[Game Thread] PART I: Cheat The Devil, Take His Gold!

[Gunslinger 19]

Our story begins late one afternoon, in the slums of Riddleport. On the streets, people bustle to and fro, going about their business. It's a fairly nice day today, save for the ever-present Blot: the shadow looms above the city like a black eye. However, it's been there a while, and the residents have more or less gotten used to it.

But it is not entirely business as usual in the slums today. One event has drawn a lot of attention, bringing crowds to one building in particular: The Gold Goblin. Today is the much-rumored tournament - "Cheat The Devil And Take His Gold!" - and no one wants to be left out of the action. The streets around the dome-like building are filled with people, some lining up to sign up for the tournament, others spectators, grouping up by the stalls. Atop the entrance, a larger-than-life statue of a goblin leers down at those below him, as though taking personal pleasure in accepting guests into his home.

Inside, meanwhile, the place is a-bustle with activity as preparations for the tournament continue. Just inside the main doors, two sultry beauties scantily clad and wearing faux bat wings, devil horns, and tails play the part of alluring succubi. Both are employees of the Gold Goblin, and they cheerfully register contestants for the tournament and process entry fees. Armed guards stand nearby to either side of an immense treasure chest into which each patron’s entry fee is added. The guards are on hand to not only protect the money, but to prevent any overzealous admirers from trying to dare the infamous touch of a succubus.

Beyond the registration table is the hall’s game floor. Dozens of gamblers, waitresses dressed as succubi, and bouncers mill about the room, wandering amid tables offering various games while dealers shuffle cards, roll dice, and spin wheels. Moving through this throng are a dozen more of the barely clad, batwinged vixens serving drinks and batting coal-black eyelashes flirtatiously for tips. In the center of the chamber is a short podium atop which sits a massive gold chest affixed to the floor by similarly gaudy chains. On either side of it stands a barechested bouncer in the exotic garb of some foreign sultan’s court. Each stands with muscled arms crossed over his chest and with a naked scimitar of prodigious size tucked through his waistband. High above them, from the hall’s cloth-draped ceiling, hangs a brass birdcage within which crouches a small, bat-winged, pointy-tailed devilish creature that sulks as it gazes over the room and occasionally rattles the bars threateningly.

It is upon this charming scene that our heroes arrive...

[DukeofTuring]

Mid-morning, Lon wanders into the Golden Goblin. He pays any (reasonable) entrance fees with a smile, then gravitates towards the cheapest gambling available, hitting on the waitresses and bantering with his fellow gamblers. Lon keeps an eye out for anyone that he knows, with an occasional glance towards the gaudy chest in the center of the room.

[Colonel Crow]

Barrin Ironhite, tall for a dwarf and broad of shoulder for anybody, picks his way politely through the press of the crowd, tugging at his wild, frizzy beard and nodding apologies whenever he accidentally brushes against one of the other patrons. He's looking for the bar.

When a spot opens, he rests his elbows on the bartop and takes off his gauntlets. Once he catches the eye of a bartender, he smiles, revealing one stone canine among otherwise startlingly white teeth, and says, "They ship any sundering ale out of Janderhoff up this way?"

[Gunslinger 19]

No official tournament games are open as of yet, but several unsanctioned games are taking place among the bar patrons. Some of them glared at Lon, telling him silently to piss off, but others look more welcoming - almost too welcoming, in fact.

Meanwhile, at the bar, the portly lady behind the bar smiles at the dwarf. "Why, naturally, good sir," she chuckles. She pours Barrin a mug. "Here to try your hand at the tourney?" she asks conversationally.

[Colonel Crow]

Barrin takes a long, deeply satisfying drink of the Janderhoff ale. There is some brewer's magic in it, he is sure, because wherever he had traveled in Varisia since he left the great Sky Citadel, he had always been able to feel the cool of the tunnels in a healthy pour of sundering ale. The taste of it recalled the limestone bones of the caverns, the fire of the forges, even good black mushroom bread. It tasted like home.

