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CHARACTER:
Wandering
is the mark of the free. Never be in the same place
twice. Travel is the absence of bonds to tie you down, so
cast off your bonds and explore the mists of the
multiverse. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the
reward. Releasing yourself from all your bonds opens the
doorway to inspiration, and from there, the imagination
will take you anywhere.
RULER:
There's
no doubt about it, Ptah is God here. Little dark has been
compiled on Ptah, Egyptian power of travel, craftsmen,
and artists, who remains one of the least understood of
his pantheon. Why a Power would sacrifice his might is
beyond the understanding of most mortals, not to mention
the Powers. The dark of it is that Ptah is the eldest of
his pantheon, and the closest to a creator that the
Egyptian Powers have. It is he who was responsible for
sculpting the Ka, or spirit bodies, in which petitioners
would dwell (and rumour has it the Powers as well). Some
event, now shrouded by the mists of time, caused him to
relinquish his power to Ra, and to forever live in
silence. What could cause a Power to take a vow to never
speak is left to the speculation of sages, although it
doesn't seem to bother Ptah much. He would be just as
content talking amiably with some traveller as drifting
quietly through the Ethereal.
DESCRIPTION:
Opener
of the Way follows Ptah through his wanderings in the
Ethereal, though it can exist independently of him
anywhere. A planewalker wont necessarily know she's
crossed the boundary into his realm, for it is as misty
as the Misty Shore itself. Slowly, however, the mist
becomes stratified, divided into ribbon-like layers.
Depending on which mist ribbon a cutter focuses, she's
going to see a different aspect of Ptah's imagination.
Most bashers don't realise this dark, and they'll just
wander on by. Those that do know the dark aren't blinded
by the Powers might, for Ptah does not wish to scare off
the visiting travellers. However, no sound is possible in
his realm, as an extension of his vow, so spells with
verbal components fail. Strangely, communication is
possible, but by a form of telepathy, wherein those
conversing can relay mental images, though only those
based in creativity (e.g.. "check that ribbon for the
portal" doesn't function, but "open eyes to the mist of
our gateway" will).
There
are an infinite number of mist ribbons, each centred on
taking a body to certain plane, for a price. When a
planewalker just wants to get to a plane, not caring
about her specific destination, she's going to need to
sacrifice a story of her travels to Ptah, one that she
will never tell again. If she needs to get to a certain
layer or world, Ptah requires something more substantial,
such as sacrificing a favoured spell, potent magical
item, or a truly creative piece of art. Ptah can also
guide the planewalker through a gateway into a specific
city or realm, though the price is high, often involving
the sacrifice of some honoured position, membership in a
faction, or experience level loss. By traversing Ptah's
mist ribbons a planewalker can reach any place in the
multiverse, though the trick is finding his realm in the
first place.
SERVICES:
Besides
the mist ribbons, little in the way of services can be
found here, though the planewalker with a true travellers
heart can expect a warm reception and a place to rest
free of harm. A powerful priest of Ptah, who's rumoured
to be striving toward Proxyhood, calls himself Ophericon
(Planar / male human / P11 / LN), and has been seen
within Opener of the Way more and more often. He can help
travellers find supplies in the Ethereal, direct them to
colour pools outside of Ptah's realm, and show them the
safest routes. Fact is, he knows the Ethereal like the
back of his hand. Course, there's bound to be an ulterior
motive for his presence in the realm; chances are he's
pursuing his last step towards becoming a proxy, so woe
to the berk who gets in his way.
CHANT:
Whatever
the eyes see, the ears hear, and the nose breathes goes
straight to the heart and the conclusion reached by the
heart is then spoken by the tongue. This is how Ptah
commanded all the gods into existence, as the chant goes.
It is because of his penchant for creating all that he
speaks that he was silenced; this makes sense considering
his soft spot for persecuted artists. Chant has it that
he brought into being, by creationspeak, the serpent
Apophis and other such terrors of the Egyptian pantheon.
Nobody would want to imagine him creationspeaking
something even worse, yet no one will ever know if he
could create something better.
Mik
Mathews the Red
Being a description of the famous Pathwalker
(by Belarius)
MALE
HUMAN
PLANAR
14th level fighter, 4th level bard - dual classed,
Society of Sensation
Neutral (Good)
Str 17, Dex 13, Con 15, Int 15, Wis
16, Cha 17
HP 85, AC -3, THAC0 7 (6 with Str bonus)
EQUIPMENT:
Red leather splint mail of blending +3, ring of
protection +4, long sword of the planes, cubic gate
(Arborea, Carceri, Mechanus, Ysgard, the Gray Waste),
iron bands of bilarro, luckstone.
SPECIAL:
60 ft. infravision. +1 to saves vs. poison. +1 to
surprise checks. 10% chance of detecting lie (20% with
humans). Sensory touch. Weapon specialisation (long
sword). Has the following thief abilities: PP 50%, DN
70%, CW 70%, RL 75%, DM 45%. +1 resistance to charm.
Alter moods. History and magical item identification.
Scroll use. +2 saving throw vs. sound-based attacks.
Rally friends.
Mik
Mathews is a living legend. In planar terms, most people
have heard his name somewhere. A trader and taskmaster of
extraordinary skill, Mik Mathews has spent the last
thirty years running all manner of goods across the
planes for whoever offered the most interesting jobs.
From shipping wine to Gehenna to bringing larvae to the
Outlands, he's worked for a lot of people and knows the
planes like few mortals can.
