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[Jeeves]

The august* sun beats down on the streets of Loc-sorAna**, daring anyone to venture forth during the midday hours. The few inhabitants of the great Capital that emerge from their homes at this hour dart quickly between slivers of shade, intent on concluding their business as soon as possible. Even the dusty cobblestone streets and short mud-and-rock buildings seem to sweat and groan in the shimmering heat.

'Everything is brown in Loc-sorAna,' you note bitterly for the hundredth time as you follow a passer-by with your eyes. The summer dust enters the local's homes and turns everyone's clothes a reddish-brown hue; visitors to this city can only last a week before suffering a similar fate. The endless sun bleaches the very stone and earth, and even hardy plants shrivel and die in the august heat, becoming one more victim of the brownness of the city. 'What luck. The place looked fine on the map.' But then again, no map was ever perfect.

Your sheltering square of shade narrows imperceptibly as the sun continues its climb toward its zenith. Judging your rest stop to be nearing its end, you unhook your warm waterskin from your belt and take a slow drink. One advantage of being in a capital was the near-limitless water available from countless fountains throughout the city. Even desert capitals followed this wonderful tradition. With a last wistful look at your patch of shade, you step on to the street and head toward the Loc-sorAna shipyards.

* * *

The desert capital is a strangely-placed city. The city lays along a peninsula formed from an eroded mountain range that separates the open ocean on the west bank from a great inland sea on the east bank called Loc-katha***. Impossibly narrow in places, the peninsula is never wider than two miles across. As such, the massive capital extends along fifty miles of the peninsula, starting at a narrow cliff to the south called the First Gate and ending at the Imperial Estates on the north tip. The hardy and intrepid peoples inhabiting the city have carved and shaped the very peninsula to their whims over several thousand years. Sprawling palaces lie safe and protected atop towering mesas while poor workers live precariously in lower lands that become dangerous during the winter storms.

According to popular lore spouted off to any visitor willing to listen, Loc-sorAna and its sister city, Loc-torAna****, had once been a single sprawling metropolis. Such a claim is patently false, as each city easily spans nearly one hundred square miles; to think that there once existed a single city encompassing both is ludicrous. No one, however, can deny the fact that both cities had once been very different. Some people, notably drunken sailors and old men, claim that the peninsula itself was once wider, and that Loc-sorAna had been partially submerged into the dark waters of Loc-katha by vengeful gods. When questioned further, those men will make the Mark***** on themselves and whisper, "Red demons, they are; Gods of a godless world. They sleep now in Tempest Isles, but they'll waken...Then they'll finish what they started so long ago."

* * *

You would never remember such foolish stories if it weren't for the odd package lying in your hands. The package was rectangular and wrapped in folded vellum. A thin string keeps the package from unfolding, and makes the whole thing look like those gifts that you have seen nobles carry into parties. Most notably, the words 'Tempest Isles' is written on the vellum in flowing cursive. The package was heavy for its size, although you cannot tell its contents without opening it.

"Don't open it," you remember the attendant’s instructions at the Post Office, when you had gone to inquire about work******. "Just take it safely to Karen at the Zaandam Shipyard, and you'll get paid. If you get there quickly enough, you might get another job, too." The attendant had been particularly cryptic about that last part. But you need more money, and any job is better than starvation. So you had hurried through miles of burning cobblestone in order to make it to the shipyards "quickly enough," and now are standing outside a two-story wooden building bordering the shores of Loc-katha.

Giving the odd package one last exploratory shake, you open the door and step into the welcoming coolness of the Zaandam Shipyard offices. As your eyes adjust to the new dimness, however, you notice a strange thing: several other people are also in the room carrying packages of their own, all labeled 'Tempest Isles'.

[OOC: All the characters are here to deliver a package. Please introduce your character to the rest of the room. Anyone that may be in charge at the office has not appeared yet.]

* This campaign uses the conventional 12-month calendar.
** "South Waters of New Hope" in the local tongue.
*** "Waters of the Dead" in the local tongue.
**** "North Waters of New Hope" in the local tongue.
***** The Mark is a ritual where the left hand touches the right earlobe and then makes a circle on the chest. The Mark is a prayer to the desert god Oberen for protection and good luck.
****** Loc-sorAna is such a big city that people searching for work, as well as employers searching for good workers, created a need for an organizing guild. The Post guild is composed of a series of offices spread throughout the city. Their only purpose is to post job bulletins for employers everywhere. In order for the Post Offices to be useful, its guild members use secret and sophisticated methods to make sure that every office has a current listing of every available job offer in the city (no easy task). Since a large majority of the tasks required in the city involve transportation of packages and missives, the Post Offices have recently begun to store these items, passing them off to those who need a quick job for petty cash.
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Tempest Isles Campaign: In-Character. Out-of-Character.

