Irrelevance, 90 Letum 1999 GR
Vítday,
36 Autumn Colours 204 LE
Tharkis. City of the Witch Queen. A sprawling urban cancer that
infests twenty miles of stagnant coastline deep in the Great Dark.
Many are the tales told about this fetid hive. The infamy of Tharkis
has even found its place in the legends and religious teachings
of the Northern World. One city; ten thousands stories - each more
horrific than the last.
This story begins with a man called the Grey Minstrel. Picture
a bard of such superlative skill and talent that his voice makes
the undead weep. His is the gift to raise emotions where they didn't
exist, to instil shame, and wonder, and hope. These are powerful
commodities in the Great Dark, and the Grey Minstrel has become
rich and famous on his genius. Both have bought their problems,
and their enemies.
On this evening, the ninetieth day of Letum, the Grey Minstrel
is performing before his public once more, in a prestigious sea-kin
theatre called the Darkmantle. It is a damp and miserable night
in the city of Tharkis. The wind is not strong, and the mist is
already beginning to roll in off the sea, as hundreds of spectators
begin their dangerous journey to the theatre. It is not so thick
to obscure vision as yet, but as the night wears on, the mist will
thicken until an impenetrable blanket sits over the city.
The Darkmantle is located at the eastern most extreme of the sea
kin quarter of Wharfgate. The sea kin appear quite human-like, but
they are well adapted for life in the polluted seas of Tharkis,
their hands and feet are webbed and their skin exudes a pungent
slime that keeps them warm and well lubricated. They are known to
be great artists, and engineers. Their home in Tharkis reflects
this.
The sea-kin live upon a maze of jetties, piers and walk-ways that
spread out from the mouth of the Fallow Flow. The stagnant sea laps
lazily at the wooden supports, and leaves heavy rings of scum upon
them. The wooden boards are sodden with spray and mist, and creak
ominously beneath the feet of the theatre-going crowd.
And what a crowd it is! Edging their way slowly along the dangerous
platforms, the muted glow from numerous oil-lamps lighting their
way in the darkness, they are a strange procession. Many are sea-kin,
as well as other humanoids from the city such as half-bloods, tieflings
and goblinoids; some are nezumi; many are undead. The reputation
of the Grey Minstrel - is ability to conjure emotions long thought
lost - has induced many of these foul creatures from their hiding
places. Packs of ghouls and wights lurch through the darkness. Even
the odd wraith can be seen flitting through the mist.
Yet our attention must fall on six singular individuals, for they
will soon become the focus of our tale. The first is an imposing
figure clad in heavy black plate armour, the glow from its red eyes
visible through the slit in the helmet. The second is a hooded and
misshapen dark elf, with two heads rather than one perched on its
shoulders. The third is barely recognisable as a nezumi: its fur
is silver, its face armour-plated, its tail blood red and a huge
lizardine crest rises on its head and runs down its back. The fourth
is another rat creature, larger than the nezumi though less powerfully
built; ragged leathery wings are folded on its back. The fifth is
a humanoid in robes of flowing grey, a veil covering its face. The
sixth is some way behind the crowd and hurrying to catch up. In
appearance he is much like a hobgoblin, except his skin is a light
shade of blue and his demeanour seems even wilder than one would
expect of that race.
The theatre sits at the end of a long pier, and is bordered by
sea on three sides. By the time the crowd have reached this point
they are fully half a mile from the shore, and are feeling rather
exposed. The pier is wide, and the wood slick with the spray from
the surrounding sea. The entire structure shifts slightly in the
swell. The pier is about a hundred yards in length and terminates
in a great circular platform upon which the Darkmantle has been
built. The mist is not thick enough to hide its ominous form.
The Darkmantle is a massive cylindrical structure with an enormous
domed roof. The dome has been sculpted to resemble the body of a
gigantic black squid-like creature, and the dozens of supporting
pillars made to look like its tentacles. It appears for all the
world as if a great sea monster was attempting to devour the theatre,
and in the half-light, the spray and the mist one could almost believe
it was real.
There are a number of entrances to the theatre, and the crowd slowly
jostles through them as it is funnelled into a large vestibule.
A few fights break out - our chosen six do not participate, they
are either too cunning or too intimidating for that. Sea kin employees
step forward, attempting to divide the crowd between the several
entrances into the auditorium. One kor for the stalls, five rings
for the circle. One extra kor if you want a seat. They pay and enter.
The winged rat-creature, a being called Gazahi, opts for the circle.
The rest of our players enter the stalls.
The theatre is not plush, but possesses a grandeur because of its
size. The five enter separately into a great domed chamber, the
sculpture of a massive set of squid-like teeth hangs from the centre
of the ceiling. There is a bar down the left hand side, staffed
by sea kin selling beverages. One despairs at the amount of undead
in the house, and how takings could well be down as a result. The
very front of the stalls and the circle are given over to two rows
of benches. The rest of the sawdust strewn floor is standing room
only. Beyond the seating is the stage. It is currently empty.
The armoured figure remains at the back of the stalls. His deathly
aura and pointy armour makes sure that few stand too close. The
veiled skeleton takes a seat right in the front row, as if he is
anxious not to miss anything. The nezumi sits right behind him.
