xandayer

[xandayer]

D&D Campaign Primer #2

          The low rumble of footsteps that followed the night shift bell could be heard across the guild factories. Out of the doors of the Rodgers Manufactory, Men, Orcs, Ogres; even some Souls of Steel, caked in the dark soot that perforated any clothes and seemed to be impossible to get out. An exchange of personnel took place, and the worn and stained skin of the factory in a few minutes was replaces by clean and rejuvenated workers.

          As the last shift dissipated into the high streets and stacked buildings of Riften, a few of them stopped by the Frosted Anvil; a popular union bar for the labouring orc. The bar was tended by an older orc by the name of Oslo; his greying hair short on the sides with a thin braid and his face covered in a thick stubble save for a thick bushy moustache that was not dissimilar in look to his eyebrows. He had prepped some common ale for any of the smiths that would stop by when he had heard the bell ring. It was the same type of pavlovian response to the shift bell as the shift workers themselves.

          Like clockwork, a steady stream of smiths and other labourers made their way into the hefty wooden bar stools. In only a few moments, the spot was full and lively. Its patrons were mostly orcs, but it wasn’t uncommon to see the other races there, as long as they could follow the two rules; Hold your liquor and respect the orc that pours the drinks.

          The place always smelled of soot and sweat, but to its customers it was the same smell that everything else had. The mithril soot that came from the factories aboard the workers and out the massive smokestacks in plumes had a distinct smell, it was a scent one could grow accustomed to, a kind of homely fireplace ash smell. These days the grey soot coated every building in the town.

          Mithril was the second largest business within the city of Riften, behind the sale of discoveries from Sternhold and the other academies, and it is the only trade that was born in Riften. While academics could come from anywhere, Riften Mithril was unique. Its manufacturing process was a closely held secret, but because of it, its hue was almost a violet colour, as opposed to the sky blue of most mithrils.

          Oslo slung drinks and listened as the smiths recounted the days events. How the manager had demanded some extreme target for the shift or how the Rodger’s union politics were swinging. He was an old union boss himself, but he was quite long removed from that life.

          A few hours into the night, some gunshots were heard outside. It wasn’t a rarity, and most of the patrons knew better than to get involved. But a few moments after the shots had sounded, the bars front door swung open, and the room fell silent.

          Three figures entered. They were all clad in black and red suits, their faces shrouded by vibrantly coloured masquerade masks covering their noses and higher and their lower halves covered in black balaclavas. The gangster’s uniform of the Danton Marche. Two had the silhouettes of ogres, the other was shorter, but their silhouette did not make their race apparent. One of the ogres carried a body over their shoulder, which left a bloody trail behind them.

          The three figures approached the bar, none yet determined to break the silence.

          “How can I help you?” Oslo asked, eyeing the shorter of the three.

          “I’ve come to understand that this is a becoming quite the dangerous part of town.” The shorter masked figure said. He waved his finger, and the body was dropped, leaning against the wall.

          “It would be a shame if something were to happen to this.” They paused for a moment and looked around the bar. “Fine establishment”

          A few of the patrons looked to Oslo, but he remained still; his eyes fixed to the one that seemed in charge.

          “Luckily for you. Nastoro has been more interested in this part of town and has some great protection plans. You may call me Duke.” They bowed then looked down to the body which sat in a puddle of its own blood. “Wouldn’t want any of your patrons to end up like this one.”

          One of the orcs at the bar took to his feet and approached the three.

          “You don’t expect us to take this do you?” He was interrupted by one of the two masked muscle grabbing him by the neck and slamming him to the ground.

          The shorter walked over to him and drew dark steel dagger from inside his coat. He crouched over him while the muscle held him down with a foot on his chest.

          “You should know better than that.” He dragged the blade across the orc’s cheek. “The adults are talking.”

          “How much?” Oslo asked.

          Duke stood back up, but the muscle kept the orc on the ground. He wiped the blood from it with a handkerchief.

          “For this month one platinum and fifteen dragons.” Duke said.

