[Game Thread] Freedom

[mountainbound]

"She doesn't talk very much, but...but if you'd like to meet her, I can arrange a much more personalized meeting."

[mountainbound]

For over a millennium, Tyr has stood.

During the past thousand years, the city has labored beneath the oppressive eye of Kalak, Tyrant of Tyr. Under the fearful shadow of his defiling magic, Tyr has festered from a small oasis settlement to a sprawling and corrupt metropolis. Renown for wealth, power, and a steady though meager production of iron, Tyr is perhaps the most decadent city state in a decadent land. Here, where human life counts less than a drop of water, a person can buy anything and suffer any fate. All but the poorest Tyrians own slaves, and nobles tend vast plantations by the lash. Indeed, slaves outnumber freemen two-to-one within the brutal city of Tyr.

As you approach the city, you pass through verdant plantation-lands where crops receive more water than the unnumbered slaves who tend them. These fortress plantations belong to the city’s nobles and garner great wealth for them by providing nearly all of Tyr’s food. Standing armies fiercely guard each plot of land. Once within the gates of Tyr, the throng of odd caravans, tang of exotic foods, and heady rattle of strange dialects unsettles you: Every Athasian city state follows unique laws and customs. Those unfamiliar with the ways of Tyr may run afoul of its templars or, worse yet, Kalak himself.

King Kalak, Lord Kalak, Tyrant of Tyr, he goes by many names. Defiant Tyrians mock their lord (when shielded from his psionically-enhanced senses) with the title "Kalak the Diminutive," for Kalak's ancient body is horribly wizened - gaunt, emaciate, and puny. This dry husk of flesh, though, channels unimaginable power: Kalak holds Tyr in an iron grip. His mind is said to roam the city, dealing death for the slightest offense.

As in most Athasian cities, the sorcerer king leaves day-to-day business to templars, his faithful. On the streets, the black cassocks and imperious manners of templars set them apart from other Tyrians. These men and women wield great power, checked only when their actions might offend Kalak, a superior templar, or a noble. Tyrians generally avoid templars, who, on the slightest whim, can imprison slaves and citizens alike. Of late, the templars of Tyr have been preoccupied, spending their careers upon Kalak's massive public works.

Indeed, for the past 20 years, the templars, lives have centered on a huge stack of stone, King Kalak’s ziggurat. Dominating the center of the city, the square-stepped tower rises in sharp-edged splendor over the neighboring slums. Only now, after 20 years of construction, does the ziggurat near completion. For two decades, lash-striped slaves have borne massive blocks into place and mortared them together with their own blood. Now the streets and markets of Tyr ring with rumors that King Kalak has commanded his templars to finish the tower, finish it before month's end. No rumors tell why dread Kalak is building the ziggurat and dark looks dissuade those who may ask.

 

Beside the ziggurat stands a familiar sight - a gladiatorial arena. Here Kalak holds epics of blood- sport, and on rare occasions comes himself to hear the sanguine roars of the populace. A box seat at one end of the arena allows King Kalak to view the battles, well removed from the filthy rabble. Most of the time, though, Kalak remains hidden deep within his Golden Tower.

This tower lies off the arena's other side (opposite the Ziggurat), rising from the center of Kalak's palace. Lush gardens crowd the tower's base - a green paradise from which Kalak's defiler magic leeches its power. Beyond the garden lies a clutter of buildings and colonnades where only King Kalak and his six high templars may walk. Few others summoned here ever emerge again.

On the outer periphery of the sorcerer king's grounds rests the templar quarter. Templars dwell in happy seclusion from the populace, both to signify their privilege and to safeguard their lives. Greatly feared and little loved, if templars lived among the people, murder and riot would become commonplace. For their own protection, the templars draw together in pampered security. The best foods, goods, and services can be routinely had in the Templar's Quarter, but only a fool-hardy or dazzling thief would dare tread within the compound.

