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The Guildhouse (Pre Game Eyc-C)


Arklytte

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Ah, the Guildhouse. You don't get back here much these days. It's been a while since you huddled around the message board, looking for reports of kobold raids or shop owners with giant rats in their basement. You've been dealing with loftier issues for a while now—dragons, demonic incursions, the occasional amok colossus. But the telepathic message you received from Guildmaster Steelstaff was unmistakable, both in its content and the somewhat rattled tone. This is a woman who stared down the Witch-Empress herself when you were just a dumb kid fighting goblins. If she's worried, your presence is most definitely needed.

The hall itself doesn't look any different that the last time you checked in. Maybe a few more trophies on the wall. That banner might be new. In the corner, the same old message board. Hang a left, and you're in the taproom. It's a bit like an on-site tavern or feast hall, featuring several long tables with bench seating on either side arranged in two rows of three each. A large fireplace burns brightly at one end, though that is not the only light source present. Chandeliers bearing magical lights hang above each table, and you know that the light source can be lowered or raised on each individually by command.

A bar dominates the west wall of the room, with barrels of beer stacked up behind the barkeep, a retired adventurer and guild member named Selko Blackmoon. A hobgoblin warrior whose dark hair is quickly finding a new lighter shade, Selko has found that he has more in common with the varied races of his guildmates than he does with his tribe back home, and has chosen to live out his retirement running the guild's food services with the iron fist he once brought to leading a delving squad.

The hall is fairly empty—a few junior members are planning what looks like a tomb raid at the southeast table, and an old dwarf whose name you can't remember sits at the bar drinking. The hall's waiter, a slim elf boy named Darrin, sits reading a book, his services not required at the moment.

You enter the room with the tale of the Isle of Oculus on your mind. Some of the guild's other heavy hitters seem to already be gathering; it looks like the guildmaster called in every one of her elite members, including several you barely know. If this story is true, if such powers are really congregating off the shores of this continent, ready to strike at the helpless men and women of this land...

...you're probably going to need a stiff drink before stopping it.

 

A Message From Your Dungeon Master

Hello, and welcome to the pre-game thread!

The idea here is to give you a chance to get into character a bit and to help you start to develop your character's unique 'Voice'. 

 

It will also give you a chance to get to know one another, IC. While you're all members of the same guild, you may not know each other very well—there are probably over 100 members in just this chapter house alone...there are thousands scattered all over the land. It's uncertain who your guildmaster (i.e. me) is going to pick to go on this mission, so you're basically relaxing until a decision is made.

Feel free to control the actions of any of the NPCs if it helps you write your posts. I'm not going to be roleplaying them or anything, and there's no information to be gained in this scene. To be fair, I probably wont even check in much, other than to read when I have a moment, so everyone, please be on your best behavior.

 

Just so you're all aware, you DON'T need to participate in this thread at all if you don't want to. It won't hurt your application, but neither will it help it. Think of this as extra credit, or as an aid for you to get to feel your character before the adventure begins.

 

ENJOY!!

 

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Thrack Golasson

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Thrack lumbers into the hall, the sneer not hidden at all on his face.  He looks around at the others gathered here - a frivolous bunch of small-talkers opening their mouths for more than food or drink, just to let meaningless words fall out. He hates this part - but enduring this noise seems necessary to get pointed at the right schlubs.

 

The noise today seems to be focused on those floating balls of eyes the littles keep talking about.  A twisted grin glances across his face for just a second as he pictures one of those floating eyeballs being smashed between his fists and a cave wall, the floating sack popping open with a puff of dust like the hollow mushrooms that grew on the elevated plains of his birthplace.  The smile fades just as quickly as he spies the bartender looking his way.

 

"Beer and meat," he bellows to the man, before turning and heading to a table at the side of the room.  The 'master' will probably show up soon to explain why everyone is here, so best to find the quietest spot until she does.

