06-29-2016, 02:11 PM
Herein lies the adventures of one Ilrian Rivier, told by his own hand. I met Master Rivier about twenty years ago, when the good-man was nearing his hundred and fiftieth birthday - a ripe old age for a half-elf. At the time, I was naught but a simple scribe looking for a way to earn some coin. I, to this day, do not know how or why Master Rivier came to me, but he approached me as I entered a rather, and I am loath to admit it, seedy establishment.
"My boy," he said. "You have the bearing and look of one who shall be renowned throughout the land. I present to you this," and with that, he withdrew a simple key. "This shall take thee to a house, no more than a hairsbreadth away. Therein, thou shalt find thy fortune."
With that, Master Rivier disappeared into the night, pointing left towards a dilapidated house. Baffled, I went there, opened it, and found a library of scrolls! All written in the hand of, I was to assume, Good Master Ilrian Rivier himself. I present now, the first of his adventures:
Ilrian Rivier has only been drummed out of the military for nearly a month now, living the good life in Osca, capital of the Empire. His bonus has been blown on gambling, wine, and other, less savory, things. However, it is now, as he runs low on money that he decides to find work.
What does Ilrian have in his backpack?
Scroll.
Worn-out long sword.
Mead.
Bracers.
Necklace.
Potion.
What kind of potion is this?
Violently / Dark.
A berserker's potion, stolen from his last battle. With a grimace, Ilrian puts it back into his backpack.
Is there anything written on the scroll?
(Likely | 3[d10]) No. +Event: Carelessness / Opposition
Well, there once was one of Ilrian's greatest poems written there, but some drunken arse spilled his wine all over the parchment, making the scroll all put useless. Ilrian kept it simply to remind himself why he should not ever write in a tavern.
Was Ilrian given the necklace?
(50/50 | 4[d10]) No.
Did he take it from a dead enemy?
(Somewhat Likely | 8[d10]) Yes. +Event: Passion / Status quo
Was it his mother's necklace, worn by the raider who kidnapped Ilrian's mother? [Author's Note: I interpreted Status Quo to mean Ilrian's childhood]
(Likely | 7[d10]) Yes.
Does Ilrian have any of his bonus left?
(50/50 | 8[d10]) Yes.
A d10's worth of silver?
(50/50 | 2[d10]) No.
A d20's worth?
(Somewhat Unlikely | 1[d10]) No, and...
Only a d6 worth.
4 = 4[d6]
Ilrian sighs. "Only four silver," he says with a grunt of frustration. "Won't go very far, especially towards the buying of a lyre."
The seedy tavern Ilrian has been staying at is near empty, save for a handful of customers scattered about. One has the look of a sailor, recently returned to port; a woman with the ringed eye tattoo of an Islander. One looks like trouble, all hard muscle and tattoos, with a nasty glint in his eyes. A third looks out of place, like some nobleman's second or third son, come to spend father's coin on drink and companionship. A swath of empty cups surround him. The last sits awkwardly in her seat, swaddled in robes. A priest of some sort, perhaps? With a shake of his head, Ilrian stands and heads to the publican. "All paid up, old chap?"
(50/50 | 10[d10]) Yes, and...
"Yes, and here's a little something for being such a loyal customer," the fat red-faced dwarf says with a grin and a wink. One tooth gleams golden in the light of mid-morning.
The dwarf hands Ilrian a wine-skin. The half-elf takes a swig. His eyes light up. "Is this Alban red? Year...612? THE 612 Alban? I say, you're quite the gentleman. Or gentledwarf as the case might be."
With a laugh the publican shooes Ilrian away. "I figured you'd be leaving today, probably won't be back for a year, knowing you lot. Well, enjoy wherever it is the tides take you, boy."
With a nod, Ilrian makes for the door. He is intercepted, however, by:
3 = 3[d4]
The drunken nobleman rises. With an inebriated shuffle, he stands before Ilrian. "Shir," he slurs. "Did I hear that dwarfsh gave you Alban 612? I'll pays yoush twenty gold for it." The thug nearby glances up at that.