He was far from home now, of course, and he had left for good reasons. To see a bit of the world. To maybe leave a bit of a mark on it, something that people would remember. There was an Ironhite of the Janderhoff Ironhites here once, they would say.

Or so he hoped.

For now, he considers the friendly barmaid's question. "Never been much of a gambling man," he admits. "I was told this might be a good place to look for a bit of work."

[Tayln]

Jeukai was never a waiter. That much was obvious the moment she started walking past people, hearing the shouts of "Hey!" and "End of the line!". But she didn't listen; instead, she walked past them all and straight for the double doors, where a guard blocked her. She simply glared, and held out a paper to him, her name clearly printed and paid in advance. Snorting, she pushed past him, bumping her shoulder with him roughly as she stepped inside and straight to the bar.

Planting herself only a good 10 feet from Barrin she nodded, her chin jutting out for a minute. "Barkeep, how about a bit of whiskey over 'ere?" she smirked, her gloved hand coming up for her head to rest on. Her long black hair went down to her lower back. She grinned, tapping her other fingerless gloved hand on the bar while she waited.

[Gunslinger 19]

"Right away, milady," another bartender replies, his back turned as he pours the drink for the Half-Orc. He sets the whiskey down in front of her, not making eye contact with Jeukai. "There you go." he says curtly, before shuffling onwards to another customer.

"If yer looking for a job, yer lookin' in the wrong place," the portly lady tells Barrin. Half the folk in here are the type who can't keep two coins together t' save their life. And the rest are the kind that'r loath t' give up a mere copper." She's leaned in close by this point, speaking in conspiratorial tones with the Dwarf, but a shout from another patron makes her jerk upright. "Gots to go, enjoy your drink," she says.

[Oghain]

It was a rare locale indeed which made Gylmarix's usual attire seem normal and rarer still an establishment where he almost blended into the surrounding crowd perfectly. Both were the case as he entered the gambling establishment, following not a trail of carefully grown information or a summons or any such mundane call but rather a... seventh sense. While not certain of what was awaiting him in The Golden Goblin he was certain that whatever powers guided him wanted him to be there. As soon as he heard of the tournament that was underway his witches intuition or seventh sense (for, as all with arcane powers knew, the sixth sense was fact) urged him to be there; for what he was not certain but he knew that he must be at the tournament.

As such it was only a mild surprise to find that his multi layered, graveyard appropriate half robes half clothes and gnarled walking staff were the perfect disguise. Moreover, it only added to his image when his familiar Vryn landed atop his wide brimmed (and firmly un-pointed) hat. The end result was a face half in shadows and half covered by the low hanging edges of his hat, a single yellow eye gazing out mysteriously form within the shadows; such was the head perched atop what looked like a semi sentient, vaguely humanoid creature made of raggedy brown and black robes, clothes and all kinds of cloaks all simply piled on top of one another as each previous layer either falls apart or ceases to be effective.

Pausing for a moment just inside the entrance to the Golden Goblin, Gylmarix looked around as though seeking some form of sign only paying token interest in the strange creature caged high above.

[paiute]

Sand's wrists were the toughest and most callous part of his body but shackles always tore at the soul. As he washed off the filth of the dungeon in a horse troth he saw the commotion coming from the The Gold Goblin. He thought he put himself in prison long enough to escape the up coming addiction but someone had paid his bill. The lure of the Gamble suckered him in.

Sand approached the door in nothing but breeches. He stood at the door pretended to be a servant took a guys nice jacket and headed in.

"Thought I had it beat this time. Thought i tucked myself away long enough. By the gods lets get his over with."

His poise and manner strike up like a lantern in the dark. He's been here before, though a shadow of loss follows closely behind him. As he scrutinizes the floor he looks for the weak but preys on the strong. He steps up close to one of the succubi and speaks to her,

"I'm Lord Tallus. My purse is too full tonight and I've come weary of the wait. Let us not waste banter. Where might be the nobles' tables?"

