If you want to be a reserve, either PM me or express interest in the 'Interest thread' here:
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/540.322858-Dungeons-Dragons-4th-Edition-Keep-on-the-Shadowfell-interest-thread-ACCEPTING-RESERVES
Prologue:
The Blood Lord sat on his throne of bones and blood-oozing skulls, engulfed in darkness and the putrid stench of death and misery. Cries of pain and anguish played in the background of Orcus? residence of Undeath. Nothing of this reached the dark lord. His blood-hazed eyes were lost into the distance, his mind stretching out to listen to the calls and prayers of his dark clergy and followers. Like buzzing flies, their requests and calls for favours left no impression on the Demon Price of Undeath ? his schemes of power were on a level incomprehensible to his mortal followers. But suddenly his eye twitched, a prayer ? no not a prayer - a whispered word that brought back memories of lost causes and unpaid debts. Orcus focused his divine attention towards the source, spanning his godlike awareness cross planes and dimensions. "...Master of Undeath, Tear in the shroud of Death, listen to the words of your humble servant, a maggot in your godlike corpse. I have found out where the followers of Bahamut have hidden the Rod of Ruin! The paladin of Bahamut I defiled and brought back in your name knows of its hiding place, great Master." The Rod of Ruin ? Found! The Blood Lord clenched his fist around the Wand of Orcus, blood dripping between his fingers. This opened up new possibilities, the chessboard had suddenly shifted, and things were tilting in his favour again. As Lord of the Undead, Orcus had the everlasting patience of the dead, a trait seldom seen among his demonic cohorts and enemies. But Orcus knew that if he waited long enough in the darkness, secrets held in life would resurface in the afterlife. It was just a matter of time, and that time was now. With the Rod of Ruin resurfacing he could send his pawns to collect it and complete the task once started but never finished ? turning the living world into a realm of undeath and eternal darkness. His divine mind immediately identified the hundreds of actions needed for setting the plan in motion, but first ? he poured a fraction of his essence into the world of the living. His aspect materialized in the crypt of his maggot, pulling darkness and the chill of the grave with it. The priest screamed in terror as his eyes started to bleed at the sight of his true Lord. There were still questions that needed answers and a debt of a soul to be paid?
The Adventure Begins...
In the northern most areas of the Snakewood, several weeks walk from the City of Athkatla and only a few days travel from the fissure known as Land?s Mouth, four adventurers are headed towards the town of Winterhaven. Asked by a young priestess of the Pelor to investigate strange goings on in the area, the inexperienced heroes have little idea what lies in wait for them deep within the Werewood to the west.
Furgin Cleawater:
Looking up through the woodland canopy Furgin Clearwater can see the sun positioned high above him in the sky, telling him it is midday. This means he has made good progress, and that he will make it to Winterhaven before night fall. The guardsmen of Mardain?s Pass told him to take the road, as it would be quicker. But Furgin has always preferred the protection offered by the woodlands of Faerun to the open road. After all, if the bandits or goblin raiding parties so common in the Snakewood were to set up ambush for unsuspecting merchants or adventurers they would do it upon the many roads and causeways throughout the wood, not the groves or dense brush.
Kriv Balasar:
Kriv had his eyes peeled upon the road ahead of him. He hoped to catch up with this Halfling woodsman Marla had mentioned. If the situation was as bad as the Pelor priests thought then a group of adventurers would fare much better than individuals wondering into potential danger.
Keeping his eyes on the woodland as he rode, Kriv had slowed down as to avoid missing the Halfling, incase her were making his way concealed along the sides of the road. The last thing he wanted was to arrive at Winterhaven, never to have seen the Halfling due to him falling into some trap laid out by the bandits that frequented the King's Road.
Gradually, a toppled cart came into view up the road from Kriv. Riding up cautiously, Kriv could easily see signs of foul play, the merchants cart was stuck in a ditch on the side of the road, the wheels busted, horses nowhere to be seen. Kriv dismounted from his Crodlu steed, patting it gently on the side of its neck to assure it that he would return shortly. Then Kriv spots the former owner of the cart, a middle aged human male, leant against the side of the cart facing away from the road, a huge arrow protruding from his chest. Drawing his khopesh, the Dragonborn knight approaches the cart to inspect it more closely.
Suddenly, the injured rider Kriv had assumed dead, gasps for air as he comes to. The man squirms, tears stream down his cheeks, his face a picture of anguish.
