S.P.I.R.E.: Sharn Private Investigation and Risk Elimination

Orientation
Welcome to S.P.I.R.E.

Session One, Part Two

One week earlier.

The members of S.P.I.R.E. sit in their headquarters, with the Commish, patiently awaiting for Caraji d’Sivis to arrive and give them their orientation material. New hires to S.P.I.R.E., they chit-chat with one another, killing time, barely aware of the rustling of papers in the next room.

“I can’t tell you how excited I am to have you all here,” the Commish beams, “This is exactly what I’ve been hoping for. I tell you, when I was with the Gua—” he stops short, with the approach of a particularly serious-looking gnome.

“Welcome to S.P.I.R.E.,” she announces, barely looking up. “You’ve been gathered here today for a number of reasons – one of which is your first assignment, and second of which is for training, so that you all understand the rules by which S.P.I.R.E. adheres to.” Moving quickly about the room, this figure in fine Brelish garb, she distributes piles of papers to the waiting employees. The Commish moves quietly out of the room as she begins her speech.

She goes through each point in the employee handbook, meticulously, making sure not to skip a single word. Satisfied, she finally raises her gaze from the packet at hand, and at the slightly stunned members of S.P.I.R.E. “Any questions?”

They raise some concerns, mostly in regards to holidays and the specifics regarding the wearing of antlers, but, overall, they seem to understand. All signing, in their own ways (Bastion crudely drawing a B where his signature is needed), they hand back the packets to the gnome, who then wordlessly begins to leave the room. At the doorway, she turns, remembering something.

“Ah yes,” she continues, “You first assignment is in regards to a playwright, whose prize possessions, one, a new manuscript, and two, her mobile stage, have been taken from her. It is your charge to find the thieves, and retrieve her belongings. Juliet awaits you in the lobby with all the details we have.”

And as quickly as it began, their orientation was over.

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Florida Session Info - 1

Attendance: Ed, Colin, Shannon, Donald, Rob, David
XP per Attending Player: 525

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All the World's a Stage
And All the Men and Women are Merely Crashing, We're Crashing! AAAAAA

Session One, Part One

The scene is above Sharn, nighttime. At the hilt of the Dagger river, you can see the myriad lights that pinpoint the various communities within the city, some brighter than others.

The scene is above Sharn, closer now. The countless towers dominate the skyline, and even this late in the evening, the bustle of activity is hard to ignore. The city comes alive at night.

The scene brings us closer now, to the Firelight district, where a gang known as the Macabre Theatre is barreling through, narrowly avoiding bridges and their occupants with a recently-stolen elemental vessel.

Grinning beneath his mask, one of the gang members remarks, “I think we lost ‘em.” He looks back over one of the bridges, where Sharn’s guard is on foot, trying to find a path to cut them off. The vessel soars through the air with ease, with another member of the gang at the helm.

It’s an unusual vessel; one half of it looks strikingly like a boat, as many elemental vessels do, but the other half has a high wall, curtains, a raised stage – the billowing ring of air that supports it flies through an aperture cut into the wall. This ship was made for mobile performances; just the sort of ship that the Macabre Theatre has been looking for.

Turning back to his superior, the lookout on the vessel confirms his previous thought, “Yep. No way they’re catching up to us now.” Having more fun than he’s ever had, the pilot barnstorms yet another bridge. As they pass under it, there is a thud; a half-dozen new forms appear on stage. S.P.I.R.E. has made the scene, seemingly out of thin air.

Enters Bastion Vice, a mad Q’barran dragonborn; Echelon Thrice, inventor, explosives expert; Pepper Pinchpenny, an invoker of the Flame itself; Ironwood, a vine-covered warforged; Nocturne, an ever-changing shadow; and Rayan Kirsdarken, a storm summoner, if nothing else. Six cameos in a play that the Macabre Theatre was hoping to get rave reviews in. And now it’s looking like they’re about to be upstaged.

Not a moment is wasted, as the members of S.P.I.R.E. and the Theatre clash swords and all manner of other weapons. The Theatre is clearly outmatched, however, as they’re more accustomed to play-acting than actual sword-play. Bastion engages half of the Macabre crew by himself, while their leader (wearing the most ostentatious of the costumes) draws swords to try to fend off Nocturne and Ironwood.