The two-headed drow crosses the room and stands in the far corner.
There is a great deal of noise in the chamber. The drow scans the
area as if looking for someone. He evidently doesn't find them,
and concentrates his gazes forward. A figure climbs onto the stage.
At first there is hush, then the crowd realises that it is not the
Grey Minstrel. Regulars recognise the obsequious Sillander, the
manager of the Darkmantle and their host for this evening.
"Thank you, thank you all for coming," rasps Sillander,
rubbing his hands together in miserly glee. "You are gathered
here to listen to the most accomplished bard of his generation,
performing exclusively at the Darkmantle. Before the Grey Minstrel
takes the stage I would just like to inform of you of some of the
other exciting events you can expect to see at this theatre over
the coming weeks."
The veiled skeleton stares disbelievingly at Sillander. Here is
a man who does not know how to work a crowd. The radically malformed
nezumi is the first to throw a random object at the manager: "I'm
a leader, not a follower," he explains conversationally to
the well-dressed necropolitan to this right.
Sillander agilely dodges the missile. "Next week," he
says over the hisses of displeasure coming form the crowd,"
we have the renowned conjured Avarius. Following that, and taking
us into the new year, the Darkmantle is proud to host a performance
of the lauded Tragedy of Eligos starring - "
But he does not finish his speech. A severed arm strikes him in
the chest, flops to the floor and then begins to slowly crawl back
to its own. Realising that he has outstayed his welcome, Sillander,
jumps down from the stage and runs for the bar. He is jostled by
a group of ghouls on his way. He realises that there is now only
one thing that will calm such a crowd and he gives the word. The
lamps in the Darkmantle dim, and all attention is turned back to
the stage.
Suddenly the door the auditorium bangs open. The blue-skinned hobgoblin,
running late, hurries into the chamber. He barges his way to the
front of the stage and stands next to the group of ghouls. The drow
eyes him suspiciously. But it is only a small diversion, for it
is time for the main attraction.
A man walks out on the stage. He is evidently half-elven, but he
looks old before his time. His hair is long, untied and prematurely
grey. There are lines on his face that look incongruous with his
elven heritage. His clothes are creased as if he slept in them.
The crowd would be hard pressed to imagine a less imposing figure.
But then he sings.
There are those in the audience who know what to expect, but many
others have not heard this before. It is a lament for the dead.
It is a song of loss and heartbreak. All the things that the party
had in their lifetimes and all the things they have thrown away
by their own stupidity, suspicion and malignance. Everyone in the
room, even the undead whose minds are usually long cold to such
emotions, find themselves brought to the edge of despair by the
Minstrel's voice. They find themselves feeling something.
The lament last ten minutes and when the bard finishes the room
is stunned to utter silence. All these evil and corrupted beings
completely spell bound by his actions. The grey-robed figure, an
undead being called known only as the Scribe of Tam has never known
life and is now feeling emotions for the first time.
The Grey Minstrel is shaking somewhat. He signals weakly to the
bar, and a nervous-looking sea kin, barely out of childhood steps
forward carrying a glass of water. The Minstrel drinks it slowly,
while the crowd remain in silence, and then hands it back to the
boy who quickly runs back to the bar. The Grey Minstrel then regards
the audience with his rheumy eyes, and begins to sing again.
This is a song in the style of an epic. The hero has been defeated,
utterly beaten - ground down by his life, by his choices and by
the very environment. The people here can relate. He is brought
to his own death and given a stark choice by Fate - he can either
die a meaningless failure or he can fight to regain that which he
has lost. It is rousing and it is inspiring! And it completely distracts
the audience from the danger that is about to befall them.
The theatre is attacked by a band of kytons (chain devils). They
begin to massacre the audience. The PCs spring into action and defend
themselves, but their attackers are very powerful indeed.
During the fight, the Grey Minstrel is wounded and crawls off stage
into the wings of the theatre. Jirokichi, the Scribe, Lycaon and
Gazahi follow him - presumably concerned for his welfare. Raegar
who has been very badly wounded and only has moments to live runs
after them as he has noticed the Scribe is a healer. Lord Revda,
extremely annoyed at the interruption of his evening's entertainment,
blasts the remaining kytons with a hell ball and then follows the
others. The theatre has been completely trashed.
The party discover the Grey Minstrel in a prop room at the back
of the theatre. He is dead. However, Gazahi notices that the Minstrel's
wounds are insufficient to have killed him. They quickly ascertain
that he was poisoned, and immediately suspect the Minstrel took
at the interval as the source of the poison. Raegar notices as a
strange wound on the Minstrel's chest, as if something pulled itself
free of the flesh and crawled away through a crack in the floor
and down into the sea. There seems no way to follow it,
Having regenerated their wounds Lord Revda, Lycaon and Gazahi decide
to go back and finish off the remaining four kytons. The others
determine to search the theatre to see if they can find any more
clues. Jirokichi suspects that Greta is responsible for the Minstrel's
death (he has put the Minstrel's body into his portable hole). After
a brief battle, Revda and the others despatch the remaining devils.
The Grey Man Index
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