Howdy, folks! We're just about to kick off these narrativized recaps, and I'd like to leave a quick message before we get started. Many of the scenes described do not have any official art, and as such, I'll be supplementing them with my own little mock-ups of what the scenes looked like. These designs are known as "oings," and are just quick little cartoon sketches. I hope you enjoy them! Additionally, to provide a bit of context on when certain characters will appear, Al will show up on the back third of Act 1, while Flint and Aimans won't be arriving until well into Act 2. In other words, get comfortable with Wren, Muriel, Atticus, and Spike, as they'll be the main cast for a while. Now, without any further delay, keep on reading as we dive into SMPR A1S1: "That Damned Contractor"!
We open on a brilliant, cloudless blue day in the Great Wide Empty. A slight breeze was in the air as Dr. Wren Amberstaer rode along the dusty track roughly carved into the sand. The day was fixing to be rather mild, at least as days go in the Great Wide Empty, and for that Wren was quite grateful. Dressed head-to-toe in a fine emerald-tinted academic garb--not an inch of skin showing--Wren had quickly found herself quite unprepared for the elements. Days became sweltering, and nights were deadly frigid. The bipolar weather had only served to frustrate Wren up to this point, much to the amusement of her only recently-vanished brother, Avourel. It had only been a day prior that Wren had awoken to find him gone without a trace, stranding her in the middle of a hostile environment with few resources and even fewer clue on where to go--Avourel had been the one leading, after all. Now, Wren rode on aimlessly, her faithful steed Aberdeen her only company. Stopping in the shade of a ruined farmhouse as dawn turned to midmorning, Wren patted the noble creature as she dismounted, sniffing in disdain at the grit and dust filtering through the air of the stale space.
Wren was, above all else, an academic. With four doctoral degrees under her belt, Wren prided herself on her conservational practices, alongside a medical degree and a religious degree, with a biology degree to round out the collection. Sifting through the ruins of this poor farmstead ravaged by sandstorm and scavver alike, Wren found a small spoutling creeping cautiously up through the sandy ground, much to her delight. Morning dew seemed to collect in a small basin where this plant flourished, and Wren wished it well, making sure to note down the characteristics of such a plant capable of thriving in the desert. Rooting around further through the cabinets of the abandoned house, Wren also came across a can of beans, miraculously untouched by the forces that be. Pocketing it, Wren re-emerged into the sunlight, satisfied with her exploration, only to find Aberdeen bolting in terror at the presence of a Strange Man!
Here we come to the second of our party, Muriel Penmangle-Castor. It is quite understandable why Aberdeen would bolt at the sight of such a man. Muriel was dressed much more for the weather and setting, sulking around in a ragged poncho draped in the moon and stars. His mass of frizzed orange hair would be enough to make anyone faint, and the perpetual glower on his face would be the deathblow upon coming out of that stupor. Muriel had a horse of his own, unnamed even after years of adventures with him. Muriel remained sullen and cantankerous even as Wren accosted him for causing Aberdeen to go bolting off into the wild pale yonder, demanding an apology. None came, but he did begrudgingly allowing Wren onto his horse after she offered him that same can of beans she had found as payment. The two rode away from the wreckage of the house, bickering as though they'd been enemies for years.
Let's hop over perhaps five miles, to the town of Charley. Here, we shall come to meet the third of our party, Spike Speagle. Spike, the ruffian that he was, was on his way to collect his dues from the notorious bounty-setter and contractor, Jonithas Frew. Having set up his operation out of Charley's old bank, Frew had locked down a solid quarter of the boom-town as his own, dubbing it the "business district." Spike was a known face among the business district, frequently taking up odd jobs that Frew needed done, regardless of the job's nature. Frew needed someone killed? Spike was on it. Frew desired a particularly sparkly ruby ring owned by the sheriff? Spike would have it done faster and quieter than anyone else in Charley. As long as Frew kept the money pouring forth, Spike would stay at the spigot. As Spike entered the office, he was met with a familiar, if somewhat ghastly sight: Jonithas Frew himself, a wheelchair-bound skeletal man, forever thumbing through the largest ledger of names, dates, and amounts owed Spike would ever see. He passes Spike his dues, before advising him on a future job. Apparently, Frew explained, there would be an influx of fresh recruits for a scavving run out into the nearby Flayed Ruins. His sources told him one of these newcomers was already signed on by his boss. Spike pondered the offer, but didn't let it get much further than that for the time being. He collected his dues, and made for the biggest bar in Charley, known as Fill'er Up. Fill'er Up, run by Ms. Fleur DeBossard, acted as a brothel as well, and was opposed to Frew's way of digging into Charley. DeBossard and Frew had found themselves quite frequently at odds, tensions always simmering just below the surface. The only thing keeping them in line was Mr. Sconney Coleson, the sheriff in Charley, who more often than not played the mediator instead of the sheriff. After gambling and winning his dues back and then some, Spike then went to the bar, drawing more than a few angry glares from patrons familiar with his penchant for taking Frew's jobs.
And now, we arrive at the last member of the party for the time being, Mr. Atticus Freeman. Atticus found himself dumped out of the timeless void his boss, an enigmatic businessman known only as The Patron, had kept him in for the past week. Sending him with the descriptive mission of "get to Charley and check in with Jonithas Frew once there," Atticus was exhaled into the Great Wide Empty with nothing but a blank briefcase, and the suit he was wearing. Atticus, much the same as Wren, was finely dressed, with a blue-accented suit and corresponding bolo tie. The briefcase was a slate grey, and could not immediately be opened. Atticus himself had curly brown hair that was kept in a neat ponytail, as well as piercing green eyes that seemed not to fit the blue aesthetic The Patron was going for. Anyways, Atticus was dropped into the sand, and was immediately kicked in the chest by Muriel's horse, who reared back, dumping both Wren and Muriel onto the dusty track below. Muriel had failed to see Atticus blip into reality, and as such, could only watch in detached annoyance as the horse kicked the poor man in the chest, trotting off a few steps in an agitated gait. Wren hopped to her feet immediately, medical instincts kicking in. After healing him, Wren helped Atticus to his feet, apologizing profusely in Muriel's place. This didn't come without a shared glare between the two. Atticus seemed unphased, mostly just in awe of the barren, ashy desert surrounding him. The stark brightness of the sun above beat down on Atticus, and he felt a headache coming on as Wren prattled off words of penance and comfort. Instead of replying to the apology, Atticus asked where Charley was. Wren, noticing the unaddressed apology, offered Muriel's horse as recompense, much to Muriel's chagrin. Fed up with the entitlement Wren was showcasing, Muriel handed her the reins to the horse and stalked off, muttering about ungrateful academics and their lack of respect. Thoroughly peeved, Wren in turn handed the reins to Atticus and stalked after, shrilly shouting insults back. Atticus, unsure of what to do, simply walked with the horse's reins in hand, following after the pair. All three walked the last half-mile into Charley.
