westwhere | arc iii: house of ravens

arc iii: house of ravens | arrival

Hi, everyone! Our Arc III arrival event covers 20 Feb-11 March and doubles as a test drive. Participants don’t need an invite to apply by 11 March. Reserves live here. Try to label if you’re a test drive tourist or an old timer — and have fun!

COTTAGEVORE

TDM TOURISTS | OLD TIMERS | COMMON PROMPTS | NOTES

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TDM TOURISTS: THE SCENIC ROUTE

You flinch awake, hand weighed by a sharp stick, stone, or makeshift torch. Your clothes sit stiff, splattered with dried dirt and dusted leaves. Here and there, scratches and shallow wounds litter your limbs, the marks of days of dazed survival alone that you mistily remember. Your strength and supernatural powers are currently largely depleted, but should recover within two to three days.

As they journey, characters discover stretches of the eerily silent forests briefly transform into woodlands or recognisable spots of nature from their home worlds — perhaps they’re now seeing the meadows outside their home towns, their backyard orchard, or a fondly remembered lake pier. These images are short-lived illusions that other characters can also see.

Mind your steps: the mirages try to lure characters deep into the forest, where unfriendly animals and hidden pits wait.

A. THE MORE, THE MERRIER

Trailing through the labyrinthine woods, you stumble upon a group of heavily armed bandits who are already herding several captives. Depending on how agitated you are, expect shackles, leashes and tusk pendants that allow characters to speak and glean local tongues — including the thugs' barked instructions. The outlaws are on a three-day voyage to cursed village Ke-Waihu, where they intend to sell their prisoners to the Hok-Shinn criminal clan.

■ Ensure fellow captives survive the trek, avoiding leg-hold traps, snares and hunting nets.

■ Beatings continue, but morale never improves: help mouthy prisoners with their tasks or wounds.

■ Capture or forage food — and stop naïve captives from going deeper into the forest to follow glimpses of beautiful (wo)men or cries for help. There’s nobody there.

■ At night, prisoners are locked in stitched-shut tents — get friendly quickly.

B. JUST CRUISING

The bandits never saw you coming — but you’ve been watching them collect their prey. Perhaps you’ve even found others like you — also spared enslavement, but condemned to trail after the thugs towards Ke-Waihu. Characters can pick up discarded translation and communication tusk pendants, scraps of food and frail weapons.

■ Beware: superstitious thieves frequently patrol at night, while woodland predators are emboldened by the absence of fires.

■ Leave messages or instructions to the bandits’ captives (tree husk carvings, anyone?) and maybe try to rescue them.

■ ...or leave them for dead and trot on to Ke-Waihu. You savage.

» GO CAMPING, THEY SAID

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OLD TIMERS: CURSES FOR ONE, CURSES FOR ALL

After a bumpy ride aboard the Salamera II, the party arrive at idyllic village Ke-Waihu.

They are greeted by Hok-Shinn Weisi, the slippery mayor who officially helms Ke-Waihu, while his brother Sairen leads the clan’s heavy underground ventures. Weisi’s flippant and spoiled son Taksui is the Merchant’s local liaison. The botanist Enam and his apprentices set out to explore, taking the group's baggage along.

■ Weisi was told the party members are families of Taravast refugees, seeking finer fates in Ke-Waihu. Each family has been assigned a humble but serviceable dwelling — see what luck has in store for you.

■ Weisi officially welcomes the newcomers in Ke-Waihu’s main bustling marketplace. Every merchant, fishmonger and beggar stops to watch as foreigners are briefly stripped of their ostentatious jewels, clothes or weapons, soaked in iced water and told to embrace the village by accepting its old, its new, its ugliness and its truths.

■ To join the community, characters must absorb and redeem the wrongdoings of a deceased ancestor. They are served flasks of a thick, bitter brew that slides down mildly corrosive and cold.

■ The brew’s effects vary: some drinkers feel only a sudden, electric awareness of the story behind the curse they inherited. Others feel scalded from the inside, agonising for hours. The ancestral curse effects start to take hold that night.

■ Characters are sent off to their new homes in Ke-Waihu — but are contacted within hours by one of Enam’s anguished apprentices. His master and his peers were captured by bandits while inspecting the elusive forests for plant specimens. These wicked men took everything: your goods, your Ellethian high fashion, your extra weapons, even your Sleeping Zenobius. Go get’em — but beware the deadly illusions of Ke-Waihu’s forest.