"Please..." the man gasps, bringing his blood stained hands up to grip the grand arrow sticking into his chest. He appears pinned to the side of the cart. His lips are chapped and dry, his eyes glazed over, though he looks directly at Kriv, his eyes see through him almost. This man is dying.
Baldur Herget:
Without shade, the sun beats down upon Baldur?s helm unrelentingly. He can feel the sweat dribbling down his face and soaking into his beard. The road ahead of him appears long and the journey with weather like this arduous. Marla had mentioned other adventurers, a Dragonborn and a Halfling that had set out ahead of him. How were they coping with this ridiculous heat, he wondered, as he wiped a thin layer of sweat from the back of his neck.
Baldur?s attention had only slipped for a moment, but he was startled when a man spoke tom him from across the road to his left.
?Can you spare some Gold sir?? asked a well spoken Beggar, sat among the tall grass at the side of the road. The beggar?s hair was matted with mud and twigs, his beard a lot cleaner than the rest of his dirty face. His toes peeked through the tips of his old and worn boots. He sat with his arms and legs crossed, his demeanour unthreatening.
He smiles a toothless grin, ?Where ya headed sir? To Winterhaven??
He looks up expectentantly towards Baldur, awaiting a reply.
Boindal Felhammer:
Boindal Felhammer stands before the Gnome stable mater of Mardain?s Pass, the small settlement at the foot of Thunderspire Mountain, a day or so walk East from Winterhaven. After his meeting with Marla at the temple an hour ago, Boindal is getting ready to set out towards Winterhaven.
Dwarves are not renowned for their speed, and Boindal knows that if he wants to catch up with the other adventurers he is going to need a horse. This is what has brought him to the Stables on the outskirts of Mardain?s Pass.
?Effetain ?Steed Monger? Jones at your service sir!? the stable master bellows, ?If it be horses you after, then you have come to the right place Mr Dwarf.? The Gnome grins, his two golden teeth catching the sun.
?What can Effetain do you for today then??
http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/540.322858-Dungeons-Dragons-4th-Edition-Keep-on-the-Shadowfell-interest-thread-ACCEPTING-RESERVES
Though the vast majority of the writing in this RP will be my own, I feel like I need to point out that the basic plot line and structure is taken from the published adventure Keep on the Shadowfell, while ideas (and the prologue) are being taken from The ?Orcus Conversion? by that can easily be found on the internet. I ask my players not to check out the conversion right now, as it may well spoiler things for you.
Prologue:
The Blood Lord sat on his throne of bones and blood-oozing skulls, engulfed in darkness and the putrid stench of death and misery. Cries of pain and anguish played in the background of Orcus? residence of Undeath. Nothing of this reached the dark lord. His blood-hazed eyes were lost into the distance, his mind stretching out to listen to the calls and prayers of his dark clergy and followers. Like buzzing flies, their requests and calls for favours left no impression on the Demon Price of Undeath ? his schemes of power were on a level incomprehensible to his mortal followers. But suddenly his eye twitched, a prayer ? no not a prayer - a whispered word that brought back memories of lost causes and unpaid debts. Orcus focused his divine attention towards the source, spanning his godlike awareness cross planes and dimensions. "...Master of Undeath, Tear in the shroud of Death, listen to the words of your humble servant, a maggot in your godlike corpse. I have found out where the followers of Bahamut have hidden the Rod of Ruin! The paladin of Bahamut I defiled and brought back in your name knows of its hiding place, great Master." The Rod of Ruin ? Found! The Blood Lord clenched his fist around the Wand of Orcus, blood dripping between his fingers. This opened up new possibilities, the chessboard had suddenly shifted, and things were tilting in his favour again. As Lord of the Undead, Orcus had the everlasting patience of the dead, a trait seldom seen among his demonic cohorts and enemies. But Orcus knew that if he waited long enough in the darkness, secrets held in life would resurface in the afterlife. It was just a matter of time, and that time was now. With the Rod of Ruin resurfacing he could send his pawns to collect it and complete the task once started but never finished ? turning the living world into a realm of undeath and eternal darkness. His divine mind immediately identified the hundreds of actions needed for setting the plan in motion, but first ? he poured a fraction of his essence into the world of the living. His aspect materialized in the crypt of his maggot, pulling darkness and the chill of the grave with it. The priest screamed in terror as his eyes started to bleed at the sight of his true Lord. There were still questions that needed answers and a debt of a soul to be paid?
The Adventure Begins...
