Cold Blood (Ex3) Game thread

[Sarky]

Character sheets: https://www.rpnation.com/threads/cold-blood-ex3-characters.332794/
OOC chat: https://www.rpnation.com/threads/cold-blood-ex3-ooc-chat.332796/


1: Cautious Hospitality​

Spoiler: Suggested mood music

Dreams led you to Icehome.

The change was not at all subtle when it came, some two weeks past. Your dreams simply became preternaturally vivid, and upon waking you could recall every detail. The cold of the far North featured prominently; frozen oceans and wandering mammoth herds; wanderlust and grim mountain passes; desperate battles against the walking dead, packs of Wyld-touched tribes, or dreams that walk on two legs frozen into solid form. And underneath it all, a yearning, a *need* to find... something. A ship, a floating tomb, perhaps a world unto itself, ancient and powerful and impregnable to everyone, except for one blessed by the Unconquered Sun.

Whether it was the counsel of scholars versed in the study of dreams, recognising famous landmarks of the region, or simply a disturbingly no-nonsense dream-voice barking directions at you until you went the right way, the dreams have driven you to the capital of the Haslanti. The city-state of Icehome lies in a hundred mile long valley, surrounded on all sides by cliffs, save for a broad northern harbour. On the west shore of this harbour lies the city proper, built in the lee of the black granite of the cliffs. And atop the cliff, overlooking the city to the south and the White Sea to the north, lies the Citadel, seat of what most outsiders would mistake for a central government; locals never get tired of mocking visitors who assume the Haslanti are like so-called "civilised" lands.

Built from imported white marble and standing out like a shining white beacon against the dark cliffs and a sky more often than not storm grey, this place more than any other has featured in the dreams that brought you here. Within the Citadel you know in your gut is a temple adorned with fine silks and precious stones, where nine pairs of eyes wait to see what has answered their call.

A couple of foreign airships cast shadows over the city in the morning light, as they carry goods and passengers from distant lands to skydocks on the cliffs. The large harbour is less busy than one would expect, but seagoing vessels nevertheless ferry cargo and people in and out. And the main roads are busy with travellers and traders from across the valley, as well as caravans of pack animals winding their way down from a handful of mountain passes, traders from other cities, the occasional Guild caravan, or the nomadic tribes of the Outwalls, come with meat and fur and sacred carvings that would make any Immaculate blush. The sounds and smells of industry, of a vibrant melting pot of cultures, of pure potential, hang heavy in the air.

However you made the journey, all roads lead to Icehome.
At least, that's what your dreams told you. They don't appear to have lied so far.

 

[Esbilon]

Gotira arrives as he does in every city he visits, on foot and without fanfare. Exaltation has cured the ache in his old bones and he enjoys the long walks from place to place, seeing the grand vistas of the North, and moving as its people does, slowly and inexorably, towards his destination.

The old monk is no stranger to visions and portents, and when the King of Heaven himself had appeared in his dreams, his feet turned north, and he followed.

 

[Sarky]

Esbilon

The Greenfield of Icehome is an impressive sight once the mountains reveal it, even in the harsh early spring there is more agriculture to be seen here than most of the North in summer. The weather has been mild (relatively speaking) in the last day or two, and the sun breaks out of the clouds as you descend into the valley. The chill instantly lessens. There is a *rightness* to this valley, something in the essence of the place you can't quite pin down but nevertheless provides a certain serenity.

Those you meet on the road are friendly enough, for Northerners. Those leaving the city are certainly not impolite, but there is a great deal of work already needed to make sure they make it through the next winter so they can't stop to chat. Those sharing your destination glance at your monk-like hair and the reaper daiklave, but several decide out loud that you son't *look* like one of those pushy, stuffy Immaculate types, to good-humoured agreement. One, a farmer leading a small train of pack animals loaded with meat and crops, offers you a small apple. "They grow slow in the cold", he says. "Makes 'em sweeter, if you've patience to grow 'em proper. Don't mind the banter, market day always makes 'em giddy."