An
impressive man, even at his current age of 50, Mik is not
tall (5'5") but radiates a veritable aura of respect and
talent. His curly red hair is cropped close to his head,
and a fiery beard with newly appearing streaks of white
adorns his square jaw. His eyes are bright green and his
skin is a dark orange hue from years in the sun. Mik's
trademark clothing is a red leather coat that's run
knee-length and black leather pants (this is actually a
suit of armour, magically concealed). He typically wears
horned walking boots and red gloves. His attire
eventually stuck him with the nickname 'The Red' or just
'Red.'
Mik
is very well educated, having spent at least a year in
Thoth's library (he was careful not to look for anything
specific, and thus never was addicted to the library's
capacity). Well-read and articulate, he can recite
verbatim a number of famous ballads and epics, as well as
sing like a Fierre and dance with grace and
poise.
Born
and raised on the Outlands, Mik was a bright lad with a
cheerful smile and robust build. Mik's mother died in
childbirth, but otherwise his early years were
comfortable. A champion rider, his skill with a mount
(any mount, by now) is surpassed only by the Hinterland
bandits. His father was a bard of some repute (many a
fairy tale book in Sigil bears the name of Old Man
Mathews as author), and Mik heard tales from across the
planes throughout his childhood. When he came of age, his
father brought the young man to Sigil, where he joined
the family faction. Mik followed in his father's
footsteps for several years, becoming a bard of
respectable skill himself.
This
all changed when a powerful and disgruntled wild mage
cast Mik and his father into the depths of Carceri.
Surrounded by traitors on all sides and eager to escape,
the pair quickly learned the age-old rule of the Red
Prison: those banished there must become as powerful as
the being who banished them before they can escape. Mik
very quickly learned to use a sword as much as his
tongue, and the pair slowly worked their way to an
escape. Though valiant, Mik's father never made it, dying
at the hands of a pack of trolls. Mik escaped alone, into
the Outlands, starving and weakened, but survived long
enough to be picked up by a passing caravan.
Though
still in mourning over his father's death and scarred to
the core of his being by over a year in the Plane of
Traitors, Mik quickly grew accustomed to caravan life.
His aptitude showed, and the caravan leader soon started
showing him the ropes of managing the wagons, the mounts,
the people. when Mik was able to go it alone, the caravan
leader (an old man named Roc) retired, leaving Mik in
charge. So, at the age of 20, Mik began his travels in
earnest.
Over
his thirty years of travel Mik has been on every Out
Planes at least twice, has visited every gate-town, and
has made regular visits to the Astral, Ethereal, and
Inner Planes. Though a man of action more than a man of
words, Mik has retained his extensive repertoire of lore.
Able to fight toe-to-toe with fiends and even having
outwitted a nalfesnee (only once, mind you), Mik is a
force to be reckoned with.
ADVENTURE
IDEAS:
- Mik can be a helpful NPC in any
adventure which calls for a caravan or trading centre
(Dead Gods - Chapter VI, Strange Bedfellows, Militancy
Justifies the Means, etc.). Because of his relative
power, it is recommended Mik not assist the PCs in
combat, representing a friendly NPC instead.
- Mik hires the PCs as guards within
a caravan to one of the Lower Planes. He also, however,
specifies that he believes another worker of his is a
spy, and the PCs must find this person. Ideally, the
adventure continues once the caravan has reached its
destination, perhaps as a murder mystery in a Lower
Planar castle.
- A bit worse for wear, Mik is
starting to feel the burden of his age. The PCs are asked
to help him seek something akin to a Fountain of Youth
(high-level adventure, possibly on an epic scale). The
generality of the idea allows DMs to come up with their
own artifacts/sites to keep their campaign
balanced.
The
Rilmani Conspiracy
Dark from the Stygian Chantslinger
(by Rip
Van Wormer)
In
the hardest to find regions of the World Tree or Mount
Ollie are kips that seem to screamingly defy the way we
look at how the planes fit together.
Your
first clue might be when all of your dweomered items
peter out or maybe you're a mindtickler whose subtlest
senses all go blind all sudden like. I once saw a deva
scream in agony like a Clueless at a bladeling disco as
she suddenly lost all contact with her god.
If
you're a real blood you might see the signs of a rilmani
infestation before you get in trouble: shrubbery half
trimmed and half wild, a mound of fresh dirt next to an
old sinkhole, or a stream of gibberish next to erudite
poetry. That's the rilmani alright -- Balance above
all.
If
you're more bloody than Blood you might not know
anything's different till you meet the rilmani
themselves. Like as not they're holed up like cloistered
monks communing with their body odour, stacked up like
fish in a sardine dead-book, or like the legendary
Sleepers the powers store here and there to stave
off this or that foretold apocalypse. If you stumble on
to these bashers they'll perk up like Spectators and rush
out quick as you please. These are choice cut rilmani,
mind you: paragons of their race, advanced souls with few
peers. They'll boil the dark out of you one way or
another: what are you doing here, who do you work for,
what side of the Balance are you fighting for, if any.
Then they firmly usher you out of their private little
theatre, although some bashers've sworn they've been
altered subtly -- by what skill or craft they can't tell.
No one remembers being made to forget anything either,
not that memory's worth a yugoloth's words in such
zones.
So
what's the dark behind it all? What kinds of theories and
axioms have the Guvner's dreamt up to explain it? The
only link we can forge is that both Mountain and Tree are
variants of the World Axis that manifests itself most
purely in the Spire. It's like these most famous pathways
are reflections of that great rivet that connects
everything, and in some strange, shallow places they even
behave the same way.
That's
the best I've heard chanted, anyway. If you hear more,
pass it back to me and I'll feel it for funny notes and
see how it casts.
I'll
see you in the next story over, cutter...
Copyright 1998 by Jon Winter
and respective authors,
artwork by Jeremiah Golden and Jon Winter
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