It’s almost over before it begins. Echelon began, immediately, empowering his allies armor and weapons as they entered into the fray. Rayan and Pepper make use of the elemental ring, and fling a pair of the gang into it, sending them spinning and flying off into the night of Firelight. Bastion, distracted, catches a swift kick in the dragonbits from one of the gangmembers, and may have overreacted in his retaliation – only the smell of a strong acid, and the sloughed-off skin of the offending gangster remained. Ironwood held their leader in position whilst the sly Nocturne introduced a few superfluous holes into him, filling the air with arterial spray, after which Ironwood knocked one of the remaining cronies between Pepper and Rayan, two seemingly towering figures now.

Wordlessly, Rayan looked down upon the cowering Macabre member; throwing his sword aside, and throwing up his hands, he said, “Alright! OK! I’m done! But…” looking over towards the melting remains of a fellow gangmember at Bastion’s feet. “You killed our pilot.”

Nocturne wiped off his blades, sheathed them and said, without an ounce of worry on his voice, “No problem. Echelon can pilot this thing.”

Echelon, a bit less confident, looked up at Nocturne, and asked a simple question, ”...what?”

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Prologue - Part One
How I Put the S.P.I. in S.P.I.R.E.
Former Sharn guard commissioner, Michael Mallory, couldn’t believe it had already been 7 months since his “retirement”. He remembered the hashed together ceremony, hastily thrown together to quickly usher him out. He was still sour about it, the whole thing stunk of… well, despite his keen investigation skills, he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it stunk of. Perhaps they were right, though, perhaps in his age he was losing his edge. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, sorting through a stack of papers in a vain attempt to distract himself.

Outside, the well-crafted sign, emblazoned with the acronym and words “S.P.I. – Sharn Private Investigation” clattered in the wind and rain, making an awful noise throughout the building itself. It was always raining in Sharn, Michael remarked to no one in particular. It was maddening. He couldn’t believe it had already been 6 months since he went into business for himself, hoping to use his honed skills in the private sector. But, nothing interesting had turned up; a few unfaithful spouses here and there, a missing person or two – certainly, they fell into the purview of what he was capable off but… Michael was restless.

Amidst the rain pattering against the windows of his building, and the relentless racket of the sign outside, he heard something else. A soft slap against glass, some bit of debris sticking against his back office window. Half-hoping it would provide him with another distraction, Michael rose, approached the glass, and found it obscured by an errant bit of parchment. Opening the window, he pulled the paper inside. It was heavily damaged from the storm outside, sloughing off the window in pieces as he dragged it off, but still remained legible, albeit torn.

Placing the soggy parchment on his desk, he gingerly reassembled it, like a puzzle. He was displeased to find it to be an advertisement. “Deathsgate Adventuring Guild!” it proclaimed “Join our ranks to explore the vast wildernesses of Khorvaire and the wilds of Xen’drik for untold adventures and riches!” He scoffed at the pamphlet, rolling it up into an oversized spit-ball, tossing it into a nearby bin. There were more adventures in the city of Sharn than the world over, if only you knew where to find it, he thought.

And it struck him. That was it. Storming out of his office, to the lobby, he approached his secretary, a young half-elf girl who was referred to him by a family friend.

“Juliet,” he began, “Juliet, listen hon, would you be a doll and get the preliminary paperwork for registering an official adventuring guild.”

“Uh huh,” Juliet replied, half-bored, half-distracted, “Shore thing, Mikey.”

“And contact the Sivis house,” he continued, “I’m going to want to put out advertisements as well.”

A bit more interested now, Juliet looked up and asked in her heavy Southern Brelish accent, “Huh. What brought this awn, Mikey? Got an itch for adventohin’ alla sudden?” She stood, getting ready to put on her robe and heavy hat.

“Just a gut feeling,” Michael beamed, “been in the business as long as I have, you have to go with your gut.”

“Awright, Mikey,” Juliet sighed, “so long as you’he shore ‘bout this.”

“Never been more sure about anything in my life.”

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