 
 Spoiler 

 Move action:  move out of the bunker far enough to see what's on top, probably right behind Red (?)

 Standard action:  Use 'Fiery Burst' on the clump of skeletons on the 'roof', try to hit as many as possible


	Fire damage:  (2d6)[ 6 ]  DC 14 ref for half, 5' burst.
 
Tyrann
A fiery blaze erupts around three of the four skeletal figures atop the bunker. Two of those—the one that had been precariously balancing and one that had just clawed its way up—crumble into a smoldering pile of blackened bones. The third skeleton caught in the flames, though singed and damaged, still stands defiantly. Its hollow eye sockets shimmering with lingering incandescence, casting a red glow as they glare at Krug through the heat-distorted air.

  Lady Red: 24 [Moved to see top of bunker, cast Grease on 4 skeletons atop bunker]   
 Zilrak: 23 [Drew weapons, hid]  
Skeleton 2: 21 [Charged Lady red, now in melee with her]
Skeleton 4: 20 [On top of bunker. Was prone, spent 2 move actions to crawl out of grease and stand up. Damaged.]
 Skeleton 5: 20 [Dead - Krug, round 1] 
Skeleton 1: 19 [Charged Lady Red, now in melee with her]
Skeleton 6: 17 [On top of bunker. Was prone, spent 2 move actions to crawl out of grease and stand up]
Smart looking zombie 2: 14 [Repositioned, could now charge while avoiding grease]
  Krug: 12  
 Skeleton 3: 12 [Dead - Krug, round 1] 
   Scrapsnout: 10   
Smart looking zombie 1: 8
  Sniktch: 3  
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout follows Krug, and turns with him to see what is atop the bunker. Holding his hands outward as Wild Magic erupts between his palms as a chaotic orb of fire forms and launches itself towards the unharmed skeleton atop the bunker.

 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

Kelgores Fire Bolt [Chaos + Fire]

 (3d6)[ 9 ]  Fire Damage
DC 14 Reflex Save for Half Fire Damage
 
Tyrann
Flames fly from Scrapsnout's sock-covered hands to strike the skeleton squarely in the rib cage. Its spine cracks and as the chaos reverberates through its bones it falls completely apart.

Meanwhile, the fleshy undead that hadn't moved yet can recognize that this isn't going their way, and starts to run away.

Initiative:
  Lady Red: 24 [Moved to see top of bunker, cast Grease on 4 skeletons atop bunker]   
 Zilrak: 23 [Drew weapons, hid]  
Skeleton 2: 21 [Charged Lady red, now in melee with her]
Skeleton 4: 20 [On top of bunker. Was prone, spent 2 move actions to crawl out of grease and stand up. Damaged.]
 Skeleton 5: 20 [Dead - Krug, round 1] 
Skeleton 1: 19 [Charged Lady Red, now in melee with her]
 Skeleton 6: 17 [Dead - Scrapsnout, round 1] 
Smart looking zombie 2: 14 [Repositioned, could now charge while avoiding grease]
  Krug: 12  
 Skeleton 3: 12 [Dead - Krug, round 1] 
  Scrapsnout: 10  
Smart looking zombie 1: 8 [Started running away]
   Sniktch: 3   
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

Sniktch looks at the skeletons and the his own scrawny arms and sharp blades and shakes a head. Then eyeing up the skeletons attacking Lady Red he shakes a head...  "foolish foolish Rat"   admonihing himself before he moves in behind one of the skeletons to flank with Lady Red and lashing out with a savage spinning kick instead as he braces for being attacked back

 
 Spoiler: OOC 


MOve: 40ft to flank skeleton 2 with Lady Red
Stadard: Stone bones (if hit gain DR 5/ adamantine for 1 round)
 --&gt;  (1d20+10)[ 30 ]  (includes K.Dev +1 and flanking)
 --&gt;  (1d4+5)[ 9 ]  bludgeoning
 

 
 
  
Tyrann
Sniktch's spinning kick lands squarely on the skeleton's lower jaw, causing the skull to come clean off and soar through the air.  The other bones tumble in an almost comical scatter before the skull lands with a thud in the black sand, about fifteen feet away.