» DUDE, WHERE’S MY COMATOSE SLEEPER?

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ALL TOGETHER NOW

The thugs, the old timers, the test drive prisoners and their creepy watchers collide in the mist-drowned forests of Ke-Waihu.

A. BANDIT BANE

■ Infiltrate the thug group in, kick some outlaws’ teeth on the way out.

■ Release and escort roughened-up newcomers to Ke-Waihu, picking up strays along the way.

■ One of the thugs snitches that the remaining stolen loot is hoarded in a nearby secluded cave, drowned under foliage. The entrance is watched by large, agitated boars with startlingly hard, but not impervious skin. With gold, gems, guns within reach, anyone for pork dinner?

■ After speaking with the new arrivals, party botanist and guide Enam confirms they have been summoned to serve as weapons in this world’s ongoing conflict between warring undead factions. The Merchant, Enam’s collaborator and the party’s patron, is leading otherworlders east, where forgotten beacons might return them home.

■ The villagers Ke-Waihu, Ke-Waiar and Ke-Waicai reportedly know the location of such a beacon. They will unveil it if the party breaks the curse of the House of Ravens.

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B. THE BLUSHING BRIDE

When the group returns, Ke-Waihu is celebrating the joyous procession of dozens of lavish 'weddings.' The (false) rites are carried out to commemorate the marriage of a huntsman and his fox bride...

■ The roads are awash with flower petals and rice, houses extend their hospitality freely, and the rich give away coin. Even Hok-Shinn clansmen don their finest garments and hand out gifts and favours, while lawmen grant pardons to captives held for minor offences.

■ Villagers pose as 'brides' and 'grooms' to play act public weddings. Characters are asked to participate as brides and grooms, or to join the wedding retinue of a NPC villager. Characters can unknowingly marry, but not become foxes.

■ The evening culminates in a grand market fete, with stalls offering sickly sweets and strong alcohols. Poets recite love songs, professional weepers wail to strangers that they lost their children to insidious in-laws, and petty clashes erupt among merrymakers.

■ Some of the NPC fox 'brides' seem to grow wide-eyed and alert, suspicious of the many hunting dogs that watchmen walk around the marketplace.

■ Come nightfall, 'wedded' pairs are escorted to suites in a large and extravagant inn. For each 'couple,' accommodations comprise one room for the retinue and a linked conjugal bedroom.

IF CHARACTERS MARRY A (FOX) 'SPOUSE':

■ They are handed three pieces of parchment before they are locked into the marital suite with their consort and their retinue.

■ Once alone in their 'marital quarter,' characters first enjoy polite conversation with their spouse, whose eyes start to glimmer golden, while their teeth and claws lengthen, their mouths distort to snouts and their hair reddens. The fox brides do not seem aware they are, in fact, foxes, but try to scratch, bite or maim their partners. Viciously quick, strong and prone to thralling their victims into spells of lethargy, these foxes could get the best of you — happily, the little parchment papers you received can share some survival tips.

■ Fool the fox spouse into thinking you are already married or pledged to someone in your retinue. Affronted, the fox bride will exile you out of the wedding room. Refresh the salt lines that surround the conjugal room, and gently steer the fox back if it flees overnight.

■ Your retinue and you should impersonate a hunting hound, down to howling, running on all-fours and sniffling. The fox will hurriedly isolate itself in the conjugal room, but will actively try to escape at night. Keep every inn door and window closed.

■ Become a widow(er). Call your retinue and make the best of your fists and a butter knife. You will need to kill the spouse a few times before they stay fully dead, each time reviving more and more fox-like in appearance.

AS A WEDDING RETINUE MEMBER:

■ Awkwardly hold watch outside the conjugal bedroom of the dashing NPC ~~cannon fodder~~ groom and his fox bride.

■ The NPC groom might request help as above — or might fall deathly silent. If that happens, villagers instruct, character must loudly ask if the wine pleases the couple. The flushed, visibly fox-like bride will then open the door to complain their new consort — clawed dead in the marital bed — won’t even share a wine cup with them. The fox does not seem to grasp they have killed their groom.

■ Defeat the fox at drinking — the fox bride can hold its cups, but slipping in some of the relaxing opiates on hand will help the cause. Sneak the NPC groom's corpse out with a buddy when the fox drops asleep.

■ Or prove you are a fairer marital prospect by verbally wooing the fox or doing battle with your retinue companion, to prove your worth. Your wingman may wish to throw the fight, feed lines, or generally smoulder. The fox bride will offer the NPC corpse as a betrothal gift.