[walkaer]

text description to come. soon.

[Verona]

Cora frowned to herself. She had obviously not been "quick enough" compared to the big-persons. 'Next time,' she thought to herself, 'I'll take the rooftops no matter how hot it is!' She looked around again, realized that no one seemed to be in charge, and her frown lessened- perhaps she was not too late!

Sidling over to the big-person farthest in the room, she smiled and said 'Hello there! My name is Cora Thornleaf. It looks as though we've been given the same task. Is there not anyone here to take these packages from us?'

[OOC: Anyone can feel free to be that "big-person"...]

[NPC_Fighter]

"Hail," a voice says to no one in particular. The speaker is one of the figures near the entrance door, a young human woman that also carries a package. "I am called Wind by my people." Wind's light skin and fair hair, as well as her accent, belies that she is not native to the region. She is dressed in worn clothes that, before they became dust-covered, may have been light blue. A spiked chain is wrapped around her shoulders, making slight metallic sounds as she talks.

"I too, would like to meet the one who needs so many identical packages."

[walkaer]

Ward put his new acquaintance down and sighed. People.This was going to take some getting used to. Or not.

He turned his head slightly towards the women who seemed to be addressing him. Or whom he assumed to be women. His ears must have been playing tricks on him, for one was clearly a child.

What in Obad's name..?

That was no child. "Um. I seemed to be first one here, " he mumbled while gawking at the one who called herself Thornleaf. He gave himself a shake. This is why he avoided cities. So much strangeness. The women were still looking at him expectantly.

He arched an eyebrow at his furry playmate. They want to know your name.

Ah. Leave it to a rat to know more about these People than me. Then again, he does spend more time among them... "My 'NAME' is Ward. Shortspear." he bit the last word off with a grimace as both girls covered their smirks almost fast enough. [OOC: DAMN that -1 charisma score!] He just shook his head.

That blighted Post Office attendant never mentioned People. But then again, he wasn't really all that forthcoming with ANY details. He turned his back to the door and left the two Talkers to bother someone else.

[Enforcer]

Kern is leaning against the room's far corner, watching everyone--particularly their weapons and armor. He's a tall man, and athletic-looking. He has weathered skin although you can't see much of his face due to shadows in the corner. You can tell he's very well-armed, however... and are those manacles hanging from his belt?

I've got more weapons than they do, that's always good, he thinks to himself as he does a mental inventory, sword, hammer, sap, my bow, a full quiver... oh, and that strange-looking knife that I picked up at the Bazaar after my old one broke in that guy. I'll be ready if this goes wrong.

[OOC: Looks like Kern is that big person, assuming this post gets there before someone else's does.]

"I am called Kern," he says curtly, wondering if the stories he's heard about halfling pickpockets are true. I'll show her the scar, that usually keeps sticky-fingers away from my coin. Kern turns his head slightly to the right, displaying an ugly knife-scar on his left-cheek. He'd be handsome without it. "As for who wants these packages, I haven't the first damn clue."

[OOC: Cora is a halfling, right? I just assumed based on the name.]

[Verona]

Cora smiled to herself. She was pretty sure the big-person had shown her his scar on purpose. Luckily for him, she was more intent on taking advantage of the situation at hand than interested in exploring his belongings- or her belongings, as they would then be at that point.

She found a clear bit of floor near a wall (which is not a difficult thing for a halfling) and sat down. 'I could still open it. Whoever it's meant for isn't here yet.' she thought to herself and fingered the vellum. It would be so easy. All she would have to do is slip off the string. 'Better not. If I were going to open it, I should have done it before I came in here.' She stuffed it into her backpack, safe from temptation and looked expectantly at the door. Whoever it was that had all these packages sent better be ready to pay everyone, or at least her. She doesn't deliver things for free.

[Jeeves]

The small room is particularly crowded with people. In addition to those that introduced themselves to all, four others choose to keep quiet. There are few decorations and no place to sit, save for a small table and chair that face the outside door. Any potential for uncomfortable silences is quelled, however, when a middle-aged elf* opens the back door to the office and walks in.

[OOC: Give me Spot checks with your next post.]