In the northern most areas of the Snakewood, several weeks walk from the City of Athkatla and only a few days travel from the fissure known as Land?s Mouth, four adventurers are headed towards the town of Winterhaven. Asked by a young priestess of the Pelor to investigate strange goings on in the area, the inexperienced heroes have little idea what lies in wait for them deep within the Werewood to the west.
Furgin Cleawater:
Looking up through the woodland canopy Furgin Clearwater can see the sun positioned high above him in the sky, telling him it is midday. This means he has made good progress, and that he will make it to Winterhaven before night fall. The guardsmen of Mardain?s Pass told him to take the road, as it would be quicker. But Furgin has always preferred the protection offered by the woodlands of Faerun to the open road. After all, if the bandits or goblin raiding parties so common in the Snakewood were to set up ambush for unsuspecting merchants or adventurers they would do it upon the many roads and causeways throughout the wood, not the groves or dense brush.
Here is a chance to get some role play and personality out before anything dramatic happens, have fun with it.
Kriv Balasar:
Kriv had his eyes peeled upon the road ahead of him. He hoped to catch up with this Halfling woodsman Marla had mentioned. If the situation was as bad as the Pelor priests thought then a group of adventurers would fare much better than individuals wondering into potential danger.
Keeping his eyes on the woodland as he rode, Kriv had slowed down as to avoid missing the Halfling, incase her were making his way concealed along the sides of the road. The last thing he wanted was to arrive at Winterhaven, never to have seen the Halfling due to him falling into some trap laid out by the bandits that frequented the King's Road.
Gradually, a toppled cart came into view up the road from Kriv. Riding up cautiously, Kriv could easily see signs of foul play, the merchants cart was stuck in a ditch on the side of the road, the wheels busted, horses nowhere to be seen. Kriv dismounted from his Crodlu steed, patting it gently on the side of its neck to assure it that he would return shortly. Then Kriv spots the former owner of the cart, a middle aged human male, leant against the side of the cart facing away from the road, a huge arrow protruding from his chest. Drawing his khopesh, the Dragonborn knight approaches the cart to inspect it more closely.
Suddenly, the injured rider Kriv had assumed dead, gasps for air as he comes to. The man squirms, tears stream down his cheeks, his face a picture of anguish.
"Please..." the man gasps, bringing his blood stained hands up to grip the grand arrow sticking into his chest. He appears pinned to the side of the cart. His lips are chapped and dry, his eyes glazed over, though he looks directly at Kriv, his eyes see through him almost. This man is dying.
So Red_Fog, what does Kriv do? How does he react? What does he think? Don?t forget, as well as functional tests of your characters stats, these events are opportunities to flesh out your character and help to tell a story.
Baldur Herget:
Without shade, the sun beats down upon Baldur?s helm unrelentingly. He can feel the sweat dribbling down his face and soaking into his beard. The road ahead of him appears long and the journey with weather like this arduous. Marla had mentioned other adventurers, a Dragonborn and a Halfling that had set out ahead of him. How were they coping with this ridiculous heat, he wondered, as he wiped a thin layer of sweat from the back of his neck.
Baldur?s attention had only slipped for a moment, but he was startled when a man spoke tom him from across the road to his left.
?Can you spare some Gold sir?? asked a well spoken Beggar, sat among the tall grass at the side of the road. The beggar?s hair was matted with mud and twigs, his beard a lot cleaner than the rest of his dirty face. His toes peeked through the tips of his old and worn boots. He sat with his arms and legs crossed, his demeanour unthreatening.
He smiles a toothless grin, ?Where ya headed sir? To Winterhaven??
He looks up expectentantly towards Baldur, awaiting a reply.
Boindal Felhammer:
Boindal Felhammer stands before the Gnome stable mater of Mardain?s Pass, the small settlement at the foot of Thunderspire Mountain, a day or so walk East from Winterhaven. After his meeting with Marla at the temple an hour ago, Boindal is getting ready to set out towards Winterhaven.
Dwarves are not renowned for their speed, and Boindal knows that if he wants to catch up with the other adventurers he is going to need a horse. This is what has brought him to the Stables on the outskirts of Mardain?s Pass.
?Effetain ?Steed Monger? Jones at your service sir!? the stable master bellows, ?If it be horses you after, then you have come to the right place Mr Dwarf.? The Gnome grins, his two golden teeth catching the sun.
?What can Effetain do you for today then??
Mike, your opening isn?t all that exciting, but I need to kill time till I actually have your stats. The character builder file Sprigg sent me for your character doesn?t work with my outdated program, and the PDF he sent was for your Monday night Bezerker. Blame him, not me. : P