Arriving in a huffing cloud of dust, Atticus quickly left the horse with Wren and Muriel, beelining it for the town's library. Muriel was just about to part ways with Wren, never wishing to speak with her again after such an aggravating morning, but was stopped by a question. Wren, somewhat ashamed, asked about any work she may be able to find. Muriel mentioned that he was heading to the contracting office of Jonithas Frew in order to sign on for a scavving mission into the Flayed Ruins. Wren accompanied him into the office, seemingly on edge in this tense pinprick of civilization in the otherwise lawless Great Wide Empty.
Meanwhile, Atticus arrived at the library, dusting himself off as he stepped inside. A worrying theory wriggled around in Atticus's mind, and he wanted to get it checked out. While perusing the stacks, he felt a presence behind him. The silky smooth voice of The Patron crooned out from behind one of the dusty bookcases, advising him to head to Frew's office for his assignment. Relenting, Atticus acquiesced, theory going unanswered for the time being.
Spike, on the other hand, had made up his mind about working the job Frew had offered him. With a few drinks in his system, Spike was feeling set for just about anything the world could throw at him. Getting up from Fill'er Up's bar, he stalked off into the heat of midday Charley, hat tipped low over his face and cigarette hanging between his lips as he returned once more to the dusty interior of Frew's contracting office. Passing the secretary, Spike took note of two odd fellows sitting a few chairs apart in the waiting room. The woman, a regal elf, was staring daggers at a scruffy-looking man who was hastily jotting notes down in a journal, every once in a while stealing glances over at her. Spike stifled a laugh as he recognized the scruffy fellow as Muriel Penmangle-Castor. They'd worked together on more than one occasion, and Spike had found him to be quite capable, if a bit obsessed with artefacts and magicks. At least the journal hadn't changed. As Spike passed the secretary by, the elf woman sniffed in contempt, motioning for the secretary to do something. The secretary merely rolled her eyes, and went back to her crossword. Spike slipped through Frew's office door without another word.
Atticus was cautiously making his way up the staircase in Frew's contracting office, and just about turned himself around as he heard Wren chewing out some poor secretary just up the way. As he crested the steep stairs, briefcase clutched tight, Atticus saw Muriel taking advantage of Wren's apparent distraction to slip inside Frew's office as well. Atticus quickly followed suit, nodding his head for Wren to follow. The secretary huffed, cleaning herself of Wren's presence with a sweep of her hands. Muttering curses, Wren followed after, bringing up the rear.
All it took was one more ruffian sauntering about like he owned the place, and Wren had had enough. That wicked secretary had been eyeing her ever since she'd stepped foot inside the lobby, and was simply begging to be taken down a peg or two. Fortunately for her, Atticus had shown up at just the right time, pulling Wren along. Wren found herself inside a mildewy and dark office. There wasn't a single window inside, and the only light came from a flickering oil lamp sitting on the largest desk Wren had ever seen. A ghoulish man sat behind it, creaking in his seat as he watched the group file in. First in line was the ruffian Wren didn't know, followed by Muriel. She and Atticus brought up the rear, but Wren quickly pushed herself to the front, making her intentions clear. She was looking for work, and would be granted access, as her family was of noble stock from the Emerald Enclave. Frew scoffed, saying he had no stake in where a person came from--as long as they were a diligent worker, he didn't care. He spun his ledger around, offering a quill to sign. Behind, Spike raised a hand to object, but was quickly halted by Muriel, who shook his head quietly, a frown on his face. Wren signed her name, suddenly aware that she had no clue as to just what she'd be doing. Frew nodded, saying that he looked forward to working with her. Wren felt the blood draining from her face as she turned back to look at Spike, Muriel, and Atticus.
She wanted work, so let her have it. Muriel wouldn't be the one to let Ms. Amberstaer down easy when she found out they'd be going back out into the desert, likely to scavenge for nothing but bones and scraps of metal. However, even as Wren turned back around, somehow paler than before, Muriel still found himself averting his gaze, feeling must a hint of guilt. It was only a hint, though. Wren quietly muttered, asking about just what had she signed up for, and Frew gave a rasping chuckle. She would be working under him until her contract expired, he explained with cold glee in his voice. Atticus started to protest, but with malicious little hoot, Frew turned his large ledger back around and flipped back a page, trailing a gnarled finger down its yellowed edge. Stopping a ways down the page, he pushed the fat book to the edge of his desk and tapped a spot roughly. Atticus inched forward, holding his briefcase between himself and Frew like it would change what Muriel suspected was already there. Even so, he still found himself creeping forward, catching in a billowing script the name "Atticus Freeman" written in the finest ink Muriel had ever seen. It even seemed to sparkle in the scant lamplight, and Muriel found himself rubbing his eyes. Atticus was already signed up, before he had ever arrived. That just couldn't be possible. Muriel furrowed his brow at Atticus, but let the topic lie for the time being. Spike stepped up next, calmly writing his name down with nothing but a nod to Frew. Muriel was last, and he felt his scalp prickling as the other three watched him. He didn't like stares, much less hostile ones. Muriel could practically feel Wren's gaze boring a hole in the back of his head as he picked up the quill, dipped it into the pot, and hastily signed his name in the most recent open spot. Frew slammed the ledger shut, saying he'd be in contact soon with their first assignment, before sweeping them all away with a flick of his hand. Exiting the office, Muriel's head was buzzing. A name had appeared without the owner being present for the signing? He needed to clear his head. Muriel mumbled a quick good-bye, hoping to just slip away. Wren caught him, though, demanding to know where he was off to. Muriel again mumbled a reply, mentioning the library, before walking off without another word. Damn nosy, she was.
Spike figured he should split off as well. If he were about to be back on the job, he needed to make as much money as possible before heading out. It wasn't the first time he'd gone out into the desert, but he'd be damned if it was the last time he went without a healthy stockpile of booze. The Law District had just what he needed: bounties. Stopping by the sheriff's office, Spike greeted Mr. Sconney Coleson, a fire goliath and the sheriff of Charley. Sconney greeted him warmly, as he tended to do with most in Charley, motioning over to the bounty board. The most tempting looked to be three brothers living out in the Business District, known for drunken kidnappings and murder. Spike had never backed down from poor odds, taking it off the wall with a nod to Coleson and not a word more. Out into the sweltering day, Spike made for the Business District once more. Seemed he kept getting drawn there time and time again today.