The elf's green eyes briefly meets those of every member of the room before making his way to a nearby table. His face is deeply tanned by the sun and marked by a jagged scar along his left temple. A quill rests between his pointed ear and his cropped white hair. The man is dressed in the customary well-to-do garments for members of the shipping community in Loc-sorAna: a loose pair of black slacks and and a flowing red shirt. His waist is covered with a white sash that is tied off with a knot at his side. Oddly enough, the man is barefoot.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen," the elf says formally after seating himself at the small table. "My name is Jeth, and I am Ms. Karen's assistant. I will be accepting your post. You are welcome to stay after you receive your payment if you wish for more work." Without another word, Jeth gestures to one of the silent package-bearers, who approaches and sets the package on the table. Jeth places a small leather bag on the table and doles out a single gold piece from it in payment.

"Next please?" the elf asks as he lays the unopened package carefully into the nearby trash can.

[OOC: Have fun. Don't forget your spot checks.]

* Historians affirm that the powerful elven nations were decimated in the Great Wars fought over two thousand years ago. The surviving human states welcomed the refugees for their specialized skills, and now elves are seen in all walks of life in the human-dominated continent.
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Tempest Isles Campaign: In-Character. Out-of-Character.

[Verona]

Cora observed as the elf gently threw away each package from each person ahead of her and thought back to the vague nature of the instructions she had gotten for delivering the package. That's why she had taken the job- it seemed like it would lead to something mysterious and possibly exciting. But she had expected something like this. It was clear that the package was not really the job; it was merely a way of luring them there, probably with some manner of making sure the package bearer had followed the directions and hadn't opened it. It must be booby trapped in some way. Anyone who went through that much trouble to make sure they employed trustworthy people must be offering a job full of intrigue.

When Cora's turn finally came to stand in front of the elf, she didn't extend the package out to him as the others had. 'If you're just going to throw it away,' she said, 'Do you mind if I keep it?'

After the elf's response, she added, 'About the job: I'm in.'

[Spot check: 11 + 2 = 13]

[Jeeves]

Jeth smiles down to the halfling. "Now little one, you were entrusted with the delivery, and you shall deliver it. What happens to the goods afterward is of no consequence to you." He extends his hand for the package. "I will take it now, if you please."

[OOC: Please examine the out-of-character thread for social interaction house-rules.]
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Tempest Isles Campaign: In-Character. Out-of-Character.

[Ward]

Ward pondered the gold piece in his hand. I should really just give up trying to understand them, he thought to himself. Everything they do defies every semblance of logic!

He walked to the door and looked outside. He briefly considered gathering up his belongings and leaving. He could just leave this madhouse and go back to the Grove. Back to where everything made sense. It wouldn't be that hard -- but then again, what of the Grove? How long would he then have before it all came to ruin? What would Burchan say when he showed up just three months later, empty-handed? No. For now, at least, he must bear the lunacy.

His eyes shot back to the corner of the room: where a terrified squeak was silenced all too quickly. His pack shifted. Ward cursed under his breath. I told her to stay out of sight! He quickly scanned the faces of those near his things. They didn't seem to have noticed. Good.

Am we really the same? Them and I? Certainly one of them should have heard. Or seen. Ward gave a mental shrug and walked over to his corner. He shoved his pack back into place, none-too-gently and grinned. At least he wasn't alone.

[Wes]

The door to the office cracked open far enough to admit a handsome face with green eyes and a head of curly jet black hair. "Hope I'm not too late." With a slight flourish of his cape, he sidled across the room to where the elf stood. Underneath the plain brown cloak, he wore clothes that had long lost their color, despite their fine cut. Stout boots protected his feet and on his left hand he wore a half-glove from which dangled a small chain.

At least now I can afford a room for another week. He bit the coin and then lifted it to the light, hardly noticing as the elf calmly disposed of the newly delivered package. Pocketing the gold, he straightened abruptly. "Pardon, I seem to have forgotten my manners," he bowed deeply to the room's occupants. "I am known as Sarilin. It is a pleasure to meet each and every one of you," he craned his neck upwards to get a better look at them as he spoke the words.

What a bunch of misfits.

[OOC: If I made it in time for the Spot check, I rolled a 10, if not, not.]

[Enforcer]

Kern hands over the package and takes his payment. That's another few meals, I suppose... He also stays to hear about the next job.

Spot Check=17 (roll 11, +6 Spot check)

[NPC_Fighter]

Wind looks quizzically at the elf. 'Something awfully strange is going on. None of my business though.' With a soft jangle of metal she presents her package and receives her payment. Out loud, she says "I'm all for hearing about the job."