 

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Garrak Tearandrend

"My first wife is ready to give birth any day now. If any god set this up as a joke, they'll be picking up their teeth after I ascend."unknown.png?width=427&height=427

 

Though he's small compared to Thrack, Garrak still towers over most of those present. Unlike the brutish giant, though, the gnoll clearly has more on his mind, as evidenced by him casually reading an account of Sathvardda, a human now worshipped as a god. He was splayed over a chair made for beings of his size, looking at Thrack with a scowl.

 

"If you used more of your brain than the part that came from the primordial lizards, you'd realize we're dealing with a significant threat. Being huge is counterproductive when you're facing creatures that shoot just about every beam conceived by magic out of their eyes. Especially when you're facing an army of them. And considering that every beholder thinks that they are the pinnacle of existence, and that every other beholder is a misbegotten blasphemy, that means something very, very, VERY powerful is getting them to work together. Otherwise, they wouldn't bother calling in the heavy hitters like us - they'd just send in one of our silver-tongues, have them whisper a few words, and watch the eyeholes tear each other apart for not having enough eye stalks."

 

He rolls his eyes, using a pair of sticks to delicately pluck a small ball of grain with a slab of juicy, almost rare meat from his plate, dunk it in a bowl of hot gravy, and quickly transfer it into his mouth. He didn't need to eat in order to survive any more, but if he had to surrender his ability to enjoy delicacies like these, he'd rather wither away and die in his fifties like the rest of his race.

 

Show tabletop...

OOC details and explanations of rolls

 

 

 

 

Edited by Lex Samreeth (see edit history)
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Yaronvael strode in the hall of the Chapter House and the regulars went silent when they recognized him. Selko Blackmoon fixes him with a glare that all but rang with hate. As Volnadi, the he was used to such looks, but this one came from a place more personal than usual bigotry.

 

"You still begrudge me?" Yaronvael asked.

 

"Aye," said Blackmoon, as he cleaned out a glass.

 

"The matter is settled."

 

"It was my favorite trophy."

 

"That trophy was my people's. It came from the Grand Crater and I was honor-bound to Reclaim it."

 

"Lushcra madi ketz*A hobgoblin curse that is banworthy if translated to english.!"

 

"The matter is settled, Selko," Yaron said again, this time in a firm tone that echoed with finality from his behind his visor. The Lodge had arbitrated in his favor, and Selko was compensated fairly for it.

 

Blackmoon thought to retort, but decided against it. Instead, he would exercise the one authority he had as a bartender. "Yer payin' full price for your drink."

 

"Suits me just fine, I don't intend to buy anything," the Ragnavolk had enough talk with this one. He took a seat at the furthest table in. His back to the wall as training had taught him.

 

 

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Garrak Tearandrend

Looking up from his book, Garrak spared Yaronvael a grin and a nod.unknown.png?width=427&height=427

 

"Yaronvael. A pleasure to see you considering this assignment. Have you given any thought to my suggestion of educating my children in Volnadi philosophy?"

 

Let the others say what they will of him (preferably out of earshot), but racism against the Volnadi people was not one of Garrak's sins. He saw in them a kindred spirit, albeit in an opposite way - while gnoll were shunned for being stupid brutes in thrall to Karazza, despised for being too stupid to do anything without bullying slaves into doing it for them, the Volnadi were despised for being too smart, using their technology and starmetal instead of the "reliable" arts of magic. He had insisted that his cult always show hospitality to them, and was quite pleased at some of his followers actually trying to learn techniques of clockwork. One of them had proudly shown off a pocket watch he had made himself a few days ago. Garrak couldn't help but smile at the memory of him flipping open the lid engraved with the cult's symbol, and finding the timepiece gently ticking away, only a few minutes off.

 

Doesn't help the cult with finding a home, but that's another mountain to climb.

 

"So, beholders. Feels like this mission was hand-crafted by the gods for a Ragnavolk, doesn't it?"

 

 

 

 

 

Edited by Lex Samreeth (see edit history)
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The Chandeliers bring light into the hall but shadows remains and in one of these a figure, a figure you didnt notice until now, stand, or rater float, inches above ground.