          Oslo nodded, and ducked under the bar, rifling through some strong boxes. He placed the money on the bar, to which Duke meticulously placed in a pouch. He turned around and snapped his fingers. The muscle let the orc go.

          “You’re lucky the old man is smart.” Duke said to the orc as he stood.

          The three of them left, and the bar slowly came back to life.

          Oslo sighed. He recognized the look of them, but had thought the bar was close enough to the rifts to be clear of the thugs. Nastoro Danton’s Marche was moving dangerously close to the centre of town, and everyone could see it now.

[xandayer]

D&D Campaign Primer #1

The day market in the town square was bustling. Artisanal goods sat in the open beneath the vibrantly coloured tent covering; fresh fruits and vegetables, polished blades that gleamed in the sunlight, and fine furs to name a few. Abram, though, was not interested in the goods the market had to sell, at the behest of the market criers that attempted to beckon his attention.

His head was sunk into his neck as he walked, and his hands clammily grasped a tied scroll of parchments of various crème and white hues. There were gaps in the scroll’s side, where wax seals were stuck between the layers. His gait was staggered by the wait of the pack slunk over his shoulders. It was most of what he owned at this point.

As he approached the middle of the market, the gate came into view. It was this massive arch made from a glimmering black crystal. The closer he got to it, the more opulent the merchants in the rows beside him. And the loud criers that had adorned the outskirts of the market began to fade. Around the arch there was a perimeter of stone walls and almost twenty soldiers. The guards controlled the traffic from this gate to Riften. The only one on this world knows.

The soldiers looked alien, towering a head and shoulders over most anyone in the town. Their skin was a leafy green and had tusks instead of the canine teeth that stuck out of their helms. Goggles covered their eyes leaving only their noses and stubbled lower half of their faces visible. Their armour consisted of layers of plate mail of a blue hued metal that was quite matte. Some wielded polearms and others wielded these hefty firearms with bayonets of the same hue as the armour.

Abram approached the only opening in the perimeter wall where five soldiers stood checking the papers of a few travellers. As he waited for an opening, his breathing grew uneven. His grip of the scroll shook. It hadn’t dawned on him that this was it.

Only a few months earlier he had been an aspiring apprentice engineer in the largest town on the continent. But over the past few weeks, a benefactor from Sternhold Academy within the magical gates of Riften had taken an interest in a mechanism that had found its way to him through the academic channels provided to the one of, if not, the largest engineering academies. After a short correspondence, the benefactor formally invited Abram to the academy, and with it, gave him enough paperwork to kill a lay person.

One of the travellers was arguing with a soldier about the expiration of some document, and part through some insult from the traveller, the soldier shoved the man to the ground. Shaken, the man got up, patted himself off, and scurried away. Abram approached the now unoccupied soldier.

“Transit Papers.” The soldier demanded; the words hissing through his tusked mouth.

Abram pulled the outer most paper from the scroll, which by now was slightly damp from his clammy grip and presented it to him. The soldier looked down and tried to read it, before taking it from his hand. He brought the document close to his face and scanned the document, running his gloved finger along the document’s grey wax seal.

“Go.” The soldier grunted and held out the document.

Abram reached up to grab the paper from the giant and walked through where a group stood before the gate. They were of many looks, but most of them were adorned by marks of wealth, fine furs, glittering jewels, and the like. Abram himself wore comparatively meagre. He wore a white shirt beneath his grey apprentice coveralls and a lighter, brown coat on top of that.

There they all stood for some time, before the soldiers rang a bell, noting the last call where a few more stragglers clutching their newly purchased goods in their arms crossed through the gate.

For a moment, the air around them became cold enough to see ones breath. Then from the sides of the black crystal of the gate, magical energy arced and beamed between the structure. Each arc caused a teal glow to extend across the arch. When the energy finally extended from one side of the arch to the other, the teal glow disappeared, and in its place a new scene was there. Where before you could see through the arch, the gate now showed a massive hall. They were ushered by the soldiers through the gate quickly, in so, the gate was only open for a few moments.

Abram turned around for a moment before it closed and got the last glimpse of his old home that he would ever experience. He turned to face his new home, Riften, the city where worlds meet.