Atticus felt just about as bad as Wren looked as he stepped out into the blistering sunlight. Clutching his briefcase, he kept close to Wren as she called fruitlessly after Muriel, trying to pin down where he was off to. Atticus's head was reeling. Had the date on that signing line really said twenty years ago? Just how long had he been with The Patron? Atticus had no doubt this was that thing's doing--that wasn't the problem. The problem, Atticus was finding, was that he didn't know at what point in time he had been blipped back into reality. All he knew at this point was that something had gone terribly wrong with the Castaboves, and now he was here, and they were on the ground, supposedly being scavenged for supplies and treasure. As Wren stalked off in the direction of a bar called Fill'er Up, Atticus could only follow mutely, head starting to pound with a migraine. The bar wasn't much better than being outside. The air was stuffy, and it stank of sweat and sex. People crowded in on all sides, chatting just about as loudly as they could about everything under the sun. The bartender, a finely-dressed dark-skinned elf woman welcomed Wren and Atticus in with a cold tilt of her head, watching them closely. None of this was helping Atticus's headache, and even less so when Wren struck up a polite conversation with the woman, her shrill posh voice cutting a rung above the growling din all around. She even drew a few stares, much to Atticus's worry as she carried on with the bartender, who introduced herself as Fleur DeBossard. Atticus was just getting ready to strike out on his own as well if only to get out of the noise and the press of people, when the mention of rooms was brought up. Atticus was handed a key by Wren, and she quietly mentioned that rooms thirteen and fourteen were theirs if he needed a quiet place to lie down. Atticus eagerly took the key, making immediately for the stairs. Wren called after him, saying that she'd be up with water in a little while. Atticus waved wearily, practically tripping over himself to get out of the noisome and noise-filled main barroom. The sounds of raucus pleasure followed Atticus all the way down to his room, until at last he slammed the door shut behind him and fell onto the straw mattress. Just like college, he thought miserably as he allowed sleep to carry him far away from such a hellscape.
Wren was pleasantly surprised by Ms. Fleur DeBossard, who she found out was the proprietor of many businesses in what was coloquially deemed the Brothel District. Despite such a vulgar lifestyle (at least in Wren's eyes) Ms. DeBossard carried herself with the confidence of a woman befitting such a position of power. She took no shit from anyone, and Wren found that to be quite admirable. Atticus stumbled upstairs, but Wren remained at he bar, chatting with DeBossard. She sympathized with Wren's predicament, especially looking at what happened with Frew. The man was a cockroach, DeBossard said, leeching Charley dry of any respectable jobs. It seemed that nowadays you were either a contractor or a brothel worker, which was particularly distasteful to Wren. DeBossard patted Wren's hand in solidarity, saying that she'd have a home in Fill'er Up for as long as she needed. At the very least, it was safe from some of Frew's more unsavory associates. Upon asking how long she'd be staying, Wren found she wasn't quite sure. Frew hadn't exactly been forthcoming with details on her sudden contracting job, only mentioning that when it was time, she'd know. At hearing this, DeBossard recommended Wren take a tour of the town before it got much later. It'd be good to know what the lay of the land was, at the very least. Before Wren had a chance to respond, DeBossard disappeared behind the bar, returning a moment later with a young halfling woman she introduced as Elaina. Elaina was dressed for brothel work, but held with her a small harp. She greeted Wren cheerily, sticking out her hand to shake. Wren was somewhat put off by the woman's choice of dress, gingerly meeting the outstreched hand with her own gloved one. DeBossard said there wasn't a soul around that knew Charley better than Elaina, much to Wren's internal annoyance. Would she really have to be led around all over town like a dog by this... harlot? What if others saw! What on earth would they think of such a sight? Dr. Wren Amberstaer of the Emerald Enclave, associating with a common prostitute. The thought repulsed her, but DeBossard had been so kind, and Wren didn't want to fall out of the good graces of the one woman who had offered more than just a passing kindness thus far. Wren mentioned Atticus and disappeared upstairs, equally repulsed by the cacophony of unholy sounds as she had been by Elaina. Atticus was dead asleep, but was roused easily enough. Bleary-eyed, he accompanied Wren back downstairs where Elaina still waited. Then, Elaina leading the way, the trio made their way out into the sweltering afternoon. Wren waved good-bye to DeBossard, wishing already for the tour to be done.
Charley's library had always been a safe haven for Muriel. No one ever went inside, and there were enough bookshelves to be completely obscured, if far enough back from the door. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Muriel began perusing books relating to the Castaboves. These were all books his fingers had graced the faded spines of dozens of times over at this point, but he had a fresh mission. The name "Atticus Freeman" was obscure, but still one Muriel recognized. One of the books in these faded stacks held the answers, and Muriel would be damned if he didn't find it. After a time, he came across a tome he was quite familiar with, entitled "Compositions of Magical Engineering for Public Use." The tome described the makeup of the magical engines that powered the Castaboves, so long ago. Flipping through to the back, in which the process of powering such a machine was described, Muriel found just what he was looking for.
The magical engines were run by specialized wizards that casted a powerful spell into the engine once a day, which would keep it powered for the following twenty-four hours. In a section labeled "Theoretical Failure," Muriel read that two possible scenarios could play out that would ensure a total engine failure: either the head wizard responsible for the engine was incapacitated, or some form of extraterrestrial threat was responsible. Considering each Castabove came down at the same time, Muriel found it somewhat implausible that such a complex, high-security operation could simultaneously be compromised by one coordinated threat on the material plane. That only left the theory of an extraterrestrial threat, but according to one Atticus Freeman within the book, this scenario was "unrealistic and statistically ridiculous--even more so than a coordinated threat." An anecdote at best, but still something to go off of. What was even more odd was that the book was perhaps twenty-five years old, about five years before The Flare. That meant Atticus was around for The Flare, at least to some capacity. Muriel felt like he was inching towards an answer, but more questions were cropping up. What more did Atticus know? Had he written any other books? What experience did he have with the magical engines of the Castaboves? He decided to find Atticus and question him about it. Pocketing the book, Muriel exited the library, mind still humming with activity. That was the unfortunate bit of fleeing to a library for peace and quiet: the curiosity never allowed for such notions.
The tour had started rather drab as Elaina described the dangers of brothel work, especially in Charley. Personally, Wren couldn't care less. She simply wouldn't have put herself in such a situation that required work as dangerous as brothel work. Wren took private comfort in the fact that, given time, she could always return home to her father. He'd welcome her back with open arms and apologize for ever sending her away. All that nonsense over medical malpractice would be smoothed over, and Wren would be able to sleep in her bed in her room on her side of the Amberstaer estate, and pay no more mind to some nobody brothel worker's nonsense. Elaina had just mentioned her friend going missing, and Wren felt her patience wearing thin. Pulling out her symbol of Selune, she preached the work of a clerical student that prays to a god every day and night, explaining that Elaina would never have to worry over her or her friends' safety if she simply retired to a monastery and learned the ways of the gods. Elaina was dazzled by such talk, explaining that she'd always wanted to go to church, but had never gotten the chance. She'd only ever known Charley and the Great Wide Empty as her home. Wren lapsed into a sullen silence over this, and just in time too, as Muriel seemed to materialize behind her, giving her quite the fright. He seemed to be quite interested in Atticus, as he was watching the young man closely. Wren recalled meeting and talking with Atticus in college on multiple occasions on the Castaboves, while she was pursuing her most recent doctorate. Not long after, word of The Flare had reached her estate, and Atticus was among the uncounted. But now, here he was, looking not a day older than when Wren had seen him last, only sporting a new suit complete with blue accents.