Roll perception
15 = 15[d20]
Ilrian notices the nasty man in the corner draw a dagger underneath the table. "Come along, drunk man," the half-elf says to the nobleman. "We can discuss this elsewhere."
Does the nobleman go with Ilrian?
(50/50 | 8[d10]) Yes.
"Well ifs you inshist, ossifer." The drunkard stumbles toward the door, Ilrian supporting him.
Does the nobleman's retinue await outside?
(50/50 | 2[d10]) No.
The streets are crowded, as only Oscan streets can be. Throngs of people move hither and tither. The early autumn air is still a little warm, and the breeze carries the smells of urine, feces, sea-salt, roasting meat, and body odor that makes up the stink of the city. The noble slightly recoils and raises a sleeve to cover his noise. Even from a healthy distance, Ilrian can smell the fancy perfume the drunkard wears.
"Come along, noble gentleman, let us find your home."
Does the noble know how to get back home?
(50/50 | 2[d10]) No.
"Okaysh, turn left here, follow the street, make another leftsh, a right, and than left againsh...." The noble stops to vomit against the building. Ilrian can hear a cry of dismay from the dwarf inside the building.
"No time, my good man. I do believe we are going to be robbed if we stay here." Ilrian forces the noble into the crowd, hoping to lose the thug from inside the tavern.
Does the thug find them?
(Somewhat Likely | 5[d10]) Yes, but...
Keeping one eye over his shoulder, Ilrian notices the tough following them. Besides being muscular, the tough also happens to be rather tall and is able to see right over the heads of many of the Oscan crowd. "Blast and damnation," Ilrian murmurs. "Do you happen to have a dagger," he asks the noble.
With a drunken flourish, the man pulls out an ornate dagger. "Heresh you go." Ilrian takes it, and leads the noble into an alleyway.
Does the thug notice?
19 = 19[d20]
The thug narrows his eyes and follows.
Ilrian decides to stab first and ask questions later.
Ilrian attacks when the thug comes near the alleyway!
19 = 19[d20]
The thug notices the incoming blow and dodges out of the way. He roars and leaps into the alleyway. Time to brawl!
Thug Initiative:
19 = 19[d20]
Ilrian Initiative:
14 = 14[d20]
The thug winds up his arm and swings a wild but powerful hook.
10 = 10[d20]
His fist misses Ilrian by a hair but strikes the dandy nobleman right in the gut. With an "ooompf" the drunk falls to the ground unconscious.
Ilrian lashes out with his dagger!
20 = 20[d20]
Ilrian snarls and stabs with his dagger, aiming for the big man's wrist. Expertly, the dagger digs into the thug's arm. An artery is severed and blood starts spurting. The street tough starts whimpering. Dealt
6 = 6[d6]
Damage.
Does the tough keep fighting?
(Somewhat Unlikely | 1[d10]) No, and...
Does he run away?
(Somewhat Likely | 9[d10]) Yes.
The thug grasps his arm and runs away, cursing and crying as blood seeps between his fingers.
Ilrian turns to the drunkard sprawled unconscious at his feet. "What are we going to do with you now?" The half-elf wonders aloud with a sigh.
Character info, worthy of note:
Ilrian Rivier
Half-Elf Bard
Age: 31
Str: 12 (+0)
Con: 17 (+1)
Dex: 14 (+0)
Int: 16 (+1)
Wis: 14 (+0)
Cha: 14 (+0)
Backgrounds: Son of a Rancher, Priest, Cavalryman
I am using a vaguely DnD style system, for those curious.
Also of note, the world was one I generated using the Yes/No/And/But tools. It turned out to be a late Antiquity style Roman-esque Empire on the verge of collapse, with our boy Ilrian here coming from a Hispania-like province where he was raised by horse farmers. What follows are his adventures in that world.