Come morning, the villagers open the now-delapidated inn. Those who survive fox weddings receive braided bracelets of red, golden and tangerine rope, earning good will in the village. The murderous fox brides have disappeared — in their place, yellowed and dust-drenched bones 'sleep' in the marital beds, covered by withered and torn wedding clothes.

Villagers share the whole story: a huntsman encountered a fox goddess in the forest, when she had taken the shape of a beautiful woman. Lovestruck, he brought her back to Ke-Waihu as his wife — but the horrified villager slaughtered her and her husband on their wedding night. The fox god cursed the village to relieve yearly 'fox weddings,' during which the bones of those murdered during the previous 'conjugal' festivities rise as brides to terrorise new spouses.

Skipping the fox wedding rites, villagers say, shrivels their crops and depletes their food stocks for several seasons.

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C. A-HUNTING WE WILL GO

It’s all fun and wedding games, until one of the victims of the recent nuptials is the son of influential wine merchant Saguk Chaomin. He vengefully sponsors a a hunt to finally lift the foxes’ curse.

■ Saguk Chaomin assigns weapons — from knives, spears and sharpened sticks to bows, arrows and rifles operating on gun powder — alongside lanterns and climbing rope to the brave adventurers. The contingent splinters into smaller groups to avoid detection.

■ The forests now aggressively conspire to lead characters to their deaths: whether it’s through fostering illusions that trip them into gullies, or decrepit bridges that crumble, sending travellers into whirling river waters. Animals (excluding wolves) attack travellers fiercely. Keep a hunting hound close.

■ Characters with unusual physical features or suspicious behaviours — from supernatural powers to a fear of dogs — are accused of being shape-shifting foxes.

■ Fox spirits assume a mortal but resilient shape the day after the wedding — strong, large, feral and willy. They’re quick to bite, and their presence dulls the senses of hunters.

■ To exorcise the foxes, kill their mortal bodies or obliterate or repair their small, decaying forest altars. These are stone rings the size of one’s hand, often hidden at the root of ancient trees. Cleanse the altars of filth, vermin and predatory creatures, and replenish the stones with fresh river pieces. Beware rare fox spirits that come to protect altars or hide their young.

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D. WELL, WELL, WELL

In the wake of the weddings, characters head to their abodes, while test drivers are garrisoned in communal temporary shelters. Over the next few days, everyone may notice:

■ Villagers have a marrow-deep fear of the Hok-Shinn clan, whose members behave as if they are immune from repercussions.

■ Villagers tell eerie tales of strange encounters in their locked stables, abandoned houses or wells — they have seen a creature with the head of a beautiful woman, whose hair braids to form her snake-like body. 'She' slithers away once discovered.

■ Word spreads across the marketplace that dark waters have returned. A farmer’s well has dried, leaving only a thickened, tar-like liquid at the bottom. Another villager shamefully admits his well also dried a month ago, clogged by dark filth — the fount was old, and he assumed it had naturally depleted.

■ Horrified villagers speak no more of this, but superstitiously volunteer flower and food tributes for the Ka-Sanwon volcano. Mayor Hok-Shinn Weisi intercedes to reserve the resources for the upcoming return of the patron lord of the volcano’s three villages — the undead Beastmaster.

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QUESTIONS

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh, he didn't like that look. Fine, then. He was dropping the inquiry as if it had never been made. Happy, red-eyed Wrathion?

Gods, if only he could get a proper look at the man's teeth, without potentially putting himself in mortal peril. "Really? I don't mind being distinctive, but this is all a bit much."

A professional weeper begins to wail at someone nearby about the perils of insidious in-laws, and Wrathion scrunches up his face in distaste as he turns to watch.

A bit much indeed.

"Consider yourself special," he says finally. "Unique."

He turns back, tilts his head thoughtfully at Astarion.

"Elves are common where you're from?"

Is he fishing? Yes, he's fishing.

He shot an affronted look in the direction of the weeper. "Gods, if this is what they do for fun around here, I dread to think what tomorrow's going to be like." And his plans might possibly result in a funeral. Maybe a drink wasn't worth it after all.

A flash of a smile, fangs carefully hidden. "Thank you darling. I certainly find myself irreplaceable."

As to that question, though. "And whatever else you care to name. Everything makes its way through Baldur's Gate eventually." Even the things that really shouldn't be invited in. "And you?"

Baldur's Gate.