 

[Cthulhu_Wakes]

Luc

Especially if convenient avalanches swallow up another valley coming here. Eat it, northlands.

Shivering, Luc stares up at the airships, a smile playing on his lips. He'd always wanted to pilot one and settle a dare from childhood--diving off the thing into some deep lake or body of water. He falls back in with the trains of hairy ox and tarpaulined goods. This was as far North he'd ever been, but something told him there would be further treks and more desolate landscapes than this. With a small moment of horror, he realized he'd miss Icehome much like he missed the Realm.

 

[Sarky]

Cthulhu_Wakes

One of the Oxen grunts, as if to agree with your assessment, and punctuates its statement by slowly, solemnly defecating on the road as it plods along. The drover swears loudly as he realises he wasn't watching his step, raises his stick, and lowers it again when the ox gives him a very pointed glare. In between the curses, you determine that its name is Babou.

Along the way you've picked up bits of gossip from locals. They don't care for the Realm up this way, especially the Immaculate monks. The main reason for a Dynast being up here is because they pissed off the wrong person back home. The Haslanti have at least 80 types of cheese, and milking a mammoth is as dangerous as a tour in the military. Apparently there's a whole drinking game based around one of the local delicacies which is simply too disgusting to eat sober. A few of the traders are hoping to make enough cash to pay a visit to "That Nellens madame and her girls".

A nearby cart groans. Or rather the traveller waking up inside it does. You have the niggling suspicion you agreed to a drinking game last night, and finished off his jug of vodka after he passed out. He stumbles out onto his feet, bends over to catch his breath, sees that Babou has already paved the road with, ahem, anxiety, and vomits with what can only be described as gusto. His bloodshot eyes manage to mostly focus on you.

 

[Esbilon]

"Thank you," Gotira says and takes a bite of the apple. "It is sweeter," he adds with a smile to the farmer. "Is this a market day like any other, or is there another reason so many people are out on the road today?"

 

[Sarky]

Esbilon

"Business as usual, more or less. I mean, the mountain passes only freed up in the last month, so there's more Outwallers and traders from other greenfields. And a lot of us are looking to get rid of perishables like those apples, before the warm rots 'em. I suppose that's normal enough. But..."

He thinks for a moment.

"We put great stock in dreams up here, friend. A third of our gods deal in dreams after all." He coughs and mutters quickly under his breath. Something about praising the elder gods of the Haslanti, although his heart's definitely not in it.

"Now, my wife's uncle Thorin, he has a small fishing fleet out by Tuskstad. My brother 'prenticed his girl Sara to him before she joined the Wind fleet. Well, Sara come by to visit not long ago, said she'd gone on leave to Tuskstad to visit ol' Thorin. Folks there told her he'd sold the fishing business, went south to rejoin his old tribe herding mammoths. His old crew told her they'd all started having nightmares at sea, so bad poor Thorin and his lads couldn't bear to keep fishing. The dreamseers were stumped, and praying left him with more questions than answers. And Thorin weren't the only one. Now the roads are open the news is easier to come by, and there's seasoned fishers from here to Windcreche who can't even look at the White Sea any more."

He takes an apple for himself, continuing between mouthfuls.

"The tales have some folks jumpy. I'd bet there's more than one fisherman here today looking to sell everything and find another trade away from the nightmares. I can't say I wouldn't be tempted to scarper myself. But that wouldn't get the fields planted or the orchards pruned, and the councils agree next winter's going to be a bad one, so we'll need as good a harvest as we can get this summer to keep the greenfield fed."

He tosses the apple core to the roadside, but not before removing the seeds and placing them in a pouch on his belt.

"I should apologise. I'm making the place out to be doomed when things really aren't so bad. The League has survived far worse than bad dreams, I've no doubt someone will sort it out before long. You'll find a lot to like in Icehome, if you're not just passing through."