Lastly, elves, dwarfs, orcs, goblins, kobolds, etc. all will make an appearance. However, elves and dwarves it is worth pointing out are not immortal - they live to about 250 years with proper health care, diet, exercise, etc. Half-elves lie to about 100 - 125, again assuming good health etc. With that, I hope you enjoyed the first of (hopefully) many adventures, heroics, trials, and tribulations of Ilrian Rivier!
"My boy," he said. "You have the bearing and look of one who shall be renowned throughout the land. I present to you this," and with that, he withdrew a simple key. "This shall take thee to a house, no more than a hairsbreadth away. Therein, thou shalt find thy fortune."
With that, Master Rivier disappeared into the night, pointing left towards a dilapidated house. Baffled, I went there, opened it, and found a library of scrolls! All written in the hand of, I was to assume, Good Master Ilrian Rivier himself. I present now, the first of his adventures:
Ilrian Rivier has only been drummed out of the military for nearly a month now, living the good life in Osca, capital of the Empire. His bonus has been blown on gambling, wine, and other, less savory, things. However, it is now, as he runs low on money that he decides to find work.
What does Ilrian have in his backpack?
Scroll.
Worn-out long sword.
Mead.
Bracers.
Necklace.
Potion.
What kind of potion is this?
Violently / Dark.
A berserker's potion, stolen from his last battle. With a grimace, Ilrian puts it back into his backpack.
Is there anything written on the scroll?
(Likely | 3[d10]) No. +Event: Carelessness / Opposition
Well, there once was one of Ilrian's greatest poems written there, but some drunken arse spilled his wine all over the parchment, making the scroll all put useless. Ilrian kept it simply to remind himself why he should not ever write in a tavern.
Was Ilrian given the necklace?
(50/50 | 4[d10]) No.
Did he take it from a dead enemy?
(Somewhat Likely | 8[d10]) Yes. +Event: Passion / Status quo
Was it his mother's necklace, worn by the raider who kidnapped Ilrian's mother? [Author's Note: I interpreted Status Quo to mean Ilrian's childhood]
(Likely | 7[d10]) Yes.
Does Ilrian have any of his bonus left?
(50/50 | 8[d10]) Yes.
A d10's worth of silver?
(50/50 | 2[d10]) No.
A d20's worth?
(Somewhat Unlikely | 1[d10]) No, and...
Only a d6 worth.
4 = 4[d6]
Ilrian sighs. "Only four silver," he says with a grunt of frustration. "Won't go very far, especially towards the buying of a lyre."
The seedy tavern Ilrian has been staying at is near empty, save for a handful of customers scattered about. One has the look of a sailor, recently returned to port; a woman with the ringed eye tattoo of an Islander. One looks like trouble, all hard muscle and tattoos, with a nasty glint in his eyes. A third looks out of place, like some nobleman's second or third son, come to spend father's coin on drink and companionship. A swath of empty cups surround him. The last sits awkwardly in her seat, swaddled in robes. A priest of some sort, perhaps? With a shake of his head, Ilrian stands and heads to the publican. "All paid up, old chap?"
(50/50 | 10[d10]) Yes, and...
"Yes, and here's a little something for being such a loyal customer," the fat red-faced dwarf says with a grin and a wink. One tooth gleams golden in the light of mid-morning.
The dwarf hands Ilrian a wine-skin. The half-elf takes a swig. His eyes light up. "Is this Alban red? Year...612? THE 612 Alban? I say, you're quite the gentleman. Or gentledwarf as the case might be."
With a laugh the publican shooes Ilrian away. "I figured you'd be leaving today, probably won't be back for a year, knowing you lot. Well, enjoy wherever it is the tides take you, boy."
With a nod, Ilrian makes for the door. He is intercepted, however, by:
3 = 3[d4]
The drunken nobleman rises. With an inebriated shuffle, he stands before Ilrian. "Shir," he slurs. "Did I hear that dwarfsh gave you Alban 612? I'll pays yoush twenty gold for it." The thug nearby glances up at that.
Roll perception
15 = 15[d20]
Ilrian notices the nasty man in the corner draw a dagger underneath the table. "Come along, drunk man," the half-elf says to the nobleman. "We can discuss this elsewhere."
