THE KING'S BAY
At its heart, the hustle of hurried merchants and boat-bound traders never stalled. An aroma of ocean-life melded with the well-baked scent of brine as ships battled over the ebb and flow of empty space. The port lived up to its regal name, no stranger to the visibly prosperous, as finely dressed denizens from far off lands paraded across the docks at least once a day. Princes or princesses, knights or kings? Questions pondered by the awestruck eyes of children who watched by the water. A dock worthy of Stokbon, the Holy Capital of Falderen. Few would count the ranks of fishermen, who might rule any smaller bay. This place received many other imports of importance beyond the frivolity of fish.
That was not to say the King's Bay was free of fishiness. Let it be a natural law that wherever hung heavy purses, pickpockets followed, and wherever there was food, there would always be rats waiting in the shade. Like a welcoming maw, the gluttonous bay swallowed in all that came its way. It would be at the Northern end of the bay, a corner of that great mouth, where the shoveled food would smear against the edge. Left unwiped, that was where the filth would gather. Fester.
The Kraken's Cul-de-sac. It was a small, but oozing wound on the shining surface of Stokbon's distinguished dock. As carpets gave way to rotting, cracked planks, prosperity replaced with poverty. The shift from glory to guts was not subtle from the bay's lively heart to its diseased artery. The wooden railings that blocked portions of the Northern dock offered more splinters than safety. Envy and greed seemed sewn into the very woodwork of each of the four houses that encompassed The Kraken's Cul-de-sac. Each one seemed uniquely out of place, and exceedingly unsafe. At their center stood a wooden pillar, coated with algae and dripping endlessly. As night fell, it became a meeting place for beggars and failed fishers, future thieves, to commune with one another. To compete and compare their daily sufferings, and debate the greater foolishness of those more fortunate.
In his wandering, with some luck, Harlow did not meander into the rumored Cul-de-sac during nightfall. He failed to find any gathering of humanoids around the hideous, algae-coated wooden pike that marked the center point of the four ramshackle shacks. Only the literal rats skittered about shamelessly during the day. In the distance behind him, one could find the usual bustling of business from the dock's midpoint. The sun had seemed gentler back there, he thought, now feeling as though he had was standing too close to a fire. Even the air ran hot down his lungs, cooking him evenly, inside and out.
But that brutal mid-day heat did not remain, at least for Harlow. To his surprise, it ceased suddenly. Shade enveloped him, and he looked up to find it was not clouds that had rescued him. Beyond a veil of darkness floating above, there was no sun in sight. Typically, his hyper sense enabled him to peer through most fogs of variable thickness. This, however, was a dense, determined darkness, and it was centered over Harlow. A meager few were also caught in the shroud, though they continued as they were, aimlessly counting the years since hope. There was no seeing through this, as the wispy, stringy shadows hung over the Cul-de-sac like a bubble of gloom, shutting out the outside world.
In the new, dim lighting, Harlow spotted something glowing against the aforementioned wooden pillar. A small, purple sigil floated just above the wood surface some two feet above the ground. He approached, kneeling before the sigil. Nothing happened until his hand reached towards it. The trap sprung, as long wisps of shadowy energy burst forth from the marking. The Magia was blasted backwards at least ten feet away from the pillar, before he landed on his back. Markings of a deep, empty darkness painting his face and features as he lay motionless on the gooey dirt. His eyes were open, but he did not seem conscious, a light flickering dimly from behind his still optics. Rats skittered away from the scene into safe and muddy refuges, frightened by the noise.
When the trap was triggered, the sound of a ghastly explosion rippled throughout the bubble, loud enough to penetrate its shadowy shell and tremor across the busier part of King's Bay. Many seemed disinterested by the noise, dismissing it and returning to their important matters. Nothing good ever came out of Kraken's, after all. Others glanced towards the Cul-de-sac with a morbid curiosity, expecting a body, but saw nothing of note. Whom or whatever conjured the Shadow Wall didn't want people to notice and sound alarms. To anyone in the main area of King's Bay, the Kraken's Cul-de-sac would appear out of focus until approached, at which point the blackened fog-wall that surrounded it would become visible. Anyone who attempted to pass through would meet minor resistance, as if a slight magnetic force were pushing them back. This force would be felt more intensely to any magically gifted.
OOC:
This thread will involve some rolling and danger.