The clocktower loomed up over Atticus as the small group crossed from the Brothel District to the center of town. He was reminded then of an urban legend from his time on the Castaboves, known as the Clocktower Killer. He held his tongue though, as Muriel seemed to be committed to spooking Wren and Elaina with some ghoulish tale about an insane old man that once lived in the clocktower. The two women only shared a slightly uncomfortable glance as Muriel concluded his tale with an anti-climactic "but no one really knows..." Atticus thought of giving him a solitary pat on the shoulder, but quickly thought better of it. There was no telling what had been on that grimy poncho he refused to take off. That, and there could be all kinds of nasty weapons lurking beneath it, ready to be used at a moment's notice. Passing the clocktower, Elaina motioned over to a tall wooden fence that seemed quite heavily-guarded for a simple sector of Charley. Atticus, examining a gap between the heavy wooden boards, saw through to the interior of the space. Several heavily-armed guards were patrolling, toting flintlock rifles. Wren pointed out the point of a large roof, inquiring about it. Elaina explained that Charley's store of supplies were kept here, and were under constant watch by the Sheriff's lawdogs so there wouldn't be any unfair treatment towards either Frew or DeBossard's side of town. Here, Sconney's role as a mediator was truly brought to light in Atticus's eyes. Carrying on, walking along the fence, the group began heading for the Business District. Elaina took note of the sun starting to dip below the horizon, suggesting they hurry the tour up. Muriel asked if everything was alright, and Elaina explained once more that a few of her friends had gone missing in the Business District recently. Muriel offered his sympathy, and Atticus suddenly found Wren walking beside him. Her glare gave everything away as she watched Muriel and Elaina converse. Under her breath, she complained about Muriel's penchant for associating with just about everyone under the sun, whether it be that ruffian Spike, Mr. Frew, or even a lowly brothel worker. Atticus found himself supremely disinterested with Wren's debacle, and only shrugged in reply, saying lamely that she should just let him do what he's gonna do. It wouldn't be good to get in the way of someone like that anyways, Atticus thought. He seems the dangerous sort. To Atticus, Muriel might sooner stab someone in the leg than fall in line with whatever nonsense a random stranger he had only met that day was saying. None of that made it to Atticus's lips, though. And besides, Wren was already discouraged by his cold shoulder just before. What was even the purpose of such complaining, at that point? Wren muttered something about time changing Atticus, and he found himself at a loss, then. He looked to the ground, following the footprints made by Muriel and Elaina ahead of him. She didn't need to have said that, but she had anyways.
The echoing chortle of drunken laughter floated up from deeper in the alleyway as Muriel passed it by. Elaina looked fearfully over her shoulder, faint firelight flickering across her face. A trio of figures appeared at the end of the alleyway, cajoling the group for their frankly ridiculous appearances. Wren wrinkled her nose in disdain, and Muriel looked over at her, a dry chuckle forming on his lips. He recommended sarcastically that if she is such a believer in her god, she should go convert those fine fellows down the alleyway. Sneering over at him, Wren sniffed, stepping down into the alleyway. Muriel thought about mentioning the sarcasm, but decided against it, as Wren was already raising her voice at the trio, pulling her flail out, which had a symbol of Selune on it. Creeping up behind her, Muriel followed, anxiety prickling along his shoulders as he skulked off to the side. He heard Elaina and Atticus coming up behind, not making much of an effort to conceal themselves. Muriel cursed them silently, and tried to keep his distance, lest they blow his cover. Wren was fending off the latest jab over her choice of dress by the time Muriel reached her point in the alleyway. The drunks still hadn't noticed him, and he was able to get a clearer view of the surroundings. A barrel gave off flickering firelight, while toppled crates formed squat benches near it. A few broken timbers also lingered in the narrow space, possibly causing a few problems with movement. Placing one hand on the hilt of his blade, Muriel readied himself for a confrontation. One of the drunks was shambling back to the fire, while the other two were still shouting back and forth with Wren, trading verbal blows. He watched their hands inching closer and closer to the weapons at their belts. Wren seemed clueless to such movements, fully taken with her religious tirade. She mentioned the name of her flail, "Holy Deliverance," and the drunks had a chuckle over that, making sexually charged jabs that made Muriel's skin crawl. At that point, he saw a face among the shadows opposite him. Furrowing his brow, Muriel tried to make out just who it might be. But then, the drunk's axe was drawn, and he was swinging it in a vertical downward chop aimed right for Wren's head. Her face had hardly registered the swing by the time the figure across from Muriel moved, catching the axe by the haft, chipped blade only a few inches from Wren's shocked face.
It had been too easy finding them. Spike had staked out the alleyway for the better part of the afternoon, watching the three brothers prattle about playing cards and dice. The bounty said they were wanted for the unlawful kidnapping and murder of a few brothel workers over the past several days. Spike knew men better than most, and what most men out here wanted was some good booze. Blowing some of his earnings from the day's earlier gambling escapade, Spike picked up a few good bottles of whiskey, and doled them out to the men, before slipping away with them none the wiser. All that was left was to wait. At least, that had been the plan. Then that bible-thumper elf woman had strolled on down the alleyway like she owned the place, proclaiming that the men should change their ways and be saved by Selune's holy deliverance. The men didn't seem to like that one bit, itching for violence. Drunks tended to lean that way, in Spike's experience. The fight was meant for him, though, not some reckless-albeit-innocent onlooker. He needed a fight. It had been too long, and Spike had been thinking too hard about his brother recently. Needed something soft and breakable to sink his fists into. So, Spike silently cursed bible-thumper, and readied himself to spring as soon as there was a sign of violence. It didn't take long. She had a way with words--got under Spike's skin, and he was only buzzed. There would be no telling the infuriating effects this woman would have on three sloshed fools with a penchant for wanton murder. The axe came up faster than he'd have liked, but Spike still made it in time. Saved the elf woman her sparkly sunglasses, too. Shoving the axe up and back, Spike stepped in front of Wren, fists raised. It was their move, he'd just follow their lead to whatever tune they desired. If they wanted to run and hide, Spike would chase. If they wanted a brawl, he'd beat them to a pulp. It didn't matter to Spike, so long as someone got bloody.
The drunk with the axe stumbled forward, roaring a slurry of curses. Spike lashed out with his left fist. Muriel drew his blade, his Mortar, feeling his flesh crawl in response. Wren clutched at Holy Deliverance desperately, teeth gritted. Atticus clung to his briefcase, feeling a large hand on his shoulder at that moment. Elaina, meanwhile, was scrambling back, her harp raised like a shield.
And that is where we end Act 1 Session 1, "That Damned Contractor"! I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading through this, and I am looking forward to getting A1S2 drafted up for your enjoyment! Now until next time: so long, good luck, good-bye. -MagicMarty
Howdy, folks! We're just about to kick off these narrativized recaps, and I'd like to leave a quick message before we get started. Many of the scenes described do not have any official art, and as such, I'll be supplementing them with my own little mock-ups of what the scenes looked like. These designs are known as "oings," and are just quick little cartoon sketches. I hope you enjoy them! Additionally, to provide a bit of context on when certain characters will appear, Al will show up on the back third of Act 1, while Flint and Aimans won't be arriving until well into Act 2. In other words, get comfortable with Wren, Muriel, Atticus, and Spike, as they'll be the main cast for a while. Now, without any further delay, keep on reading as we dive into SMPR A1S1: "That Damned Contractor"!