A ghost, a banshee for anyone with higher education in monster lore, the archivist of the Great Archives of the Monster Hunter's Lodge for the bookworms who spent time there, Sonja for those who have read her biography, because there is a book about her.

She's not actively trying to hide but without the sound, without breathing, without smell and without substance she's passively stealthy, idle like a statue she doesnt even eyeblink and by standing in a dim light she's damn hard to notice, even good scouts should be forgiven for missing her.

Maybe she has just arrived, maybe she has been there for hours, or even a longer time.

The archivist is a reclusive, a basement troll, in the last 40 or so years you can count on one hand the times she left that building, usually for brief night visits to unwise hunters who forgot to return a book, thieves.

She's not an adventurer, nor an hunter in the true sense, she has the title but it's just that, a title, actually not even that as she's an hunter in training, not having completed any hunt, yet.

Anyone younger than 50 who have meet her, almost surely did so in the archives, those older may remember a time where she used to leave the basement more often, a little more, wearing a strange knight helmet.

The hunter guild is full of strange and exotic creatures but a thousands years old ghost does stand out so someone may have heard about her, even without going to the archives, she's likely described as a quirky individual who doesnt like to go outside, a vicious defender of the guild's library, seem to know anything and, but these are unconfirmed rumors, have a treasure room, like a dragon hoard, hidden somewhere in the archives.

 Last but not least, she's a banshee, a spirit of sorrow, hate and revenge, the air around her feel colder, the natural survival instinct of the living keep them away, she's intimidating, when she stare at you with those unnaturally red eyes the sensation is of vulnerability, as if slowed down by an heavy burden, a glimpse of thousands years of anguish.

 

Hey, it's an ally at least and has been with the guild since it's fundation. 

Edited by Arklytte (see edit history)
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"I'm afraid I'm not very good with children. My congratulations to you and your wife, though." The Ragnavolk only shrugged at the gnoll's jest. If most folk were to be believed, the gods hated the Volnadi too much to do one a favor. He had already formulated several opening gambits when he first heard the summons and the situation on the Isle of Oculus. Since this one was so good to his people, he'd be happy to share his thoughts with the latter.

 

Then he felt a touch of cold run down his spine and saw the spectre that haunted the Archives. "If you're here for me, I've no over due books..."


 

Edited by RedDingo (see edit history)
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spacer.pngThe figure known as Nemeia enters the taproom - a rare sight out of the basement workshop where they hammer out goods for hunters newly initiated and veteran alike. For some, it may be the first time seeing them at all, merely receiving their order with a note and invoice. Others might remember having their order fulfilled, possibly with much grumbling about the use of their talents being squandered. Those with more experience and time with the guild might well remember the last appearance Nemeia took, a handsome, roguish looking human man, only with the same radiant glow, as if the stars danced under their skin and in their eyes and across their hair. Draped around their shoulders is a shawl of twinkling stars like the heavens on a clear night sky, shedding soft light and reassuring favor.

 

An unusual occasion, for Nemeia to be out of their lai- that is, the workshop, much less to find a table to settle down at, looking around and offering non-committal nods, for form's sake. Whether or not she recognizes any of her fellow hunters, she gives no indication, save for her neighbor the archivist from the great labyrinth basement below the guild, where all the real work of making the lodge a success occurs, who earns a more earnest nod of recognition. After a moment or two of looking over to Selko, a nod is exchanged and the bartender fishes around for an old, dusty bottle with a small label added to it. The contents, a dark red, are poured out, a glass' worth, and brought over, for which a tip is provided for the service, all wordlessly. Taking a moment to savor the contents of the glass, inhaling deeply of the scent as they swirl the contents, it may be the most enthusiastic they've looked about anything to the recollection of those in the room - aside from the flinging of hammers at vexing amateurs with nonsensical orders for equipment. As if now prepared to face the day, Nemeia looks up and inquires.

 

"Anyone know what this summoning is about?" they inquire, with a tone and expression that suggests that they expect it to be important, especially if the archivist is also called out. 