He rubs her arm cautiously grabbing the succubus as though bumping into her to spread some of her luscious fragrance on himself so he could hide the sent of horse sweat and dungeon debris.

[Gunslinger 19]

"The tables aren't open yet, master," the temptress replies levelly, though she's clearly put off by the man's touch - and by his lingering stench. "In the meantime, perhaps the sir would like a drink? I would be only too happy to fetch you one." A bouncer is making his way through the bustle; not hurrying himself, merely making his presence known to Sand.

The room is growing more raucous by the minute as more alcohol flows into the mouths of the impatient patrons. There is no sign of anyone of authority as of yet - merely the bartenders, the "succubi" and the bouncers.

[Muggins]

Erica was late. Or, at least, she thought she had been - The Golden Goblin was crowded with people, rich and poor, and it was unlikely that they wouldn't let as many people in as they could. Most of them were suckers for luck and chance, hoping to win the grand prize that had been just so well-advertised by the founders of the inn. Not Erica. Erica was there for her friends, and a bit of business. They all lived closer to the slums and The Golden Goblin than she did, and had all probably left earlier too - in other words, she was going to get there before them. Perhaps, she thought, she would be lucky and make it to the inn before they made any foolish mistakes.

She never found her friends. Though Erica wasn't overly late, amongst the bustling crowd of people that held up both the entry line and the passage to the bar she couldn't see a soul of familiarity. As time ticked by, Erica began to loathe the place - if not for the absurd entry fee, then for the insecurity the patrons gave her. She didn't exactly feel comfortable here, especially not with the task of gambling surrounding her. She wasn't one for the dice, cards or lottery; she prefered making money through her business. As the half-tall Tiefling waited for the event to begin, she eventually managed to get to the bar and find a seat. A rather short man beside her, she went out of her way to order a cooling, calming drink to ease her nerves, ignoring the presence other other patrons for a while as she did so. "Some port," the alchemist requested, a slight smile finally breaking through her stale facade of irritation. "Well, if you've got any. If not, we'll find something, I'm sure," she continued, offering a slight glint in her eyes to the bartender in anticipation of some comforting alcohol in her stomach.

[DukeofTuring]

Lon wandered the floor for a while, but after he grew tired of searching the crowd in vain for a familiar face or an attractive game he wandered over to the bar. "A pint of whatevers on tap" he tells a bartender once he's able to get their attention. Lon takes any seat that's available, preferably one with a better view of the bar or the room, for the time being keeps his mouth shut. He does his best to watch and listen to the other bar goers as unobtrusively as possible.

[Gunslinger 19]

The bar is well-stocked for the occasion, and in moments everybody is served with what they asked for. It's busy, though; countless waitresses flit between the bar and the tables, carrying trays laden with mugs, wine glasses, and strange little goblin-shaped flasks.

Outside, the windows begin to darken with twilight, the room growing dimmer. As if in response to this, several employees enter the room with torches, shaped like pitchforks skewering straw heads. They use these to light several large braziers, and the room glows with an infernal hue.

A hush falls over the crowd as a short man climbs the central podium. He's accompanied by two of the "succubi", one on either side, and stands next to the gold chest. The man himself wears a formal suit, and his thinning black hair is slicked back. His left arm ends in a stump just above the wrist, and affixed to it is a bronze cap from which protrudes an oddly shaped key. This is Saul Vancaskerkin, the owner of the Gold Goblin and host of the tournament. Clearing his throat, he begins to speak.

“Welcome, one and all, to the Gold Goblin Gambling Hall and your chance to cheat the Devil and win back not only your soul but all of his gold as well.” He says this last as he pats the large chest before which he stands. “I hope you found your reception by the Devil’s lovely temptresses suitably entertaining.” This is met by a general murmur of laughter and a few catcalls. “Let’s take this moment to thank Old Scratch himself for attending this event. Not only did he loan us these lovely, dark angels, but he also emptied the deepest vaults of Hell itself to provide the gold for this tournament.”