I made this mainly as a prompt for some friends, but if you're interested in joining, feel free to message me on Discord: @piggol
At its heart, the hustle of hurried merchants and boat-bound traders never stalled. An aroma of ocean-life melded with the well-baked scent of brine as ships battled over the ebb and flow of empty space. The port lived up to its regal name, no stranger to the visibly prosperous, as finely dressed denizens from far off lands paraded across the docks at least once a day. Princes or princesses, knights or kings? Questions pondered by the awestruck eyes of children who watched by the water. A dock worthy of Stokbon, the Holy Capital of Falderen. Few would count the ranks of fishermen, who might rule any smaller bay. This place received many other imports of importance beyond the frivolity of fish.
That was not to say the King's Bay was free of fishiness. Let it be a natural law that wherever hung heavy purses, pickpockets followed, and wherever there was food, there would always be rats waiting in the shade. Like a welcoming maw, the gluttonous bay swallowed in all that came its way. It would be at the Northern end of the bay, a corner of that great mouth, where the shoveled food would smear against the edge. Left unwiped, that was where the filth would gather. Fester.
The Kraken's Cul-de-sac. It was a small, but oozing wound on the shining surface of Stokbon's distinguished dock. As carpets gave way to rotting, cracked planks, prosperity replaced with poverty. The shift from glory to guts was not subtle from the bay's lively heart to its diseased artery. The wooden railings that blocked portions of the Northern dock offered more splinters than safety. Envy and greed seemed sewn into the very woodwork of each of the four houses that encompassed The Kraken's Cul-de-sac. Each one seemed uniquely out of place, and exceedingly unsafe. At their center stood a wooden pillar, coated with algae and dripping endlessly. As night fell, it became a meeting place for beggars and failed fishers, future thieves, to commune with one another. To compete and compare their daily sufferings, and debate the greater foolishness of those more fortunate.
In his wandering, with some luck, Harlow did not meander into the rumored Cul-de-sac during nightfall. He failed to find any gathering of humanoids around the hideous, algae-coated wooden pike that marked the center point of the four ramshackle shacks. Only the literal rats skittered about shamelessly during the day. In the distance behind him, one could find the usual bustling of business from the dock's midpoint. The sun had seemed gentler back there, he thought, now feeling as though he had was standing too close to a fire. Even the air ran hot down his lungs, cooking him evenly, inside and out.
But that brutal mid-day heat did not remain, at least for Harlow. To his surprise, it ceased suddenly. Shade enveloped him, and he looked up to find it was not clouds that had rescued him. Beyond a veil of darkness floating above, there was no sun in sight. Typically, his hyper sense enabled him to peer through most fogs of variable thickness. This, however, was a dense, determined darkness, and it was centered over Harlow. A meager few were also caught in the shroud, though they continued as they were, aimlessly counting the years since hope. There was no seeing through this, as the wispy, stringy shadows hung over the Cul-de-sac like a bubble of gloom, shutting out the outside world.
In the new, dim lighting, Harlow spotted something glowing against the aforementioned wooden pillar. A small, purple sigil floated just above the wood surface some two feet above the ground. He approached, kneeling before the sigil. Nothing happened until his hand reached towards it. The trap sprung, as long wisps of shadowy energy burst forth from the marking. The Magia was blasted backwards at least ten feet away from the pillar, before he landed on his back. Markings of a deep, empty darkness painting his face and features as he lay motionless on the gooey dirt. His eyes were open, but he did not seem conscious, a light flickering dimly from behind his still optics. Rats skittered away from the scene into safe and muddy refuges, frightened by the noise.
When the trap was triggered, the sound of a ghastly explosion rippled throughout the bubble, loud enough to penetrate its shadowy shell and tremor across the busier part of King's Bay. Many seemed disinterested by the noise, dismissing it and returning to their important matters. Nothing good ever came out of Kraken's, after all. Others glanced towards the Cul-de-sac with a morbid curiosity, expecting a body, but saw nothing of note. Whom or whatever conjured the Shadow Wall didn't want people to notice and sound alarms. To anyone in the main area of King's Bay, the Kraken's Cul-de-sac would appear out of focus until approached, at which point the blackened fog-wall that surrounded it would become visible. Anyone who attempted to pass through would meet minor resistance, as if a slight magnetic force were pushing them back. This force would be felt more intensely to any magically gifted.
Roll a Will Save. 1d100+5 per mastery rank.
On a 40 or higher, your willpower prevails and you pass through the wall without issue.
On a 39 or lower, you pass through the wall, but are assaulted by haunting, shadowy visions along the way.
On a 40 or higher, your willpower prevails and you pass through the wall without issue.
On a 39 or lower, you pass through the wall, but are assaulted by haunting, shadowy visions along the way.
OOC:
This thread will involve some rolling and danger.
I made this mainly as a prompt for some friends, but if you're interested in joining, feel free to message me on Discord: @piggol
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