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The Ragnavolk tilted his head and folded his arms at the Thaumaturge's inquiry. Unlike other hunters, he had seldom made used of their services but they had their fair share of disagreements when he did, "The beholders cooperating on the Isle of Oculus. I thought that was obvious."


 

Edited by RedDingo (see edit history)
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fb9a4ed1c2a5102cf17b98732b2c515b.jpg.05de17d50c7898f65a70454b2c7453f9.jpgYukito Nanaya 

Demon Slayer 


 

Yukito strode through the lodge's front door without any degree of fanfare, carrying the smell of smoked tobacco with him and small golden serpentine dragon sleeping on around the back of his neck. He made his way to the bar with no concern or rush, as though it was just another day going to his favorite tavern after a long day of work. The slayer took a seat, and with only a simple gesture, ordered himself a mug of beer. 


 

As he waited for the hobgoblin bartender to get his drink, Yukito reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a slim, finely detailed metal case. Opening it revealed several hand-rolled cigarettes. He began to pull one out, but Blackmoon's arrival with his beer and a very stern look forced him to snap the case closed with a sigh.


 

It wasn't like Yukito got anything out of smoking. Or even drinking. He didn't need food or water anymore, and was immune to the effects of alcohol and drugs - the result of his continuous training of his ki. But old habits die hard, as there was something comforting about having a smoke, or the taste of a cold beer after a long journey. His goddess didn't seem to care much, either, so Yukito opted to enjoy the small things regardless. 


 

He overheard the gnoll speaking a few seats down about the call to all the big hitters. The slayer had seen him, as well as the other top hunters that had appeared. "Now this is certainly a collection of characters. I knew the master called for many big hitters, but some have literally come out of the woodwork for this." Yuki gestured to the ghost floating around before taking a sip of his beer. "This must be pretty serious. Figured only a small team would be rounded up and sent in to investigate. Unless Steelstaff is looking to start a war against the beholders." A smirk grew on his face. 

Edited by Yamazaki
Fixing text color (see edit history)
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Thrack Golasson

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"HA HAaar," Thrack bellows out at the scrawny one's supposition.  "A war?  With those little floating things?  They've got no fists - just a bunch of easy-to-smash eyes, and a big mouth full of easy-to-break teeth.  That don't make for no war - just an exterminating job.  And if it WAS a war - what's with the reader being here?"  Thrack nods with a grin to the ancient spirit in the corner- rapidly becoming his favorite patron of the establishment with her exceedingly quiet demeanor.

 

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Garrak Tearandrend

"How many times will I have to repeat myself, you ignoramus?"unknown.png?width=427&height=427

 

Garrak is glaring at Thrack with a look of...not quite hatred. More disdain.

 

"Beholders don't NEED fists. You wouldn't, either, if you had the ability to shoot a beam from your eyes that burned hot as a red dragon's breath, another that would freeze another's muscles in place, a third that could turn even the mightiest giant into dust in an instant...the list varies between the different types, but the point still stands, each one of those eyes is a weapon just a lethal as your fist, or possibly even more so."

 

Garrak stands up, picking up a chalice that would normally be used to prepare communion wine. In his hands, it is more like a normal wine glass. Despite only coming up to Thrack's chest, his stare betrays absolutely no fear.

 

"Furthermore, they will likely have enthralled the local cyclops population, as well as any number of other dangerous creatures. And more to the point, there MUST be something even stronger forcing them to work together."

 

He turns and looks over the others who have gathered so far, gently swirling the wine in his chalice. The contrast between his refined posture and his bestial appearance is pronounced.

 

"It's almost certain many of you have snickered behind my back about the size of my ego. Comes with the territory when you pursue godhood. But that is nothing compared to a beholder's pride. Each one believes themselves to be a perfect representative of their deity. And therefore, that all beholders that look the slightest bit different, down to the color of their smallest eye or the placement of a single eyestalk, are blasphemous mutants that needs to be exterminated on the spot. For two beholders to work together, it would take circumstances beyond the pale. And the initial reports are that our initial contact was beset by THREE working in concert."