 

[Cthulhu_Wakes]

Luc

Snorting, Luc pats the beast on its neck, carries on alongside it. There was a sort of luck in the world that most people would consider him a Westerner or maybe a very lost Easterner. Too many stepfathers to really recall where the hell his father actually came from. Could have been a pygmy chief from outside The Lap for all he knew. A small, evil part of him whispers to take part in the drinking game. He'd met a crew of Abalonese sailors along the coast and gotten trashed on mamajuana with them. That's how you experience culture: the shared bottom of a keg.

He takes a slug of water from a half-frozen tin canteen before coming eye to eye with the drunk. Looking between him and his canteen, Luc slugs down most of the water anyway, offering the dregs. "How 'bout a roadie?"

 

[Sarky]

Cthulhu_Wakes

"asdfgl"

The man grabs the canteen on the second try, draining what's left and patting the bottom in the hopes there's even just one more drop clinging to the inside. When he speaks his hoarse voice reminds you there *may* have been an incredibly offensive singalong at the last camp.

"I was hoping this was all some horrible nightmare, but... Mela's diamond nipples, did we drink that whole jug? That was... That was over a gallon of triple-distilled... I feel like a pig shat in my head."

He scoops some fresh snow off the roadside and begins eating it in an attempt to hydrate. His companions, seeing he's alive, start rummaging through packs on the cart for breakfast.

"We... we were supposed to do the drinking game when we got to Icehome, not last night."

"Yeah but Luc there started making chicken noises until you broke out the suicider"

"Ugh, I... Wait, we drank that too!?"

"Yup yup yup. At one point you belched near a torch, the gout of flame near singed everyone's eyebrows and you spent the rest of the night shouting 'hurr durr I'm a Dragon Blood'"

"You're joking. Korriga-san, tell me you're joking."

"Yeah, ok, I'm joking."

"Oh, thank the-"

"It still happened though."

There is an awkward silence. Babou sneezes.

The man mutters "Fuck you, Icehome" under his breath, and turns to you. "Well, I guess if you weren't there to drink the rest I'd have gone off to fight the Fair Folk thinking I was Hesiesh Himself so... Thanks? Sort of? Can I offer you some breakfast?"

 

[Cthulhu_Wakes]

Luc

"Sure, Horatio Assblower, as long as it's not Babou's shit mixed with tea, I'm good for anything. And you realize their stomachs will never be the same, mixing that swill?" Luc laughs suddenly, remembering the fire. Almost forgot that. "But seriously, if I don't eat I will literally die."

 

[Sarky]

Cthulhu_Wakes

The man named Korriga rubs his hands excitedly. "The more the merrier! Here, have some venison jerky. I litera- figuratively scoured Creation for the herbs and spices, I guarantee you'll forget the hangover after a few bites."

The man you decided to name Horatio Assblower devours a stick in almost a single bite. "M'name is Squirrel" he mumbles sullenly.

Humming all the while, he sets up a portable cooking set and begins mixing... Substances, in a wok, into which he cracks several eggs. They begin cooking immediately, despite the lack of flame to heat anything.

 

[Cthulhu_Wakes]

Luc

"Huh. Okay. Better than that poorman's gruel they serve in Cherak." Luc settles down next to the not-fire and chews the jerky. "This is venison, right?"

 

[Sarky]

Cthulhu_Wakes

Korriga is about to speak, but instead turns to two small boxes beside him, one labelled "venison jerky", the other covered in what looks a lot like Old Realm script and warding signs and "ALCHEMICAL TRIAL 13" in big letters. After a quick count of the contents, he sighs heavily with relief, and says "Yup yup yup. Venison. The other box was, um, beef. Mostly."

It's actually pretty good. You reckon you can get a strong hint of whiskey from the marinade. Not the cheap distilled-in-Grandpa-Wujii's-bathtub variety either, it reminds you of the extravagant quality stuff you used to get back home.