We open on a brilliant, cloudless blue day in the Great Wide Empty. A slight breeze was in the air as Dr. Wren Amberstaer rode along the dusty track roughly carved into the sand. The day was fixing to be rather mild, at least as days go in the Great Wide Empty, and for that Wren was quite grateful. Dressed head-to-toe in a fine emerald-tinted academic garb--not an inch of skin showing--Wren had quickly found herself quite unprepared for the elements. Days became sweltering, and nights were deadly frigid. The bipolar weather had only served to frustrate Wren up to this point, much to the amusement of her only recently-vanished brother, Avourel. It had only been a day prior that Wren had awoken to find him gone without a trace, stranding her in the middle of a hostile environment with few resources and even fewer clue on where to go--Avourel had been the one leading, after all. Now, Wren rode on aimlessly, her faithful steed Aberdeen her only company. Stopping in the shade of a ruined farmhouse as dawn turned to midmorning, Wren patted the noble creature as she dismounted, sniffing in disdain at the grit and dust filtering through the air of the stale space.
Wren was, above all else, an academic. With four doctoral degrees under her belt, Wren prided herself on her conservational practices, alongside a medical degree and a religious degree, with a biology degree to round out the collection. Sifting through the ruins of this poor farmstead ravaged by sandstorm and scavver alike, Wren found a small spoutling creeping cautiously up through the sandy ground, much to her delight. Morning dew seemed to collect in a small basin where this plant flourished, and Wren wished it well, making sure to note down the characteristics of such a plant capable of thriving in the desert. Rooting around further through the cabinets of the abandoned house, Wren also came across a can of beans, miraculously untouched by the forces that be. Pocketing it, Wren re-emerged into the sunlight, satisfied with her exploration, only to find Aberdeen bolting in terror at the presence of a Strange Man!
Here we come to the second of our party, Muriel Penmangle-Castor. It is quite understandable why Aberdeen would bolt at the sight of such a man. Muriel was dressed much more for the weather and setting, sulking around in a ragged poncho draped in the moon and stars. His mass of frizzed orange hair would be enough to make anyone faint, and the perpetual glower on his face would be the deathblow upon coming out of that stupor. Muriel had a horse of his own, unnamed even after years of adventures with him. Muriel remained sullen and cantankerous even as Wren accosted him for causing Aberdeen to go bolting off into the wild pale yonder, demanding an apology. None came, but he did begrudgingly allowing Wren onto his horse after she offered him that same can of beans she had found as payment. The two rode away from the wreckage of the house, bickering as though they'd been enemies for years.
Let's hop over perhaps five miles, to the town of Charley. Here, we shall come to meet the third of our party, Spike Speagle. Spike, the ruffian that he was, was on his way to collect his dues from the notorious bounty-setter and contractor, Jonithas Frew. Having set up his operation out of Charley's old bank, Frew had locked down a solid quarter of the boom-town as his own, dubbing it the "business district." Spike was a known face among the business district, frequently taking up odd jobs that Frew needed done, regardless of the job's nature. Frew needed someone killed? Spike was on it. Frew desired a particularly sparkly ruby ring owned by the sheriff? Spike would have it done faster and quieter than anyone else in Charley. As long as Frew kept the money pouring forth, Spike would stay at the spigot. As Spike entered the office, he was met with a familiar, if somewhat ghastly sight: Jonithas Frew himself, a wheelchair-bound skeletal man, forever thumbing through the largest ledger of names, dates, and amounts owed Spike would ever see. He passes Spike his dues, before advising him on a future job. Apparently, Frew explained, there would be an influx of fresh recruits for a scavving run out into the nearby Flayed Ruins. His sources told him one of these newcomers was already signed on by his boss. Spike pondered the offer, but didn't let it get much further than that for the time being. He collected his dues, and made for the biggest bar in Charley, known as Fill'er Up. Fill'er Up, run by Ms. Fleur DeBossard, acted as a brothel as well, and was opposed to Frew's way of digging into Charley. DeBossard and Frew had found themselves quite frequently at odds, tensions always simmering just below the surface. The only thing keeping them in line was Mr. Sconney Coleson, the sheriff in Charley, who more often than not played the mediator instead of the sheriff. After gambling and winning his dues back and then some, Spike then went to the bar, drawing more than a few angry glares from patrons familiar with his penchant for taking Frew's jobs.
And now, we arrive at the last member of the party for the time being, Mr. Atticus Freeman. Atticus found himself dumped out of the timeless void his boss, an enigmatic businessman known only as The Patron, had kept him in for the past week. Sending him with the descriptive mission of "get to Charley and check in with Jonithas Frew once there," Atticus was exhaled into the Great Wide Empty with nothing but a blank briefcase, and the suit he was wearing. Atticus, much the same as Wren, was finely dressed, with a blue-accented suit and corresponding bolo tie. The briefcase was a slate grey, and could not immediately be opened. Atticus himself had curly brown hair that was kept in a neat ponytail, as well as piercing green eyes that seemed not to fit the blue aesthetic The Patron was going for. Anyways, Atticus was dropped into the sand, and was immediately kicked in the chest by Muriel's horse, who reared back, dumping both Wren and Muriel onto the dusty track below. Muriel had failed to see Atticus blip into reality, and as such, could only watch in detached annoyance as the horse kicked the poor man in the chest, trotting off a few steps in an agitated gait. Wren hopped to her feet immediately, medical instincts kicking in. After healing him, Wren helped Atticus to his feet, apologizing profusely in Muriel's place. This didn't come without a shared glare between the two. Atticus seemed unphased, mostly just in awe of the barren, ashy desert surrounding him. The stark brightness of the sun above beat down on Atticus, and he felt a headache coming on as Wren prattled off words of penance and comfort. Instead of replying to the apology, Atticus asked where Charley was. Wren, noticing the unaddressed apology, offered Muriel's horse as recompense, much to Muriel's chagrin. Fed up with the entitlement Wren was showcasing, Muriel handed her the reins to the horse and stalked off, muttering about ungrateful academics and their lack of respect. Thoroughly peeved, Wren in turn handed the reins to Atticus and stalked after, shrilly shouting insults back. Atticus, unsure of what to do, simply walked with the horse's reins in hand, following after the pair. All three walked the last half-mile into Charley.
Arriving in a huffing cloud of dust, Atticus quickly left the horse with Wren and Muriel, beelining it for the town's library. Muriel was just about to part ways with Wren, never wishing to speak with her again after such an aggravating morning, but was stopped by a question. Wren, somewhat ashamed, asked about any work she may be able to find. Muriel mentioned that he was heading to the contracting office of Jonithas Frew in order to sign on for a scavving mission into the Flayed Ruins. Wren accompanied him into the office, seemingly on edge in this tense pinprick of civilization in the otherwise lawless Great Wide Empty.