[Jeeves]

[OOC: Sorry for the late post. I lost the first draft on the site when I was 80% done and got disgusted with the whole thing. It’s all good now. I use Word!]

The remaining messengers deliver their package and receive their gold piece before choosing to leave. Their absence frees up the crowded room a little, and the group has a chance to examine each other. The elf spends a small amount of time shifting the packages in the garbage can, then gathers his gold pouch and stands up from the desk. Bending over with a grunt, Jeth wraps his thin arms around the can, and hoists it to his chest.

“Please forgive my tardiness,” he apologizes. “Follow me if you are still interested in being in the temporary employ of the Zaandam Shipyards.” With another heaving noise, the elf opens the back door through which he had come earlier, and guides the group to the rear offices.

The back door leads to a long narrow hallway. Several small offices branch off to the left and right, and a quick glance into any of them reveals men and women working at a frenzied pace at desks piled high with stacks of vellum and finer parchments. Jeth pauses and enters one of the offices momentarily. The elf is no longer burdened by the trash can when he steps into the hallway once more.

[OOC: Sense Motive check if you glanced into an office. Listen check if you try to eavesdrop on Jeth’s conversation when he drops off the trashcan.]

Jeth stops at the end of the hallway before a door marked ‘Karen Zaandam’. He knocks softly twice, then opens the door and leads the group inside a large room. A massive oak table, set slightly away from the doorway, dominates the office; Ms. Zaandam herself sits behind it watching people enter the room. The dark aged human woman stands and greets the group as it enters. She is incredibly short and stocky.

“Please meet Ms. Zaandam. Her family has owned and operated this shipyard for the last one hundred and fifty years,” says Jeth as a way of introduction. He then proceeds to give Ms. Zaandam the group’s names before moving to a chair set next to the table and facing the door.

“It’s a pleasure to meet such a fine group of men and women. Please be seated, of course,” she begins, drawing the group’s attention to the many chairs along the wall that face the woman. “Thank you for accepting to hear us. I know that we’ve been very tight-lipped about this work. To explain, let me just say that this job is no mere courier assignment, and we had to be sure that any people we use are able to complete their assignments with outmost confidentiality.”

“We know that you followed the delivery instructions to the letter, and as such, we can begin to trust you for this work,” intercedes Jeth.

“Exactly. You see, my family’s shipyards aren’t only the oldest shipyards in the city, they're the most successful. In a hundred and fifty years, no one has created a flagship for the armada but us. The royal Family has solely traveled on Zaandam vessels, and even merchants choose us first for fleet bids.”*

Ms. Zaandam gets up from her seat and walks next to a window. Paintings of all classes of ships tile all four walls, and as she runs one weathered hand along the frame of a particular image, everyone notices that each frame carries a one or two-word inscription along its top border. The particular painting that Ms. Zaandam is looking at depicts a sleek and beautiful three-masted cutter. The graceful ship’s name, judging by the inscription, is Endurance.

“If we’ve maintained our dominance, it’s because we’ve never failed to complete our contracts. Even through wars, we managed to supply our customers. It’s a rare quality in an individual as well as in a business. That’s why we tested you. If you truly turn out to be how we hope, you will allow us to regain our - ”

The elf cuts in once more. “We must now have a decision from each of you. For your patience, and your silence, you will each receive fifty gold pieces before you leave. However, we cannot let you know the exact nature of our troubles without a pledge to carry out the job to its very conclusion, risking your lives if you must.” Jeth pauses. “We will reward that dedication with seven thousand gold pieces, or its equivalent, upon your successful return. You will also be able to count on our gratitude.”

Ms. Zaandam’s surprise expression quickly gives way to acceptance. She shakes her head. “My apologies … Jeth. You’re right. Please every friend, persecute every enemy, as my father once said. What will be your answers? Will you be a friend or a stranger?”

[OOC: The job will involve sailing. It will involve much leveling up before a return. If a majority chooses ‘No’ (the NPC fighter does not count), I will go somewhere else with this. The alternative will appear quickly, possibly painfully. Further out-of-character discussion can go in the other thread.]

* The significance of this statement is not lost on anyone. Even the most recent visitor is exceedingly aware of Loc-sorAna’s dependence on seafaring. In addition to its scant natural resources (except for those supplied by fishing), the peninsula is so narrow and long that it would be impossible to supply the entire city by land. In fact, more than three fourths of all business in the capital is executed by means of shipping. The family of the leading shipyard in Loc-sorAna is indeed wealthy, and most likely has many enemies.
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Tempest Isles Campaign: In-Character. Out-of-Character.