Everything makes its way through Baldur's Gate eventually.

That makes it sound like a sizeable location, but Wrathion cannot say he's heard of it. It could potentially be a Horde outpost, he supposes.

"Against all the odds, they seem to be among the most populous races."

Both the kaldorei and sin'dorei have been decimated by wars, yet for some reason every city he goes to is filled with them. Which makes it very strange to be in places so overwhelmingly human. Even Stormwind has more variety than this.

Against all the odds. What did that mean?

A lot might've happened in the past few centuries, but that wasn't just an elven problem. It had all come and gone and barely left an impression on him.

"Yes, well, we don't just wear out like they do," he gestures vaguely to the mass of humans around them. Most of them would be gone long before they even made it to a hundred years.

Although that reminded him of something. "I was told something about undead at work here," he leans in just a little closer, against his better judgement. "But they didn't say anything more. Do we know what kind of undead are running about? Lich? Vampires? Ghosts?"

Ah. An... interesting question. Wrathion turns to Astarion, thoughtful, then skims his eyes out around the guests -- inclines his head toward a quieter patch of the village.

"Lich is closest," he says, then -- "not here."

They have a cover story with the locals, groups fleeing from Taravast, but they don't know exactly what the locals know -- nor what they think of it all. He'd rather not be caught casually giving an opinion on something might later come back to haunt him. Raising an eyebrow expectantly he moves away from the crowd, towards the shadows along the outskirts of the village.

"Closest? Oh, wonderful. We're dealing with bespoke undead, then." Why was nothing simple these days?

But he really hadn't thought this through, when he'd pushed a little further with that question. He hesitated for a moment, weighing his options.

Gods, if Wrathion was a vampire, what would it matter if he stayed with the crowd for now? Better to confirm it now and get it over with, rather than be identified as a troublemaking spawn. Then he'd have the daytime to figure out how to respond.

With a sigh, he followed.

"Everything here is bespoke," Wrathion mutters as he walks, "and not in flattering cut."

He waits until they're a little out of earshot of the celebrations, hidden in the shadows of a building, then leans up against one of the wooden posts and folds his arms -- regarding Astarion thoughtfully.

"You were brought here by Enam, I assume, or one of the Merchant's associates?"

Just to confirm properly, before he gets too deep into this.

He feels distinctly vulnerable here. Isolated. But he won't show it, because that will just make it worse. Pretend you're comfortable where you are, and it might come true.

"He had something to do with it, yes. I don't remember anything before waking up in that awful forest," he gestures toward the edge of town.

"Why do you ask?"

Why do you ask is a troubling question, and speaks to Astarion not having enough information to keep himself out of trouble.

Which is unfortunate, given Wrathion is not the best person for this situation.

"All of us in the Merchant's party are not native to this world," he begins, as patiently as he can. "Quite obviously, the natives here are unaware of that. It's best to clarify who you are speaking with."

Just a tip: don't blurt your backstory without checking first.

"Oh, I know that part," he waves dismissively. It's insane, but he just went on a whirlwind tour of the worst the planes had to offer. He sees no reason to think it isn't real.

"I thought you were implying he was involved in this undead thing. You never know who might be hiding something."

Blurt out his backstory? No. Cheekily dance around it? Absolutely.

"He might be," Wrathion admits, "but in a cause-and-effect sense, rather than as an active operative. We're not certain of his full history, beyond being involved in some experimental activity involved magic mirrors. The fact that he goes by an alias isn't auspicious."

That usually indicates something to hide, after all. He tilts his head, thoughtful.

"The undead here work in factions, each with a figurehead who has different... talents, so to speak. Localised decay, mind control over beasts, and so on. It seems they have enough forces behind them to destroy entire cities, and those they haven't eradicated operate a sort of protection racket -- they offer something to the undead legions in return for being left alone. A city we were at previously sent supplies of weapons in return for their safety."

"Mirrors? Did any of them express strong opinions about Thay?" He doubted it, but honestly? It was worth checking. If this was all a Thayvian affair, then he'd have to think very carefully about what to do with the book he'd taken from that laboratory.

"And these lords of theirs--are they rivals? Allies? Something more?" Of all the mental images he'd brought upon himself tonight, that might be the one he regretted most.

Who, or what, is Thay? Person, place, type of magic? Perhaps even the world this person is from? Wrathion puts the word away for later investigation, offering a shake of his head.