 

[Chaka]

Loker

Loker comes to Icehome by carriage. Business has been good and he has always been a poor rider. The Night Caste was discomfited by his strange dreams and uncomfortable being forced to act directly in general, but he knew sending a couple of spies up 100 miles to Icehome to investigate a mysterious, presumably magical call was a waste of resources. He had no-one in the Cranes equipped to deal with magic, except for his own gifts.

As he heaved himself out of his carriage outside the inn he'd booked for the next few days and began pacing to get the blood flowing back to his legs after his long journey he considered his next steps.

The first thing I should probably do is decide if I want to announce my presence to the local Thieves' Guild, he mused. After that, I'll need to check if my contacts in the city have any news that could be relevant.

As he stamped through the snow, he rubbed absently at his chubby gut to quiet a rumble.

Ok. First thing I need to do is eat.

 

[Sarky]

Chaka

A quick inquiry with the innkeeper reveals that she's already served the last of their hot food for the morning, but her cousin's wife runs an excellent teahouse three streets down, been in the family 7 generations, all produce sourced by extended family in fishing, hunting and farming, and even procures some rare spices and foods from the River Province or even the far South through (spit) the Guild, although they make sure the price is barely worth the effort of those miserable factors... She stops short when she sees you are clearly quite ravenous.

"Sorry. Head down that way, turn left, then take the third right, and you'll see a sign with a mammoth swimming in a noodle bowl. Grandmother Tarrik's, it's called. Tell 'em Elsa sent you, they'll treat you well. Here's your room key, come and go as you please."

 

[Cthulhu_Wakes]

Luc

Luc eyes the other box with something approaching mild horror. "Seems Fate was on my side for breakfast. Also, where did you get the marinade? Top shelf shit."

 

[Chaka]

Loker

"Thanks, my dear. I'll do just that." Smiling and nodding, Loker heads back out in to the cold, putting his hood up to obscure his features in case any little birds see him and announce his presence to the local underworld.

Grandmother Tarrik's is easy to find. Moving in to the warmth of the teahouse, Loker attracts the attention of a passing waiter to pass on Elsa's message.

 

[Esbilon]

"No place is truly doomed if good men and women will stand by it, and from what I have seen, the North has no more of a shortage of those than most other places," the monk says with a serene smile.

"And I don't know if I am," he answers the other's last thoughts pensively. "It was a dream that brought me here, and now it sounds like a dream might also bring me further before too long."

 

[Sarky]

Esbilon

By this time you've reached the parts of the city that grew up outside the walls, a few inns, stores and houses enjoying a little extra space and a view beyond the 60 foot walls..
"Is that so? Well, if our gods sent you those dreams, I can safely say you won't go too far wrong if you go ahead and follow them. And there's my first stop of the day just here." He reins his little parade of animals in by a building belonging to some manner of horticulturalist. There's a young man with glasses waiting by the door, who comes forward to greet the farmer.

"Been a pleasure, old man. I'd say mind yourself in Icehome, but..." He glances meaningfully at the large weapon you're carrying. "I doubt you need telling. Ennead watch over you. And, eh, the elder gods too I guess." With a wave, he heads indoors with the horticulturalist, talking about new strains and test saplings.

The city gates are wide open, with some guards checking the comings and goings. When you approach they do the usual, ask for a name, update their records, and less than a minute later you're inside Icehome's southern gates, and straight into the Old Market district, a maze of streets both at ground level, and "winter streets" a story or more up crossing rooftops as crowded with tents and stalls as the streets you now walk.



Chaka

The message seems to work, as the staff quickly (but politely) bustle you over to a roomy table and there's a hot cup of tea in your hand before you even sit down. The menu is diverse, the background chatter pleasant (much of it discussing the previous night's dreams as Haslanti tend to do), and the price quite agreeable.

Spoiler: OOC

I'll say that with Influence 2 you have 2 reliable contacts in Icehome's underbelly, to describe as you like, whether they work for you, are double jobbing, whatever.