 

He lifts the chalice to his muzzle, taking a moment to savor the wine's bouquet before taking a sip.

 

"And might I remind you, Thrack, that Steelstaff soundly trounces you every last time you challenge him for leadership? If someone of HIS caliber is breaking out in a cold sweat over this news, you should regard what lies before us as something that could possibly overwhelm the Guild, and destroy its powerful protections that we rely on. And you all know what that means. No more guaranteed resurrection. No more viewing getting your head caved in as a minor inconvenience. No more charging down the mightiest creatures in the land with the certainty that we can just get up and give it another go."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited by Lex Samreeth (see edit history)
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Roh'Gau

Painted Barbarian

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The large barbarian happened to arrive late to the Guildhouse, even though he had a menacing demeanor, he was actually quite happy, the last hunt returned quite a heavy haul. Getting word that the Island of Oculus was facing danger. He had heard about beholders, but never faced one directly. Lost in thought only for a moment until he saw Blackmoon and his eyes once again lit up.

"Roh, Ya got Blackmoon's package?" asked Gau, as he slightly turned his head to his other self.
"Uh, I thought you took care of it.. Shit, I didn't forget it agian did I?" says Roh, quickly grabbing the large pack and fishing through it.
"Nah Roh, I got ya! Hahaha!" he says, "Pullin ya tusk brother!" as he holds out the small sack.
Roh shakes his head at Gau, "Great, I was looking forward to givin Blackmoon a gift for hooking us up with the spirit ale, hard to get ya know."

Approaching the bar he drops the small sack in front of Blackmoon, Roh'Gau both smile "Hey friend, I got ya somethin." as he opens the pouch, "I brought ya some of the fangs from the hydra our group killed on the Primordial Isle." he says, "Thing was a challenge, by the time we killed the thing, there must have been 18 heads lyin about the ground."

"Hope ya accept this as thanks for the Spirit Ale, and if ya can keep up the supply, I'll find other souvenirs to bring in for ya." says Roh'Gau.

Turning to the crowd, each head seems to acknowledge the other patrons before he finds a seat for himself.
 


 

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Bonaparte T. Rasque - "Le Commandant"

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The steady echo of boots upon the stone floor of the hall signaled the arrival of yet another guild member. Most of the less attentive folk paid it no mind while a small few with keener senses and memories suddenly grew ever so slightly apprehensive. It couldn't be him could it? He had been sent off on some insane quest to flush out a group of dire yeti cultist hell bent on reviving their ancient god from the Isle of the Forgotten. If the pace and weight behind the steps did not give it away then the occasional thumb of something large and thick against the stone floor most certainly did. Several patrons set down their drinks and eyed the entrance to the ale hall hoping against hope their day would not be spoiled by that man's arrival.


As if conjured forth from the fears of those who knew of him a man appeared in the open doorway to the bar; and yet, this was a something more than a man... this was someone greater! Basking in the subtle light of the ale hall stood a tall6'3" technically so shorter than some of our more beefier PCs. reptilian figure bearing an intricately pressed naval military uniform fitted for his unusual figure. Clawed hands, spines up his back, and two jutting horns protruding from his forehead marked him as far from ordinary. His gaze swept the hall seeming expecting all present to stand and applaud his proud appearance; but then again, many lesser men would be caught in utter awe at the sight of Bonaparte T. Rasque in the flesh! "Greetings fellow guild associates! No need to stand I can feel your admirations from here." A few of the newer guild mates gawked in awe at the apparent half dragon before their more experienced companions whispered something in their ears. "You can all rest easy for I have returned from my epic crusade against the vile Demonfrost Yeti clans of the north. Their frozen god shall not lay one finger upon our fine realm so long as I, Bonaparte T. Rasque have anything to say of it!"