Meanwhile, Atticus arrived at the library, dusting himself off as he stepped inside. A worrying theory wriggled around in Atticus's mind, and he wanted to get it checked out. While perusing the stacks, he felt a presence behind him. The silky smooth voice of The Patron crooned out from behind one of the dusty bookcases, advising him to head to Frew's office for his assignment. Relenting, Atticus acquiesced, theory going unanswered for the time being.
Spike, on the other hand, had made up his mind about working the job Frew had offered him. With a few drinks in his system, Spike was feeling set for just about anything the world could throw at him. Getting up from Fill'er Up's bar, he stalked off into the heat of midday Charley, hat tipped low over his face and cigarette hanging between his lips as he returned once more to the dusty interior of Frew's contracting office. Passing the secretary, Spike took note of two odd fellows sitting a few chairs apart in the waiting room. The woman, a regal elf, was staring daggers at a scruffy-looking man who was hastily jotting notes down in a journal, every once in a while stealing glances over at her. Spike stifled a laugh as he recognized the scruffy fellow as Muriel Penmangle-Castor. They'd worked together on more than one occasion, and Spike had found him to be quite capable, if a bit obsessed with artefacts and magicks. At least the journal hadn't changed. As Spike passed the secretary by, the elf woman sniffed in contempt, motioning for the secretary to do something. The secretary merely rolled her eyes, and went back to her crossword. Spike slipped through Frew's office door without another word.
Atticus was cautiously making his way up the staircase in Frew's contracting office, and just about turned himself around as he heard Wren chewing out some poor secretary just up the way. As he crested the steep stairs, briefcase clutched tight, Atticus saw Muriel taking advantage of Wren's apparent distraction to slip inside Frew's office as well. Atticus quickly followed suit, nodding his head for Wren to follow. The secretary huffed, cleaning herself of Wren's presence with a sweep of her hands. Muttering curses, Wren followed after, bringing up the rear.
All it took was one more ruffian sauntering about like he owned the place, and Wren had had enough. That wicked secretary had been eyeing her ever since she'd stepped foot inside the lobby, and was simply begging to be taken down a peg or two. Fortunately for her, Atticus had shown up at just the right time, pulling Wren along. Wren found herself inside a mildewy and dark office. There wasn't a single window inside, and the only light came from a flickering oil lamp sitting on the largest desk Wren had ever seen. A ghoulish man sat behind it, creaking in his seat as he watched the group file in. First in line was the ruffian Wren didn't know, followed by Muriel. She and Atticus brought up the rear, but Wren quickly pushed herself to the front, making her intentions clear. She was looking for work, and would be granted access, as her family was of noble stock from the Emerald Enclave. Frew scoffed, saying he had no stake in where a person came from--as long as they were a diligent worker, he didn't care. He spun his ledger around, offering a quill to sign. Behind, Spike raised a hand to object, but was quickly halted by Muriel, who shook his head quietly, a frown on his face. Wren signed her name, suddenly aware that she had no clue as to just what she'd be doing. Frew nodded, saying that he looked forward to working with her. Wren felt the blood draining from her face as she turned back to look at Spike, Muriel, and Atticus.
She wanted work, so let her have it. Muriel wouldn't be the one to let Ms. Amberstaer down easy when she found out they'd be going back out into the desert, likely to scavenge for nothing but bones and scraps of metal. However, even as Wren turned back around, somehow paler than before, Muriel still found himself averting his gaze, feeling must a hint of guilt. It was only a hint, though. Wren quietly muttered, asking about just what had she signed up for, and Frew gave a rasping chuckle. She would be working under him until her contract expired, he explained with cold glee in his voice. Atticus started to protest, but with malicious little hoot, Frew turned his large ledger back around and flipped back a page, trailing a gnarled finger down its yellowed edge. Stopping a ways down the page, he pushed the fat book to the edge of his desk and tapped a spot roughly. Atticus inched forward, holding his briefcase between himself and Frew like it would change what Muriel suspected was already there. Even so, he still found himself creeping forward, catching in a billowing script the name "Atticus Freeman" written in the finest ink Muriel had ever seen. It even seemed to sparkle in the scant lamplight, and Muriel found himself rubbing his eyes. Atticus was already signed up, before he had ever arrived. That just couldn't be possible. Muriel furrowed his brow at Atticus, but let the topic lie for the time being. Spike stepped up next, calmly writing his name down with nothing but a nod to Frew. Muriel was last, and he felt his scalp prickling as the other three watched him. He didn't like stares, much less hostile ones. Muriel could practically feel Wren's gaze boring a hole in the back of his head as he picked up the quill, dipped it into the pot, and hastily signed his name in the most recent open spot. Frew slammed the ledger shut, saying he'd be in contact soon with their first assignment, before sweeping them all away with a flick of his hand. Exiting the office, Muriel's head was buzzing. A name had appeared without the owner being present for the signing? He needed to clear his head. Muriel mumbled a quick good-bye, hoping to just slip away. Wren caught him, though, demanding to know where he was off to. Muriel again mumbled a reply, mentioning the library, before walking off without another word. Damn nosy, she was.
Spike figured he should split off as well. If he were about to be back on the job, he needed to make as much money as possible before heading out. It wasn't the first time he'd gone out into the desert, but he'd be damned if it was the last time he went without a healthy stockpile of booze. The Law District had just what he needed: bounties. Stopping by the sheriff's office, Spike greeted Mr. Sconney Coleson, a fire goliath and the sheriff of Charley. Sconney greeted him warmly, as he tended to do with most in Charley, motioning over to the bounty board. The most tempting looked to be three brothers living out in the Business District, known for drunken kidnappings and murder. Spike had never backed down from poor odds, taking it off the wall with a nod to Coleson and not a word more. Out into the sweltering day, Spike made for the Business District once more. Seemed he kept getting drawn there time and time again today.