Does the nobleman go with Ilrian?
(50/50 | 8[d10]) Yes.
"Well ifs you inshist, ossifer." The drunkard stumbles toward the door, Ilrian supporting him.
Does the nobleman's retinue await outside?
(50/50 | 2[d10]) No.
The streets are crowded, as only Oscan streets can be. Throngs of people move hither and tither. The early autumn air is still a little warm, and the breeze carries the smells of urine, feces, sea-salt, roasting meat, and body odor that makes up the stink of the city. The noble slightly recoils and raises a sleeve to cover his noise. Even from a healthy distance, Ilrian can smell the fancy perfume the drunkard wears.
"Come along, noble gentleman, let us find your home."
Does the noble know how to get back home?
(50/50 | 2[d10]) No.
"Okaysh, turn left here, follow the street, make another leftsh, a right, and than left againsh...." The noble stops to vomit against the building. Ilrian can hear a cry of dismay from the dwarf inside the building.
"No time, my good man. I do believe we are going to be robbed if we stay here." Ilrian forces the noble into the crowd, hoping to lose the thug from inside the tavern.
Does the thug find them?
(Somewhat Likely | 5[d10]) Yes, but...
Keeping one eye over his shoulder, Ilrian notices the tough following them. Besides being muscular, the tough also happens to be rather tall and is able to see right over the heads of many of the Oscan crowd. "Blast and damnation," Ilrian murmurs. "Do you happen to have a dagger," he asks the noble.
With a drunken flourish, the man pulls out an ornate dagger. "Heresh you go." Ilrian takes it, and leads the noble into an alleyway.
Does the thug notice?
19 = 19[d20]
The thug narrows his eyes and follows.
Ilrian decides to stab first and ask questions later.
Ilrian attacks when the thug comes near the alleyway!
19 = 19[d20]
The thug notices the incoming blow and dodges out of the way. He roars and leaps into the alleyway. Time to brawl!
Thug Initiative:
19 = 19[d20]
Ilrian Initiative:
14 = 14[d20]
The thug winds up his arm and swings a wild but powerful hook.
10 = 10[d20]
His fist misses Ilrian by a hair but strikes the dandy nobleman right in the gut. With an "ooompf" the drunk falls to the ground unconscious.
Ilrian lashes out with his dagger!
20 = 20[d20]
Ilrian snarls and stabs with his dagger, aiming for the big man's wrist. Expertly, the dagger digs into the thug's arm. An artery is severed and blood starts spurting. The street tough starts whimpering. Dealt
6 = 6[d6]
Damage.
Does the tough keep fighting?
(Somewhat Unlikely | 1[d10]) No, and...
Does he run away?
(Somewhat Likely | 9[d10]) Yes.
The thug grasps his arm and runs away, cursing and crying as blood seeps between his fingers.
Ilrian turns to the drunkard sprawled unconscious at his feet. "What are we going to do with you now?" The half-elf wonders aloud with a sigh.
Character info, worthy of note:
Ilrian Rivier
Half-Elf Bard
Age: 31
Str: 12 (+0)
Con: 17 (+1)
Dex: 14 (+0)
Int: 16 (+1)
Wis: 14 (+0)
Cha: 14 (+0)
Backgrounds: Son of a Rancher, Priest, Cavalryman
I am using a vaguely DnD style system, for those curious.
Also of note, the world was one I generated using the Yes/No/And/But tools. It turned out to be a late Antiquity style Roman-esque Empire on the verge of collapse, with our boy Ilrian here coming from a Hispania-like province where he was raised by horse farmers. What follows are his adventures in that world.
Lastly, elves, dwarfs, orcs, goblins, kobolds, etc. all will make an appearance. However, elves and dwarves it is worth pointing out are not immortal - they live to about 250 years with proper health care, diet, exercise, etc. Half-elves lie to about 100 - 125, again assuming good health etc. With that, I hope you enjoyed the first of (hopefully) many adventures, heroics, trials, and tribulations of Ilrian Rivier!