The details of the Golden Tower and the templar quarter, however, come to you only through rumor. Any steps you tread in those high halls may well be your last. Rather, the sights and sounds and smells of Tyr that work upon you come from the massive gates, bustling markets, bawdy streets, vermin-ridden slums, crowded merchant houses, and polished noble quarters.

You enter Tyr through the caravan quarter, where strange outlanders and plodding merchant caravans clog the streets. The main avenue, called Caravan Way, winds toward Kalak’s ziggurat and supports caravansaries, outfitters, beast traders, inns, merchant houses, and wine shops. The assortment of goods and services here is good, though they come at a premium price. The caravan quarter bustles both night and day and is well patrolled; merchants pay the templars dearly for protection.

The caravan quarter butts up against the noble quarter. Here, nobles keep small, walled citadels, complete with slave quarters, gardens, guardhouses, and private apartments. Most of the nobles wisely contribute generous sums to the city coffers: those who do receive preferential protection from the half-giant patrols of the templars. Few nobles actually reside within the city walls, where their private armies are forbidden, preferring to pass their time on estates outside the walls.

A few townhouses lie scattered in other areas of Tyr. Some such villas were constructed by rising sons of old families while others have been relocated by Kalak, himself, to chastise particular noble houses. Whatever their origin, these islands of wealth provide prime targets to thieves and thugs.

Tradesman reside in the next lower niche in Tyrian culture. Tradesmen's districts spread across various sections of the city, home to most of the Tyrian citizenry. Tradesmen occupy the uncomfortable cusp between slaves and freemen: though bound to a particular noble house and occupation, they possess minor rights to property and protection. A street in a tradesmen’s district will house the practitioners of a single craft or the craftsmen of a particular noble. These districts are Tyr's monetary badlands, they hold little to steal and even less to buy or trade.

You can hardly spend a day in Tyr without passing sometime through the warrens, the slum quarter, which gives Tyr much of its infamy. This vast crumbling sprawl houses the impoverished, the desperate, the outcast, and the enslaved. Many residents of the warrens work as day laborers, setting out each morning to seek work on the plantations. More desperate occupants might even sell themselves at the slave market near the dust-choked wadi. Others turn to theft or murder for hire. Those incapable of work - even illegal work - beg door-to-door. One way or another, these oppressed people glean enough food and water to live another day. What little extra they might own comes from hard labor in sweatshop shanties at night. Life in the warrens is brutal and unforgiving.

The darkest section in the warrens is the elven quarter. Treated as near-criminal outcasts by the rest of Tyr, the elves have settled their own portion of the slums, closer to the base of the ziggurat than others would find comfortable. Here they live, little bothered by templars or nobles, who consider them inconsequential vermin. Runaways, rebels, and murderers all find shelter in the narrow streets of the elven quarter. When the templars stage their rare incursions into the elven quarter, they go heavily armed, with a squad of half-giant guards at their heels.

The elven quarter gives the slum its true notoriety. Here, you can literally buy or sell anything - if you have the coin or charisma to do so. Elven merchants boast that they will someday sell even the bones of your grandmother on a back street of the elven market. Indeed, they may already have.

This trading acumen both sustains and justifies the elven quarter. The canny elves bring in exotic and sometimes priceless items from the ruins in the wilderness, items prized by Tyrian nobles. Even so, a deal struck in the elven quarter is anything but sure, for thieves, muggers, renegade wizards, and swindlers abound. A 50% markdown little compensates a buyer who loses his life.

Now, armed with knowledge gleaned in an hour upon the Tyrian streets, you set out to explore the brutal city of Tyr.

[mountainbound]

Part 1: A Day in Tyr

Word on the street:

"King Kalak is planning a great arena spectacle very soon. The most famous gladiators of Tyr will compete. The entire city will shut down for the festival!"

"A lot of folks have disappeared lately. . . . don’t know why, but I don’t like it."

"In Lord Kalak's palace, the doors are solid iron and he’s filled a whole room of the Golden Tower with smelted iron."

"Steer clear of Doreen's templars. She's become a shrieking tembo about this ziggurat thing and they'll take it out on anyone."