Cthulhu_Wakes

"Oh don't let the labels put you off," replies Korriga. "Just... Making sure is all. When you combine alchemy and cooking you don't want to hand someone the venison you were secretly developing for... for a jerky contest. That is being held. Here. Definitely."

He scoops out the now scrambled (if slightly off-colour from the alchemical cooking juices) eggs into a couple of wooden bowls, unwraps a small block of goat's cheese and cuts a couple slices into each bowl before tucking in. Squirrel does likewise, treating the food like some holy ritual that will banish the evil hangover spirits in his skull.

Before too long, you're in front of the city gates. The guards nod at Squirrel and Korriga as the cart rolls on through, into the market district. "End of the line, boys" the driver calls, and Korriga and Squirrel gather their things and hop off.
"Got a place to stay?" Squirrel asks. "Room going at our place by the docks, next to the Salty Maiden. Now THEY know how to poach a damn egg."

 

[Chaka]

Loker

Loker settled in, sipping the tea and ordering as much grilled meat as he thought he could handle. While waiting for his food to come, he considered for a moment. Downing the tea, he waved over a passing servant. "Hi my dear, can you do me a favour? First, I need to get a refill on this amazing tea. Then, if you don't mind, I'll need someone to deliver some letters for me to some business associates. I'll pay for delivery, of course. Do you have anyone available who can run the letters for me?"

 

[Sarky]

Chaka

"Oh, ah, sure, let me get that tea for you first and then I'll get one of the boys to sort you out with the letters. He knows the city well, he'll have no trouble finding your people."

She disappears into the steam of the kitchen, and you can vaguely hear her calling for her son before she comes back with a fresh pot of tea.

"There you are sir, and my boy Norrin will be along in a few minutes to sort out your messages." She glides off to assist another customer having trouble with eating his crab claws.

 

[Chaka]

Loker

Pulling quill and ink from his pouch, Loker smoothed out three sheets of parchment on the table. He then begins writing, carefully scratching Airtongue runes out on the calfskin.

To the untrained eye the three letters Loker drafts appear both completely identical in content and entirely innocuous - simple shopping lists for writing materials, ink, book glue and other tools of the printer's trade. However each letter contained a message carefully hidden inside it. No-one else would know but the intended reader would be guided by Essence imbued in the page to notice certain marks and offset letters that would reveal its true import.

The first two letters were identical. I have come to the city on personal business, and I need information on any new or strange magical happenings, any new players in town, that kind of thing. Come and see me.


These he set to one side first before hesitating for a moment and finishing the third note. I, Loker Sesthin, master of The Cranes, hereby announce to the Thieves' Guild of Icehome my presence in their city. I seek no foothold and pose no threat. I am on a personal journey and the Guildmaster can be assured I mean no harm. I will make myself available if needed.

He seals the first two letters with a dollop of blue wax and the letter of announcement with white wax - as the white wax cools and hardens he swiftly scores a crane in to the seal.

When Norrin comes, he hands him the letters and a coin and claps him on the shoulder. "There'll be another three in this for you if you follow my instructions exactly and to the letter. These first two letters are to be delivered to the tanner's district, one must get to the old woman Marta who runs the pottery shop near the gates and the other is to go to the beggar Nils. He begs outside the brothel near the tanning vats. Once you've delivered those, I need you to head up towards the Citadel. Two streets over from the Citadel gate is a pawn shop with a red door. The sign is an old tarnished set of scales. The man running the shop is named Lenfer. Give him that letter and say it's from Loker Sesthin, and that I send my regards. Then come straight back, ok?"

Once Norrin leaves, Loker casually leans back on the bench, perking up slightly at the mention of strange dreams.

Loker spends 12 motes peripheral to use Letter-Within-A-Letter technique three times (the charm is Mute so no anima flare). Each hidden message can only be read by the named recipient. Marta and Nils are Loker's contacts in Icehome - neither is directly part of his spy organisation but both owe him favours and are generally reliable sources of information. Lenfer is not one of Loker's Contacts-with-a-capital-C, but his pawn shop is tied to the Thieves' Guild and Loker knows announcing his presence to him will ensure the right people are made aware (for better or worse).