Atticus felt just about as bad as Wren looked as he stepped out into the blistering sunlight. Clutching his briefcase, he kept close to Wren as she called fruitlessly after Muriel, trying to pin down where he was off to. Atticus's head was reeling. Had the date on that signing line really said twenty years ago? Just how long had he been with The Patron? Atticus had no doubt this was that thing's doing--that wasn't the problem. The problem, Atticus was finding, was that he didn't know at what point in time he had been blipped back into reality. All he knew at this point was that something had gone terribly wrong with the Castaboves, and now he was here, and they were on the ground, supposedly being scavenged for supplies and treasure. As Wren stalked off in the direction of a bar called Fill'er Up, Atticus could only follow mutely, head starting to pound with a migraine. The bar wasn't much better than being outside. The air was stuffy, and it stank of sweat and sex. People crowded in on all sides, chatting just about as loudly as they could about everything under the sun. The bartender, a finely-dressed dark-skinned elf woman welcomed Wren and Atticus in with a cold tilt of her head, watching them closely. None of this was helping Atticus's headache, and even less so when Wren struck up a polite conversation with the woman, her shrill posh voice cutting a rung above the growling din all around. She even drew a few stares, much to Atticus's worry as she carried on with the bartender, who introduced herself as Fleur DeBossard. Atticus was just getting ready to strike out on his own as well if only to get out of the noise and the press of people, when the mention of rooms was brought up. Atticus was handed a key by Wren, and she quietly mentioned that rooms thirteen and fourteen were theirs if he needed a quiet place to lie down. Atticus eagerly took the key, making immediately for the stairs. Wren called after him, saying that she'd be up with water in a little while. Atticus waved wearily, practically tripping over himself to get out of the noisome and noise-filled main barroom. The sounds of raucus pleasure followed Atticus all the way down to his room, until at last he slammed the door shut behind him and fell onto the straw mattress. Just like college, he thought miserably as he allowed sleep to carry him far away from such a hellscape.
Wren was pleasantly surprised by Ms. Fleur DeBossard, who she found out was the proprietor of many businesses in what was coloquially deemed the Brothel District. Despite such a vulgar lifestyle (at least in Wren's eyes) Ms. DeBossard carried herself with the confidence of a woman befitting such a position of power. She took no shit from anyone, and Wren found that to be quite admirable. Atticus stumbled upstairs, but Wren remained at he bar, chatting with DeBossard. She sympathized with Wren's predicament, especially looking at what happened with Frew. The man was a cockroach, DeBossard said, leeching Charley dry of any respectable jobs. It seemed that nowadays you were either a contractor or a brothel worker, which was particularly distasteful to Wren. DeBossard patted Wren's hand in solidarity, saying that she'd have a home in Fill'er Up for as long as she needed. At the very least, it was safe from some of Frew's more unsavory associates. Upon asking how long she'd be staying, Wren found she wasn't quite sure. Frew hadn't exactly been forthcoming with details on her sudden contracting job, only mentioning that when it was time, she'd know. At hearing this, DeBossard recommended Wren take a tour of the town before it got much later. It'd be good to know what the lay of the land was, at the very least. Before Wren had a chance to respond, DeBossard disappeared behind the bar, returning a moment later with a young halfling woman she introduced as Elaina. Elaina was dressed for brothel work, but held with her a small harp. She greeted Wren cheerily, sticking out her hand to shake. Wren was somewhat put off by the woman's choice of dress, gingerly meeting the outstreched hand with her own gloved one. DeBossard said there wasn't a soul around that knew Charley better than Elaina, much to Wren's internal annoyance. Would she really have to be led around all over town like a dog by this... harlot? What if others saw! What on earth would they think of such a sight? Dr. Wren Amberstaer of the Emerald Enclave, associating with a common prostitute. The thought repulsed her, but DeBossard had been so kind, and Wren didn't want to fall out of the good graces of the one woman who had offered more than just a passing kindness thus far. Wren mentioned Atticus and disappeared upstairs, equally repulsed by the cacophony of unholy sounds as she had been by Elaina. Atticus was dead asleep, but was roused easily enough. Bleary-eyed, he accompanied Wren back downstairs where Elaina still waited. Then, Elaina leading the way, the trio made their way out into the sweltering afternoon. Wren waved good-bye to DeBossard, wishing already for the tour to be done.
Charley's library had always been a safe haven for Muriel. No one ever went inside, and there were enough bookshelves to be completely obscured, if far enough back from the door. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Muriel began perusing books relating to the Castaboves. These were all books his fingers had graced the faded spines of dozens of times over at this point, but he had a fresh mission. The name "Atticus Freeman" was obscure, but still one Muriel recognized. One of the books in these faded stacks held the answers, and Muriel would be damned if he didn't find it. After a time, he came across a tome he was quite familiar with, entitled "Compositions of Magical Engineering for Public Use." The tome described the makeup of the magical engines that powered the Castaboves, so long ago. Flipping through to the back, in which the process of powering such a machine was described, Muriel found just what he was looking for.
The magical engines were run by specialized wizards that casted a powerful spell into the engine once a day, which would keep it powered for the following twenty-four hours. In a section labeled "Theoretical Failure," Muriel read that two possible scenarios could play out that would ensure a total engine failure: either the head wizard responsible for the engine was incapacitated, or some form of extraterrestrial threat was responsible. Considering each Castabove came down at the same time, Muriel found it somewhat implausible that such a complex, high-security operation could simultaneously be compromised by one coordinated threat on the material plane. That only left the theory of an extraterrestrial threat, but according to one Atticus Freeman within the book, this scenario was "unrealistic and statistically ridiculous--even more so than a coordinated threat." An anecdote at best, but still something to go off of. What was even more odd was that the book was perhaps twenty-five years old, about five years before The Flare. That meant Atticus was around for The Flare, at least to some capacity. Muriel felt like he was inching towards an answer, but more questions were cropping up. What more did Atticus know? Had he written any other books? What experience did he have with the magical engines of the Castaboves? He decided to find Atticus and question him about it. Pocketing the book, Muriel exited the library, mind still humming with activity. That was the unfortunate bit of fleeing to a library for peace and quiet: the curiosity never allowed for such notions.
The tour had started rather drab as Elaina described the dangers of brothel work, especially in Charley. Personally, Wren couldn't care less. She simply wouldn't have put herself in such a situation that required work as dangerous as brothel work. Wren took private comfort in the fact that, given time, she could always return home to her father. He'd welcome her back with open arms and apologize for ever sending her away. All that nonsense over medical malpractice would be smoothed over, and Wren would be able to sleep in her bed in her room on her side of the Amberstaer estate, and pay no more mind to some nobody brothel worker's nonsense. Elaina had just mentioned her friend going missing, and Wren felt her patience wearing thin. Pulling out her symbol of Selune, she preached the work of a clerical student that prays to a god every day and night, explaining that Elaina would never have to worry over her or her friends' safety if she simply retired to a monastery and learned the ways of the gods. Elaina was dazzled by such talk, explaining that she'd always wanted to go to church, but had never gotten the chance. She'd only ever known Charley and the Great Wide Empty as her home. Wren lapsed into a sullen silence over this, and just in time too, as Muriel seemed to materialize behind her, giving her quite the fright. He seemed to be quite interested in Atticus, as he was watching the young man closely. Wren recalled meeting and talking with Atticus in college on multiple occasions on the Castaboves, while she was pursuing her most recent doctorate. Not long after, word of The Flare had reached her estate, and Atticus was among the uncounted. But now, here he was, looking not a day older than when Wren had seen him last, only sporting a new suit complete with blue accents.