"My sister saw a man who looked like he was made out of stone... preaching the gospel of conservation on the street corner, as if any of us has a lychee peel to waste."

"When they were digging a new cistern for Senator Minval, the slaves broke into a huge underground chamber. Not long afterward, the templars showed up and ordered the hole sealed and the villa razed to the ground. After that, they marched off every one of Minval's slaves to work on the ziggurat."

"I hear the arena's looking for new gladiators."

"Did you hear that awful noise this morning during the Silent Hour? Some slave working on the ziggurat started clanging the scaffolding from on high. The nerve of some people. But he got his. They say an angry mindbender made his head explode from clear across town."

[mountainbound]

GROUP 3 - Basha, Artek, and Maunek The day has reached its hottest corner, when only the most desperate merchants keep their shops open. As newcomers to Tyr, you wander through the streets, looking for a place to escape the blistering sun, but find many of the decent-looking shops and winesinks closed. Where do travelers go to escape the heat in Tyr? So, with nowhere to rest, you continue exploring the city, comforted only by the slosh of your waterskins. The streets lie deserted except for a few beggars who have no place else to stay. Some are too exhausted or sick to even extend their palms to you as you pass. Having had no luck finding quarter after your unpleasant entry to the city, you're beginning to wonder if you will be joining the ranks of the homeless when the sun sets. The loud buzzing of flies captures your attention, and down a nearby alleyway you spot a corpse, human by the cut of the dun-colored sajjadi he's wearing. The clothing is all you have to go by, since he's missing his head, and no doubt his coins as well. An elven child squatting beside the body is poking at the black, festering neck-hole with a stick. The first thought to cross your minds: Best not tarry here. Not long ago you passed an angry-looking templar, black-shrouded and escorted by three brutish half-giants, while you wandered through a deserted market square. The civil servant might have questioned you if you weren't in the middle of a sweltering intersection, and he didn't seem inclined to linger in the heat. It wouldn't do to have him come upon you now.

Group 2 - "Tiny" and Lanina The red sky above Tyr is smudged with the soot of cooking fires; the thick odor of exotic spices hangs in the still air. The sun shimmers ever downward toward its final corner, and a dull broil radiates from the stonework walls as people bustle through the gritty streets. You're in need of a special tincture, one to relieve the sweating sickness that has been plaguing people of the warrens, but you aren't yet desperate enough to venture into the Elven Market to get it. Instead, you walk the packed and narrow lanes of the Merchant Quarter, hoping to find what you're looking for and return back to the alms house before the Quenching Hour.

Group 1 - Thron and Dravor Thron has traveled far this day, and the cool air of the winesink is like a balm upon his lungs. Across from him sits Dravor, sipping mead from a ceramic flute. Both men are here on business, but as they have a mutual interest and have done business together in the past, a rapport of sorts has grown between them. A bottle of Kank-honey wine helps ease limbs and pass the time in conversation. The cheerful clink of ceramic and the drone of twenty different dialects fills the air of the establishment. It's evening, and the bloated sun is in its last corner, sinking like a neon scab upon the horizon. Outside, merchants and journeymen bustle home from another day's work, and slaves dart around them down the street, carrying supplies for their owners’ meals. The tavern is full of tired, sweaty people, but even the stench of so many Tyrians in one confined space does little to diminish the rich aroma of roast emu. For those with coin, tonight’s quenching feast promises to be one to remember.

DM's Note Please indicate in the title of your post whether you are part of Group 1, 2, or 3.

[zebedee]

Basha stares a long moment at the corpse in the alley. He watches the elf child curiously. As Artek and Maunek hurry along, worried about attracting Templar attention, Basha sees he is being left behind and hurries to catch up. His macahuitl slaps at his knee as he hustles on short legs. When he reaches the others, he says, "The song of this city is strange to me. Why is that flesh left behind? Is not the elf child thirsty? Do they not hunger?" He frowns as he looks around the market square through the blazing sunlight. "This song without trees makes no sense. A tribe without trees is lost. Are all these people lost?"