"My understanding is there are many types of mirrors, all with different side-effects, but most give and then take something in turn. The one I personally encountered offered to grant wishes, but all with some degree of cost. As for the undead lords -- some appear to work together, some are more like rivals."

The Huntress and the Beastmaster he knows appear to operate together, or at least did during their attack on Taravast. If that is a permanent affair he cannot be sure. For that matter, he cannot say how they came to be -- or if they might be related in some way. An intriguing thought.

Probably unrelated, then. Unless someone started talking about the Zulkirs, he could count Thay out of this.

But that still left the locals, who sounded unpleasantly familiar. "And we were brought here to be their puppets. They haven't done anything to us, have they?" Shoved another creature into his skull?

"Not so far as I am aware."

Beyond a brief stint of trying to control Wrathion, but we're going to paper over that for now and live in a world where we ignore it and hope it never happens again.

"I've heard rumours this place has connections of its own to the undead. Underground trafficking of villagers to the forces of the undead lieges. I'd be on your guard, if I were you."

"Selling their neighbors into service? They must fancy themselves entrepreneurs." His tone drips with disdain, covering up an honest twinge of unease. Lovely. All the more reason not to care about the locals, then.

But all this talk gave him an idea, for seeking out what he really wanted to know. All of the outsiders here had previously been captured, hadn't they? He could use that. "Those lords must have made some attempt to control us. I don't remember anything about the kidnapping itself." And given the number of dazed captives hauled into the bandit camp, he wasn't the only one.

"Is there anyone here who knows how to fight back against mental domination? I'm not planning on being anyone's puppet."

The question catches Wrathion off guard.

It's something he's been thinking of himself, of course. Fighting back against the domination tactics of the undead lords.

Just... for a different reason.

It's borderline suspicious, then, that's this person is bringing it up at all.

"Nobody has told me they are," Wrathion says, which is entirely true.

He spent a great deal of time on it at home, himself, but nobody else here has told him it was a speciality of any sort.

There was a level of finesse to that answer that felt very familiar. And evasive. Why feel the need to hide that? That wasn't the way a vampire lord would go about deflecting it either. Maybe the dynamics here weren't as clear as he thought.

"I won't bite, you know." Because he wasn't sure if that was safe or even desirable, but it was the truth. "If we don't learn how to keep them out, who's to say they won't turn us against each other?"

His eyes narrow a little, thoughtful.

"Who's to say they haven't already?"

Not that he fully believes that, but if this person truly is so driven down this path then the thought is surely valid. They're terribly quick to trust a person they've just met, too, with all these answers. Then again, maybe Wrathion is just very slow to trust himself. Perhaps trust is normal, and he is the outlier.

That earns a raised eyebrow. "You lured me into an alleyway and haven't done anything unspeakable yet." He'd been worried he was dealing with something with sharper fangs than he had. Now he wasn't so sure. But usually it meant active spellwork, or someone to run away from very fast.

Neither were immediately in evidence. "Unless you're planning on changing that, you seem like a useful person to know."

Well, that sounds like a compliment. Wrathion is, admittedly, quite weak to flattery.

"Is the bar for usefulness as low as all that?"

'Yet to do anything unspeakable' is really quite tragically low.

Still, he would consider himself a useful person to know. By his own standards.

Well yes, his standards have slipped over the past two centuries, but nobody needs to know that.

"Having a little air of danger keeps things interesting. Everyone loves a rogue." He's smiling again, looking Wrathion over. "Especially a well-traveled one. You know more about these lands than I do." And he actually knows what an elf is.

Again, standards are very low at the moment. "If we're all going to be keeping secrets from the locals, I have to learn where not to tread."

He really is weak to flattery. When most of the reaction you face is mistrust at best, flattery to a fragile and self-inflated ego is tantalising nourishment.

"Not much," he admits, "there are plenty who have been here longer than me, although their level of friendliness varies. Being visibly different doesn't, at least, seem to have produced me any issues."

So hopefully the elf situation will pass without incident, at least among the party. The locals, well that's another story.

"Hm. Small mercies." He should hope being an elf wouldn't bother anyone. Though come to think of it--if no one here had ever seen an elf, had they ever seen a vampire? Heard any tales? He might just be able to pretend his more suspicious features were normal. The fact that he could walk in sunlight had been all it took to convince the other infected, but he'd still gotten the occasional odd look.

"I suppose that will help with this whole family nonsense we've been saddled with." It was a complete farce. "I don't even know who my supposed relatives are. We're not distant cousins now, are we?"

arc iii: house of ravens | arrival

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