With this, the portly man directs the crowd’s attention up to the imp in the birdcage. At the sudden attention, Old Scratch flies into a flurry of rage, banging the cage bars, spitting, howling, and screaming vile epithets in Infernal at all assembled. His theatrics are received with guffaws and even a smattering of applause. As the crowd dies down, Saul continues.

“Of course, he plans on replacing what he loses in gold with the souls of those of you who don’t win. The tournament rules are quite simple—as you play, you’ll earn more chips. And with those chips, you’ll be able to bribe your way out of the current Hell you’re trapped in, working your way down deeper until you get to Old Scratch’s treasury. Currently, all of you are Old Scratch’s prisoners in the first of the Hells, Avernus. If you want to work your way down to the ninth circle, you need to win games. Each time you win, you’ll be awarded a golden eye. If you come in second, you’ll get a silver tooth. And third place wins a copper heart.

These bits of flesh and bone are what the devils use in Hell for currency, and they’re what you’ll need to pay in order to bribe your way into the next layer of hell. The first player to win a game after reaching Nessus not only keeps his winnings for that game, but also earns back his soul and the ten thousand silver coins that the Devil put up for this tournament. You can, of course, decide to cash out your winnings at any time you want, but if you do, or if you run out of money entirely… well, that means Old Scratch gets you.”

Vancaskerkin grins evilly and the caged imp cuts loose with another profane tirade.

“And that earns you the Devil’s Mark and an escort out of the game hall until the tournament is over. What, you ask, exactly is this Devil’s Mark? Well, it’s something too utterly horrible to even contemplate. The forfeiture of your very soul, it is. But I suppose I can show you what it is— gods know I more than deserve the Devil’s Mark. In fact, better make it two, girls!”

With that, the two succubi accompanying him lean over and each firmly plants a kiss on Saul’s cheek with her ruby -red lips. When they pull away, their lip rouge has left clearly visible prints in the same shocking red on his cheeks. Saul beams as he cries out, “The Devil’s Mark, everyone!” which is greeted by a flurry of shouts, catcalls, and hoots. “Now, let’s cheat the Devil, AND TAKE HIS GOLD!” which prompts one more rabid flurry from the imprisoned fiend above, and with that, the tournament begins.

[Colonel Crow]

Barrin frowns over the barkeep's words and spins the stool a quarter turn so that his right hip is against the bar, concealed from view. He casually drops a hand into his belt pouch and runs his fingers over its contents.

Thirty-six coins.

He's lucky in that most of them are heavy gold, struck at Janderhoff. He can feel the rune of the dwarven mint even with his calloused fingers. The rest, his traveling money, is silver he's taken in change at the various Varisian ports of call he's visited since leaving home.

He has enough to see him live comfortably for another few weeks, and he doesn't really need to be comfortable. Say a month or two. Ten weeks worth of poor meals and poor lodgings at the outside. He'd hoped he would find some work he could turn his particular talents to long before that, but perhaps Riddleport was not so in need of stout hearts and strong arms as he'd heard.

Sighing, he signals for another drink, then turns his back to the bar to watch the crowd and then, with the man's speech, the start of the tournament. He's particularly interested in the caged creature suspended from the ceiling. Could it really be some denizen of hell? More likely a disguised halfling or gnome made up to look like a devil, or even some wizard's trick. But still, the reputation of this city…

Barrin leans back, drinking deep from the fresh-delivered stein, and

Dice Perception Check:

d20+6

(10)+6

Total = 16

studies the supposed devil through narrowed eyes.

[Gunslinger 19]

Old Scratch certainly looks realistic, though you don't knowledge(the planes) to identify.know enough about it to say for sure.