The halfling can deal with the heat - after all, he traveled across the tablelands to get here. But he has struggled with the idea of crowds ever since his arrival, the bustle and jostle of the city being completely foreign to him. He has tended to simply be overwhelmed, but every once in a while a detail will jump out at him as being incomprehensible. This corpse is such a detail.

[Admin Chuck]

Big'un follows behind Lanina, doing his best to be careful and remain out of everyone's way. His hulking form reaches near to twelve feet in height, and he weighs more than any two tembos combined, so not running into people or things can be difficult on the busy streets of Tyr. Fortunately most people are too intimidated by his giant heritage to make anything of it when he does accidentally bump them. Either that or they are unconscious.

The half giant is dressed much like Lanina, with tight leather wrappings weaved around the majority of his body, and a loose white sail cloak resting on his shoulders. In various places where his skin is not concealed by leather wrappings it is possible to see slightly glowing runes tattooed into his flesh. A long sloping brow frames deep set black eyes, while a thick mane of greasy black hair hangs limply down to his shoulders. Big'un's eyes slowly roam the street in front of the pair, doing his best to keep his eye out for anything they should avoid, Templars mostly.

It is an interesting site watching Big'un speak. You can see the thoughts form on his face long before they actually make it to his mouth. Some have said that he looks vaguely surprised right before he speaks, as if he didn't realize he was capable of speech. Others have compared his pre-vocalization face to being constipated, like he has to force the words through his slow moving brain to get them out in time to matter to the conversation. Either way it's clear that he has that look on his face now.

Big'un voice is similar to a landslide, rumbling and impossible to ignore. The concept of whispering doesn't seem to have ever occurred to the half giant either, so remaining covert is a particularly delicate operation if Big is involved. "What we finding 'Nina?"

[ShadowcatX]

Maunek walks along with Basha and Artek, his eyes glancing from side to side nervously until he stops dumbfounded by Basha's question. Regaining his senses he steps quickly to catch the other two, beginning to speak softly. "We do not eat the flesh of one another here, it is a considered a bad thing to do. And people will think you are bad if you do it while you are here. But do you two not think perhaps we should report this to the templars? What if that. . .person has family? What if they were a noble, or heaven forbid a templar?

Growing up as a noble and then as a student in Raam Maunek was largely shielded from the horrors of life in the bad parts of town.

[Birched]

Artek frowns in confusion. "Are you mad? The templars have already seen it, I have no doubt, and we'd be foolish to approach them for any reason. Keep your heads down, and let's get to where we are going. We're not reporting it, we're not touching it, and we're certainly not eating it." He gives the halfling a pointed look with this last statement, just to make sure there are no misunderstandings.

"It was probably a bad idea to even stop to talk about it." Artek makes a move to keep walking.

"And yes, we're all lost here. The only thing scarier would be finding out that we were not lost, and that this was the only world meant for us."

[zebedee]

Basha shrugs, but follows Artek's lead and resumes walking. "Not fresh anyway. But it seems a waste. What of Maurek's question? Do human families not honor their dead? Who will tell his story?"

[Elucidus]

In front of Big'un you see a tall female elf. Well, she doesn't look so tall with the half-giant towering over her. However, she is taller than most of the regular people in the market standing nearly 7' tall. She moves nimbly like most of her kind, though she moves with a quiet confidence most of her kind lack; with smooth long strides. Whether this is because she has a half-giant looking after her or some other reason you are unsure.

Lanina wears a bright elven outfit. She wears a white cloak with a light-blue scarf, the hood currently down showing her elven ears and her brown hair. Tight leather wrappings flow around her legs, waist, and shoulders, forming a tight outfit. She looks straight ahead, having a single mindedness; focusing on her goal.

When Big'un asks her what they are looking for she slows her pace and comes to a stop. Giving him her full attention, she won't make that mistake again. "We are looking for a tinct..." Remembering whom she is talking too she adjusts. "A potion. Remember the little girl we helped yesterday?" She pauses awaiting a nod to show she can move on. "We need more of that medicne."