As he spoke, Bonaparte gestured grandly with one hand while the other remained casually slipped into the seams between the buttons of his vest. "But there can be not but brief respite for one so great and I have been summoned once more by our most wise leader. No doubt a threat over whose victory my praises shall be sung for generations to come!" With his proclamation given, Bonaparte began to make his way to the bar. As he did, one younger lodge member whose left arm currently hung in a sling around his shoulder rose and did his best to hastily attempt an exit. His movement however was not unnoticed and before he could make it half way to the exit Bonaparte spared the man a knowing glance. "Ahhh Rodger! I see you are still recovering from our last venture into the nematode leech infested swamps to the far south east. Have you once again desired to share a place by my side in glorious battle?" The man seemed frozen in place as though he was afraid speaking would make things better or worse. "But why wouldn't you friend?! Hah, after I so effortlessly led us right to the heart of that bog hags lair and slew her in single combat this latest threat of beholders shall be child's play!" The apprehension in the man's eyes turned to indignation as he spat at the floor. "You pompous buffoon! You had us march half a day THROUGH the swamp instead of through safer paths around it. And the hag?! Half of us were cursed, bleeding, and covered in leeches while you stood back barking orders oh so casually. The hag was already on the floor dying when you SWOOPED in and killed her."


For his part, Bonaparte seemed not even phased by the man's accusations and began to retort before Rodger cut him off. "NO! NO! I don't want to hear another word or excuse from you about how it was all part of your master plan." Moving again, Rodger swiftly turned the corner to exit the ale hall as his good hand displayed a particularly rude gesture towards Bonaparte. "I'll take the damn leeches any day over HIM!" With those words still echoing with Rodger's departure, Bonaparte let out a hearty chuckle while tasking a seat at the bar near a beastial looking gnoll holding up a chalice fit for a king. "Poor Rodger, a man so humbled by my genius that he still refuses to let me heal his wounds. No doubt he wishes the scars to be a badge of pride from his time served under me. Ahhh Blackmoon my good barkeep, I'll have whatever this primitive looking gentleman beside me is partaking of.


With a friendly nod and smile Bonaparte singled out the much larger gnollGarrak as the "primitive gentleman" before seemingly dismissing Blackmoon altogether as he found a new open mindedpoor soul to introduce himself to. "Greetings hunter! You have the honor of addressing Bonaparte T. Rasque, yes, the Commandant himself as I'm sure my legend has spread across the guild."

Edited by Eviltedzies (see edit history)
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Garrak Tearandrend

Having finished yet another harranguing of Thrack, Garrak returned to his seat, only to perk up at the distinguished, formal click of boots and the jolly, foolhardy exclamations of a creature that looked related to one of the most terrifying creatures in existence.
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He had never met the man before now, but he'd heard plenty of rumors. A fellow capable of inspiring those around him into following whatever half-baked, ludicrous plan he dreamed up, and somehow managing to come out on top. Delusional, but effective. Smirking, he eased back into his seat and picked up his eating sticks once more.

 

"Well. I presume I have the dubious pleasure of meeting Bonaparte T. Rasque. I have heard much about you - much of it couched in assorted curses and profanities. You do not make friends easily, it seems."

 

He chuckles as he steeps another morsel in its hot gravy.

 

"I am used to nay-sayers, whether they have their merits or not. But the world needs men such as you, Bonaparte. Men constantly racing to keep pace with their own self-image. Sometimes it takes a spark of madness to truly surpass your limits."

 

He pops his dumpling in his mouth, chews, and swallows, dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin before continuing.

 

"You've likely heard rumors of me. Garrak Tearandrend. An unfortunate name, I agree, but Gnoll does not lend itself to elegant surnames. I just returned from a campaign against an enclave of liches intending to convert the capital of Adzvirath into a necropolis. One of which happened to be a dracolich. Such a waste, really. There are better ways of achieving immortality, ones that don't isolate you from simple pleasures like the joy of playing with your children, or the taste of fresh meat and hearty bread." Garrak sighs as he looks into his chalice. "And here I was hoping to spend some time with my wives and the cult supporting my push towards divinity. Alas, it appears that I shall be relying on a little magical trinket to stay in contact with them. Perhaps your name will manage to be immortalized in scripture as well as the guild annals if we work together."

 

 

 

 

Edited by Lex Samreeth (see edit history)
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