LogFAQs > #985839447

I understand the directive perfectly. We will forge a narrative that is challenging, memorable, and respects the agency and intelligence of the players. Failure will not be a dead end, but a catalyst. Success will be earned in blood, wit, and sheer desperation. The 11 characters you have provided will be the movers and shakers of this world, the formidable forces that your party will ally with, flee from, or challenge. Their stories are now intertwined with yours.

Let us begin.

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The first thing you feel is the cold. Not the crisp chill of a winter morning, but a deep, gnawing cold that has sunk into your bones, a damp and miserable ache that seems to radiate from the iron itself. The second is the jarring, rhythmic thump-and-jostle of iron-shod wheels on a packed-earth road, a brutal massage that resonates up your spine with every rut and stone.

You are awake. All four of you.

The world comes into focus through a haze of confusion and headache. You are in a cage. Thick, rusted iron bars form a crude box, barely large enough for the four of you to sit or crouch in the damp, grimy straw that covers the floor. The cloying stench of rust, old sweat, and something vaguely like animal musk hangs heavy in the air, mingled with the sharp, unnerving tang of ozone, as if a storm is brewing just under your skin. Cold iron manacles, heavy and unforgiving, bind your wrists.

A quick, frantic mental inventory confirms the worst: your weapons, your armor, your packs, your holy symbols and arcane focuseseverything is gone. You are left with nothing but the threadbare common clothes on your backs and the iron on your wrists.

Through the bars, the world is a smear of bleak, depressing gray. You are on a wagon, part of a small, grim caravan of two identical caged carts, trundling across a windswept moor under a bruised purple sky. Gnarled, skeletal trees claw at the horizon, and the wind whips across the desolate landscape with a mournful howl. In the distance, jagged peaks tear at the low-hanging clouds.

You are not alone in your misery. The cage is cramped, forcing you into uncomfortable proximity with three strangers.

A hulking young human, built like a battering ram with the lost, confused eyes of a boy who has been pulled from a world he understood into one he doesn't. He clutches his hands together, the muscles in his forearms tense.

A small, wiry kobold, his charcoal-colored scales bristling with paranoid energy. His amber eyes dart everywhere, from the lock on the cage door to the sky above, his long tail twitching restlessly in the straw. One of his teeth juts out over his lip, giving him a permanent snarl.

A tall, lean rabbit-man, a Harengon, whose long ears twitch with every sound. He seems eerily calm, though his nose is constantly testing the air. There's a strange, distant look in his eyes, as if he's listening to a conversation no one else can hear.

And a warforged, a being of metal and wood, sitting with an unnerving stillness. While the others betray their discomfort, it remains impassive, its glowing optical sensors taking in every detail with a silent, analytical patience.

Your captors are visible. At the front of your cart, a man in ill-fitting chain mail holds the reins. He has a cruel, brutish face and a smug grin. Riding alongside the cart is a woman clad in immaculate steel plate armor, her face obscured by a closed-visored helmet. She carries a shield bearing the stark emblem of a single, black raven. She rides with a ramrod-straight posture, a silent, implacable sentinel.

Up ahead, leading the two-cart caravan, is a man who exudes authority. He's powerfully built, his glaive resting easily on his shoulder. You can hear his voice, a condescending bark, as he addresses the silent, armored woman.

"See to it they remain quiet, Hildir," the man, Darius Rourke, sneers without looking back. "I don't want to hear a peep out of them until we reach the spire."

The woman, Raven Hildir, simply nods, a clipped, professional gesture. "Sir," is her only reply, her voice flat and devoid of emotion from behind her helm.

A low grumble of thunder rolls across the moor. It is not a promise of rain, but a threat. You are weak, unarmed, and being transported by dangerous, organized soldiers to an unknown destination called "the spire" for an unknown purpose.

This is your reality.

What do you do?

For Pass Quarterman:
A: Grip the bars of the cage and test their strength, looking for any sign of weakness or rust. (Make an Athletics check)
B: Yell out to the guards, demanding to know where you are and what's going on. Let your voice carry the weight of your frustration. (Make an Intimidation check)
C: Watch the guards intently. How do they move? How do they hold their weapons? Youre used to sizing up an opposing team; this is no different. (Make a Perception check)
D: Look at the others in the cage. "Anyone got a clue what the play is?" you ask, trying to size up your new, unwilling teammates.
E: Anything else.

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For Zix:
A: Hiss quietly, your eyes narrowed. You focus on the guards, trying to read their intent. Are they competent? Cruel? Stupid? A predator must know its prey. (Make an Insight check)
B: Slink to the cage door and examine the lock with a practiced eye. Its not your thieves tools, but you know mechanisms. How complex is it? (Make an Investigation check)
C: Your senses are sharp. You scan the bleak landscape. Are there any hiding places? Any creatures stirring in the distance? Any features of the land that could offer an advantage? (Make a Survival check)
D: Bare your snaggletooth at the others. "Who are you? Pathetic meat-sacks got Zix captured. This is your fault. Speak!" (Make an Intimidation check)
E: Anything else.

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For Ark:
A: Close your eyes for a moment, focusing inward. "Clover? Any bright ideas? Stealing memories is one thing, but stealing my crossbow is just rude." You confer with your patron.
B: Catch the eye of the silent, armored woman, Raven. You offer a disarming, small smile. "That's a lovely shield. Does the bird have a name? I find it's always good to be on a first-name basis with one's captors." (Make a Persuasion check)
C: You let your arcane senses drift, trying to feel the flow of magic in this place. Is there anything unusual about the cage, the guards, or this unnerving landscape? (Make an Arcana check)
D: Quietly address the others. "Alright. New plan. First, we get out of the cage. Then, we have a very strongly worded discussion with management. Any objections?" You try to start coordinating.
E: Anything else.

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For CU-P5:
A: Observe the guards with calm, analytical focus. You track their patrol paths, their alertness, their interactions. You gather data on their behavior. (Make an Insight check)
B: You are a machine of precise design. You meticulously examine the construction of your manacles and the welds of the cage bars, looking for design flaws or points of structural weakness. (Make an Investigation check)
C: Address the female guard, your voice a calm, modulated tone without inflection. "Query: What is the designation of this 'spire'? What is the purpose of our containment?"
D: Silently assess your fellow prisoners. You note their species, their physical condition, their emotional state. They are variables in an unfolding equation. You must understand them.
E: Anything else.

Three votes locks in a choice, though if 24 hours have passed and I am able to update, I will go with whatever is ahead. If there is a tie, I will vote myself to keep up the pace.