Round 2
  24 - Lady Red
23 - Zilrak  
21 - Skeleton 2 [Charged Lady red, now in melee with her]
20 - Skeleton 4 [Damaged, atop bunker]
 20 - Skeleton 5 [Dead]
19 - Skeleton 1 [Dead]
17 - Skeleton 6 [Dead] 
14 - Ghoul 1 [Fleeing]
 12 - Krug 
 12 - Skeleton 3 [Dead] 
 10 - Scrapsnout 
08 - Ghoul 2 [Fleeing]
 03 - Sniktch 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Quietly emerging from the darkness of the bunker, Zilrak quietly makes his way around the bulk of the spider-lady, to the rear of the skeleton menacing her, before he jumps up and slams his entire body into the back of the creature, hoping that his armored form would be enough to shatter the skeleton, as he had just witnessed one of the rat-men do.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

So... using unarmed strike for bludgeoning damage, as he is otherwise short on that.
 (1d20+10)[ 30 ]  Attack
 (1d2+2)[ 3 ]  Bludgeoning Damage (Including his +3 from his aura)
 

 
 
  
Tyrann
The skeleton wobbles and Zilrak did break a few of its ribs, but it's still moving.
DeTess
As the skeleton wobbles from Zilrak's attack, lady throws her own weight into a body slam against the creature, hoping to finish it off.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

unarmed strike against skeleton 2:  (1d20+9)[ 27 ] , damage: (1d3)[ 1 ] 
 
Tyrann
With a determined thud, Lady Red’s body slam sent the skeleton crashing to the ground, its brittle bones shattering like glass.

Aside from the fleeing ghouls, now only one skeleton remained--that blackened, charred figure, still defiantly perched atop the bunker. Its hollow gaze had never left Krug and now it charged forward, long nails gleaming as it swung with all the fury it could muster. But alas, its fury proved insufficient; the strike went wide, missing Krug entirely.

The ghoul with the mane, meanwhile, gets on all fours and really makes a run for it.

Round 2
 24 - Lady Red
23 - Zilrak 
 21 - Skeleton 2 [Dead] 
20 - Skeleton 4 [Charged Krug, now in melee with him]
 20 - Skeleton 5 [Dead]
19 - Skeleton 1 [Dead]
17 - Skeleton 6 [Dead] 
14 - Ghoul 1 [Fleeing]
  12 - Krug  
 12 - Skeleton 3 [Dead] 
  10 - Scrapsnout  
08 - Ghoul 2 [Fleeing]
 03 - Sniktch 
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 
  "Krug will defeat you and bury your bones...for later. Then you can rest."   Krug says with determination.

Krug swings his fist at the burnt skeleton.

 
 Spoiler 

 Unarmed Attack :    (1d20+5)[ 13 ] ]
 Damage :    (1d3+5)[ 6 ] 
 
Tyrann
Off balance from its charge, the creature practically runs into Krug's fist and its blackened jaw cracks into chalk and ash, after which the rest of it falls apart.

The skeletons are all destroyed. You could try to chase the ghouls down, but the battle is won for now.

[Queue victory music and pose, or chase?]

Round 2
 24 - Lady Red
23 - Zilrak 
 21 - Skeleton 2 [Dead]
20 - Skeleton 4 [Dead]
20 - Skeleton 5 [Dead]
19 - Skeleton 1 [Dead]
17 - Skeleton 6 [Dead] 
14 - Ghoul 1 [Fleeing]
 12 - Krug 
 12 - Skeleton 3 [Dead] 
  10 - Scrapsnout  
08 - Ghoul 2 [Fleeing]
 03 - Sniktch 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Seeing the remaining walking corpses fleeing before him, Zilrak can't resist the urge to call out.  " Better keep running, or Zilrak get mean! "

Then, after waiting a moment to make sure they keep on running, he looks over the broken skeletons for anything shiny or otherwise interesting. 
 
  
Tyrann
As you sift through the remains of the skeletons, you find the following:

- Six pieces of gleaming black onyx, their surface surprisingly cool to the touch. If you can stand the existential dread that comes with holding them, they're almost nice to hold in the desert heat.
- A single gem that resembles a cat's eye, with a faint glow of transmutation when viewed with Detect Magic.
- A single rusty ring, which also radiates faint magical aura, suggesting conjuration.

You press on through the endless desert. Though the rations you carry are real, the harsh sun and biting thirst make each step feel like a chore - you are hungry and tired. The ashen expanse of sand continues to - or at least continues to try to - sap your very spirit, while the acrid scent of death and dust hangs heavy in the air. Without the protective charms hanging around your necks, this trek would have been horrible.

Trudging along, you can't help but notice the undead vultures trailing lazily overhead, their hollow eyes watching your every move, while the occasional solitary stray skeleton meets its end at your hands. Days blur into one another until you finally reach the fourth night, weary but still going strong, ready to set up camp.

---

As you survey your map, three options for shelter present themselves:

 A Sandstone Plateau:  Sleeping under the open sky, this elevated spot allows you to spot potential threats from a distance. However, its open nature means danger could come from any direction, leaving you feeling exposed to the desert' s unforgiving whims. Also, it would be cold at night.