[Birched]

Artek smirks, more relaxed now that the group is moving again and away from the dead body. "I imagine that you'll be telling this part of his story to people for some time."

Artek is reasonably familiar with Tyr, and so continues to lead the group toward their destination: the elven market, where they are searching for books, scrolls, or any kinds of tokens that Basha might find interesting in his search for information.

[zebedee]

Basha laughs. "Ha! I hear your jokes sometimes, now. But yes, my people will be ... interested? to hear this tale."

[Elfman6]

Thron gently swirls the last little bit of wine in his ceramic mug. He had to admit Dravor had been correct. He certainly had enjoyed the taste of this kank-honey wine. Thron could not say the same for the smell of the city though. The first few minutes through the Caravan Gate always left the half-elf gagging behind his hajib and even after that he could never truly ignore the stench created by the mass of civilization. He often wondered if people of Tyr were actually able to ignore it or if they thought that was the normal state of things. Perhaps he muses it is merely my elven heritage. My senses are much more refined...More than likely, I am the odd one out. With a shrug he quietly drinks the last few drops, letting the liquid slowly roll down the back of his throat before he set the mug back on the table and turns his attention back to Dravor.

"So you are right. The wine is quite good. I'll be hard pressed to find a superior vintage in the shadow of the Ringing Mountains for our next meeting." Thron smiles pleasantly while fishing in his garb. Producing a small leather pouch, the half-elf sets it carefully on the table before switching to the elven dialect. "Unfortunately I was not able to procure the particular root you were asking about. I was forced to take issue with an unwise fellow who decided to use the roots for his own purpose. Last spell he ever cast." Thron's face becomes emotionless then cracks the slightest smile as he notices the pouch move very slightly on its own. "That" he says while motioning to the pouch with a nod of his head, "is admittedly a poor replacement, but the venom of a Black Emperor scorpion does have its own charm." The half-elf sighs quietly and then shrugs. "Obviously the terms of our agreement have changed in your favour this time."

[ShadowcatX]

Smiling and more at ease Maunek replies "I hope this is only the first of many tales you return to your people with. But let us not forget that this tale should serve as a warning to us as well, this is the elven district and it is different than back home. We'd better keep our wits about us here."

[Ravenor]

Dravor eyes the twitching pouch with a raised eyebrow before letting his face ease into a comfortable smirk. "Yes, it is a pleasant enough drink to fortify the soul after a few hours of scorching heat and lung-filling sand." He sets the nearly empty flute down on the table as the sweet taste of the kank-honey slide across his tongue. The bard taps his finger in thought, comtemplating the payment offered by his associate. When Dravor had meet Thron some time ago, he had not thought much of the druid at first. Far too at ease in the wastes, it must be sun stroke, he remembered thinking at the time. But the simple nature of the half-elf and the fact he had yet to try to backstab Dravor, allowed an easy friendship to blossom.

Dravor carefully lifts the pouch by two fingers pinching its mouth, feeling the weight in his hand as he calculates in his mind. I might be able to make a few batches with this but it is still a poor substitute for what I really desired. The bard sets the pouch back down before Thron and lifts his drinking flute back up, "Black Scorpions are a semi-dangerous pest at best and their venom, while packing some strength, lacks a great deal of the heart-stopping potency that I find many of my clients pay large sums to possess. It would unfortunately take a few dozen of such specimens as these to equal just one root stalk of the other. A mere reminder when you head back out to the wastes." The drinking flute touchs his lips lightly as Dravor drains the last of the drink. "That being said, I do have some finished product from what you brought me on your last visit and even with this visit's minor disappointment, I can still cut you a fair deal. Much better than one you'd get from a dealer in the Elven Market." Dravor waves his free hand, moving his fingers as several delicate glass splash-globes appear between the digits. "Your's for a mere one hundred Ceramic pieces. Or something of equal value of course."