Almraiven. The Shipbuilding port in southern Faerūn, actually Calimsham, it lays, sprawled by the coast, the largest wizarding center in Calimsham.
Many people meet here, and dotted around city, it is these that lure adventurers to help the city, luring them to join parties and obtain golden treasured.
One such poster forces it's alluring aura upon you, A poster asking for adventurers who need gold for simple work to join, requesting them to meet in a small grove on the outskirts of the sprawling mess known as Almraiven. From the poster it seems the 'job' should be quite easy, a mere guarding task.
It is here where you arrive, in the evening of the day, the sun's golden streaks alighting the sky with fire as it sets. There are many others like you here, many races, as adventurers come.
There is a platform there, and a small desk where such people who are going to help will sign up, some are asking for more information, and being told it will come.
((just say you come, and your initial actions here)) _________________ Living in Scoundrel Days
Verinth steps up to the poster and looks it over.
She's a rather striking woman. Not in terms of beauty, perhaps- though she is not bad looking. One gets the feeling that she's sacrificed beauty and pampering for skill at her job though. Her red hair is cut short and is fairly wild, and her skin is more callus and scarred than smooth. A thin scar stretches across her right cheek, and her face is angular and almost appears carved from stone. Her skin is a light tan, giving her an eastern desert dweller appearance which is wholly accurate.
A falchion with a glinting ruby on the hilt is slung across her back, and she wears leather armor.
After considering the poster, she heads over to the desk, possibly pushing aside anyone who might be in her way.
One of the shadows shift within the crowd. A young drow woman, she would look like to the surface dwellers. A young human woman to the drow. Long white hair, thin and sleek, yet untamed. Thin brown leather armour, hidden under a grey cloak. She watches the crowd, moving towards the poster. Work eh? Would do her good to find something to do round this place. Needed a better way to get money than pickpocketing...
Altheria moves over to the desk, slipping over to the queue, watching Verinth. _________________
A young man walks by and stops as he notes the poster. Slightly taller than most and dressed rather extravagantly, he stands out a bit even though he could probably pass as a local. His skin is a dusty dark hue and aside from a few strands of dark gray his hair is nearly black. His deep brown eyes and neat posture gives him an aura of calm thoughtfulness. It seems likely that he, like so many others around here, might possess some experience in the arcane.
With a thoughtful hmm he turns to read the poster, rubbing his chin slightly as he considers the offer. After a moment he turns and walks up to the desk, where he stands patiently, watching people discreetly. _________________ Character Descriptions | deviantArt
A figure dressed on a dull and unpolished Breastplate armor approaches the desk, nudging people aside with a wooden shield with a blank Scroll engraved on a side.
"so... This the place of the job?. Explain now, please" a clear voice with a native accent is heard from inside the helmet. _________________ "I run, therefore I am; more correctly, I run, therefore with any luck I'll still be." Rincewind, the Wizzard.
Presmer hmms and glances around at the people gathered. He begins to ponder all the ways something like this could be done more efficiently, like giant posters, or leaflets explaining everything.... and forms to fill out for those who are interested. Of course, that rules out those illiterate few, so perhaps they're looking for big, tough barbarians... Presmer begins to get worried that he might not get the job. _________________ Character Descriptions | deviantArt
There is a table standing up, and a man appears to have just walked up onto it, he looks at those gathered, and coughs.
"Could I have your attention please?"
A few of the guests don't hear, but are soon nudged by their friends.
The man at the desk rolls his eyes, and mutters 'charlatan' under his breath.
"We would like your help. We are currently having a problem concerning, well, bandits of a sort attacking trade convoys emerging from this place. All of our patrols, and escorts, have not attracted any of these thugs, so they seem an organised, and intelligent bunch."
He pauses to gauge reactions, before ploughing on.
"Our plan is that you will be in groups, each hopefully complimenting your individual skills. Then you will be assigned to trade convoys. Hopefully, you will be attacked. It'll be pot luck if you are. Nevertheless, you will be payed for your services."
He looks around.
"Please, sign up at the desk. Any questions?" _________________ Living in Scoundrel Days
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