 The Cave:  - Just a short walk away - about 500 feet on sandstone, close enough that you can check without losing much time - a cave entrance is jotted down on your map. The tunnel plunges steeply into darkness, and after a mere twenty feet, it opens into a perilous pit that seems to descend endlessly. You drop a stone, or perhaps a bone, and after a suspenseful twelve seconds, you hear a faint splash echoing up from the depths. The map ominously marks this location as "the pit," accompanied by a curious drawing of a tentacled fish.

 An Old World Ruin : - A massive concave slab of rusty metal, its surface mottled and pitted by time. Scents of rusty metal mingling with desert dust and the echoes of footsteps as you walk underneath. On one side, the arch tapers into a series of long, tooth-like pillars that seem to dig deep into the earth, anchoring the structure firmly in place. The other side simply plunges into the ground. The lower parts of the sides are open, inviting the desert winds to dance through the space, but somehow the strange shape offers a sense of shelter. The map marks this as the Iron Temple. And at least now close to sunset, the air underneath is still comfortably warm from it being in the sun all day.
Ragnarok'n'Roll
 Krug 
  "While Krug likes sleeping out in the open under the stars, this doesn't seem to be the best place for it. If we're voting, I vote for the Metal temple thing. Better protection if there is a storm. Fish with tentacles seems pretty unnatural and quite ...icky. Krug not want to mess with that mojo. "   Krug offers with a shrug.
DeTess
 "That iron temple iss itss own brand of unnatural."  Lady Red, now in her hybrid form, regarded the Iron Temple with suspicion.  "It iss better than ssleeping in the open in this place, but not by much. I'd prefer the cave, at leasst it was formed by nature."  She added.  "But we sshould not split up, so if the rest of you prefer thiss edifice of  iron I will cope." 
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
With the magical shinies collected, the endless walk through the blighted desert continues, with only the sheltering darkness of his mobile hideout making it endurable.  Still, Zilrak had endured worse.

As the hours drew on, and it became time to decide where to go, Zilrak emerges from his shelter, blinking under the punishing light.  " Cave-cave.  Careful no roll down, water maybe bad.  Iron thing false shelter, and birds bad. "

 
 
  
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout sniffs the air looking in several directions. He moves his clothes around, trying to get all the sand and silt from underneath, its itchy particles getting  EVERYWHERE .

 "Cave please. Caves are nice and cool, we don't have to worry about heat. Also look. Fish on map, might be fresh fish!" 

He begins to scratch behind his ears.
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

Sniktch had watched the ghoul run, but made no effort to pursue as chasing an undead into the waste doesn't seem wise! With the the others he had looked around scanning the air for magical vibrations and seeing the gem and the ring.  "May Sniktch see?"  he asked the others before examining them both

As they push on for the rest of the day he scans the area looking for trouble and then with the others he looks at the options. As Scrapsnout speaks of the cave he nods,  "Yes, yes... very safe. Cave is safer."  Then heading towards the cave he will look about the cave with his darkvision.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 


Spell crat checks for gem and ring  (1d20+10)[ 19 ]  and  (1d20+10)[ 30 ] 
 

 
 
  
DeTess
 "I can keep you all ssafe from rolling into that pit."  Lady Red headed into the cave as well, and headed down into the steeper portion of the cave, just beyond where one could still comfortable sleep on the ground. There, she morphed into her full spider form, and used her silk to construct a simple but sturdy web. It was a relaxing exercise, letting her instincts guide her as she made the thick anchor-lines, then spun the web around it, leaving no gaps begin enough for her companions to accidentally roll through.
Archmage1
      
      Zilrak     
 Kobold Spellthief 
 AC: 21 HP: 26/26  
Listening to Lady Red's plan, Zilrak sets his own plan into motion as he starts trying to dig a nice little kobold hole in the side of the tunnel.

 
 
  
Darius Vibrtrar
Scrapsnout sets up a winter Blanket and a Bedroll inside the spiders webbing to make a very comfy looking bed.

 "Great job Red lady! Masterful bed!" 

Scrapsnout sniffs the air with his nose, attempting to see if there are any scents in the cave. [Scent Ability]
DrK
      
     Sniktch    
 Nezumi Beguiler 
 AC: 18 HP: 23/23  

Sniktch looked at the magical items then with a shrug handed the back to the strange Krug then nodding to the Lady Red he wraps himself in the ragged blanket he keeps in his sack and leans against the cave wall.  "You want Sniktch watching the door?"  he mutters watching the front of the cave as he offers to take the first watch, still relying the enduring elements to keep him warm.


 
 Spoiler: OOC 
 

 
 
  
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