 

[Esbilon]

It has been some time since Gotira was last in a city of this sight. His former calling led him to wandering the byways of the North, and being Anathema hardly encourages one to seek out civilization. And so, he wanders around, keeping a keen eye to the city's structure and its people. Somewhere here is whatever it is that called him, and somewhere here are people in need of his help, minds in need of a teacher.

 

[Cthulhu_Wakes]

Luc

"Who doesn't? That's, like, eggs one-oh-one." He eyes their food and snaps his fingers. "Remind me, if good tomatoes even exist out here, to introduce you to a better morning holdover. Anyway. What're we doing?" He looks toward the citadel and sighs. "Yeah, actually, I'd love a room because sleeping in the iced arms of the North is not what I expect to do tonight." A small pouch of silver appears in his hand before chucking it at Squirrel. "Pick me one and keep the rest. Buy some...real shoes or something. I gotta look in on something."

 

[Sarky]

Chaka

The boy's eyes bulge slightly at the promise of what might well be two month's pocket money in one day. He recites the instructions back to make sure he's got it right, then off he runs. From what you remember of the city's layout you'd say he'll have delivered the lot of them within a half hour.

The small talk is fairly banal, but here and there mention is made of sea trade and fishing being down in other towns and cities of the League. The Haslanti have a habit of fostering their children out to distant relatives in differing trades to ensure everyone is capable of bringing something different to the fight to live off the harsh lands, and much of the news comes from someone's friend's second cousin who learned fishing from their brother-in-law in Windcreche, or a distant aunt who took in a nephew to learn the ways of the ice boats across the White Sea. The drop in business is almost universally blamed on particularly vivid nightmares experienced by sailors in the western parts of the League, although one patron mentions to their table that they heard a relative swear something similar recently happened as near as Ironfall, a mere hundred miles or so East of Icehome.

[Make an Intelligence+Investigation roll to piece these disparate pieces of gossip together, pls]


Cthulhu_Wakes

Squirrel coolly snatches the pouch in mid air. Or at least that was his intention. Instead what happens is he flails, misses, the pouch hits him in the chest, he scrambles to grab it but it bounces off his hand and drops, and he attempts to catch it with his foot, but that turns into a kick, and the pouch goes sailing towards the head of a middle-aged man in simple but definitely-not-from-around-here clothing, with a dirty great big package strapped to his back, and you've seen enough heroes of the Realm on parade to know a daiklave protected from the weather when you see it .

Squirrel, red-faced, apologising, squeaks a warning and begins running over. Korriga sniggers, oblivious. Or perhaps uncaring. "Classic Squirrel. You know he applied for the city watch but concussed himself with his own helmet on his first day? Don't tell him I said that."


Esbilon

The Old Market looks much like other northern cities at a glance. It is certainly where most traders from outside the League seem most comfortable, you see the occasional stall displaying goods from Whitewall, a couple of Guild merchants looking frustrated (locals gleefully joke that it is their default state in the League), even some traders from Realm-controlled cities on the coast of the Threshold. The Haslanti dominate, of course, with a surprisingly wide variety; Everything a city can produce, combined with the fruits of their cousins in the Outwall tribes and rare trinkets scavenged from the Great Ice, some claiming to be from before the Shogunate era. You even spot a mortal Immaculate monk, attempting to preach to people who very obviously prefer their own local gods.

He's not the only one who stands out like a sore thumb. Near a small building advertising itself as a scrivener's you see a rakish chap, rugged good looks, tossing a money pouch at another man who could probably be best described as "disappointing", while a bearded man with the stained hands and singed hair of an alchemist looks on. You see the little guy fumble the catch *spectacularly*, and the money pouch flies from his grasp and sails at considerable speed towards your head...

[If you could make a difficulty 1 Dexterity+Athletics to catch it or Dodge to, well, dodge it, we'll see how this first meeting begins <grin>]