The clocktower loomed up over Atticus as the small group crossed from the Brothel District to the center of town. He was reminded then of an urban legend from his time on the Castaboves, known as the Clocktower Killer. He held his tongue though, as Muriel seemed to be committed to spooking Wren and Elaina with some ghoulish tale about an insane old man that once lived in the clocktower. The two women only shared a slightly uncomfortable glance as Muriel concluded his tale with an anti-climactic "but no one really knows..." Atticus thought of giving him a solitary pat on the shoulder, but quickly thought better of it. There was no telling what had been on that grimy poncho he refused to take off. That, and there could be all kinds of nasty weapons lurking beneath it, ready to be used at a moment's notice. Passing the clocktower, Elaina motioned over to a tall wooden fence that seemed quite heavily-guarded for a simple sector of Charley. Atticus, examining a gap between the heavy wooden boards, saw through to the interior of the space. Several heavily-armed guards were patrolling, toting flintlock rifles. Wren pointed out the point of a large roof, inquiring about it. Elaina explained that Charley's store of supplies were kept here, and were under constant watch by the Sheriff's lawdogs so there wouldn't be any unfair treatment towards either Frew or DeBossard's side of town. Here, Sconney's role as a mediator was truly brought to light in Atticus's eyes. Carrying on, walking along the fence, the group began heading for the Business District. Elaina took note of the sun starting to dip below the horizon, suggesting they hurry the tour up. Muriel asked if everything was alright, and Elaina explained once more that a few of her friends had gone missing in the Business District recently. Muriel offered his sympathy, and Atticus suddenly found Wren walking beside him. Her glare gave everything away as she watched Muriel and Elaina converse. Under her breath, she complained about Muriel's penchant for associating with just about everyone under the sun, whether it be that ruffian Spike, Mr. Frew, or even a lowly brothel worker. Atticus found himself supremely disinterested with Wren's debacle, and only shrugged in reply, saying lamely that she should just let him do what he's gonna do. It wouldn't be good to get in the way of someone like that anyways, Atticus thought. He seems the dangerous sort. To Atticus, Muriel might sooner stab someone in the leg than fall in line with whatever nonsense a random stranger he had only met that day was saying. None of that made it to Atticus's lips, though. And besides, Wren was already discouraged by his cold shoulder just before. What was even the purpose of such complaining, at that point? Wren muttered something about time changing Atticus, and he found himself at a loss, then. He looked to the ground, following the footprints made by Muriel and Elaina ahead of him. She didn't need to have said that, but she had anyways.
The echoing chortle of drunken laughter floated up from deeper in the alleyway as Muriel passed it by. Elaina looked fearfully over her shoulder, faint firelight flickering across her face. A trio of figures appeared at the end of the alleyway, cajoling the group for their frankly ridiculous appearances. Wren wrinkled her nose in disdain, and Muriel looked over at her, a dry chuckle forming on his lips. He recommended sarcastically that if she is such a believer in her god, she should go convert those fine fellows down the alleyway. Sneering over at him, Wren sniffed, stepping down into the alleyway. Muriel thought about mentioning the sarcasm, but decided against it, as Wren was already raising her voice at the trio, pulling her flail out, which had a symbol of Selune on it. Creeping up behind her, Muriel followed, anxiety prickling along his shoulders as he skulked off to the side. He heard Elaina and Atticus coming up behind, not making much of an effort to conceal themselves. Muriel cursed them silently, and tried to keep his distance, lest they blow his cover. Wren was fending off the latest jab over her choice of dress by the time Muriel reached her point in the alleyway. The drunks still hadn't noticed him, and he was able to get a clearer view of the surroundings. A barrel gave off flickering firelight, while toppled crates formed squat benches near it. A few broken timbers also lingered in the narrow space, possibly causing a few problems with movement. Placing one hand on the hilt of his blade, Muriel readied himself for a confrontation. One of the drunks was shambling back to the fire, while the other two were still shouting back and forth with Wren, trading verbal blows. He watched their hands inching closer and closer to the weapons at their belts. Wren seemed clueless to such movements, fully taken with her religious tirade. She mentioned the name of her flail, "Holy Deliverance," and the drunks had a chuckle over that, making sexually charged jabs that made Muriel's skin crawl. At that point, he saw a face among the shadows opposite him. Furrowing his brow, Muriel tried to make out just who it might be. But then, the drunk's axe was drawn, and he was swinging it in a vertical downward chop aimed right for Wren's head. Her face had hardly registered the swing by the time the figure across from Muriel moved, catching the axe by the haft, chipped blade only a few inches from Wren's shocked face.
It had been too easy finding them. Spike had staked out the alleyway for the better part of the afternoon, watching the three brothers prattle about playing cards and dice. The bounty said they were wanted for the unlawful kidnapping and murder of a few brothel workers over the past several days. Spike knew men better than most, and what most men out here wanted was some good booze. Blowing some of his earnings from the day's earlier gambling escapade, Spike picked up a few good bottles of whiskey, and doled them out to the men, before slipping away with them none the wiser. All that was left was to wait. At least, that had been the plan. Then that bible-thumper elf woman had strolled on down the alleyway like she owned the place, proclaiming that the men should change their ways and be saved by Selune's holy deliverance. The men didn't seem to like that one bit, itching for violence. Drunks tended to lean that way, in Spike's experience. The fight was meant for him, though, not some reckless-albeit-innocent onlooker. He needed a fight. It had been too long, and Spike had been thinking too hard about his brother recently. Needed something soft and breakable to sink his fists into. So, Spike silently cursed bible-thumper, and readied himself to spring as soon as there was a sign of violence. It didn't take long. She had a way with words--got under Spike's skin, and he was only buzzed. There would be no telling the infuriating effects this woman would have on three sloshed fools with a penchant for wanton murder. The axe came up faster than he'd have liked, but Spike still made it in time. Saved the elf woman her sparkly sunglasses, too. Shoving the axe up and back, Spike stepped in front of Wren, fists raised. It was their move, he'd just follow their lead to whatever tune they desired. If they wanted to run and hide, Spike would chase. If they wanted a brawl, he'd beat them to a pulp. It didn't matter to Spike, so long as someone got bloody.
The drunk with the axe stumbled forward, roaring a slurry of curses. Spike lashed out with his left fist. Muriel drew his blade, his Mortar, feeling his flesh crawl in response. Wren clutched at Holy Deliverance desperately, teeth gritted. Atticus clung to his briefcase, feeling a large hand on his shoulder at that moment. Elaina, meanwhile, was scrambling back, her harp raised like a shield.
And that is where we end Act 1 Session 1, "That Damned Contractor"! I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading through this, and I am looking forward to getting A1S2 drafted up for your enjoyment! Now until next time: so long, good luck, good-bye. -MagicMarty
Howdy folks! This will serve as an intro post for the D&D campaign I made, known as SMPR! SMPR is, of course, an acronym, but for more than just the party that is wrapped up in this wild western wasteland! SMPR has taken on a new meaning with each act of the campaign. For Act I, the acronym stood for Strange Man Property Rights; for Act II (the current Act of the campaign as of writing this), the acronym stands for Suspicious Marauders Pledge Revenge. Charming!
SMPR takes place in a wasteland colloquially referred to as the Great Wide Empty, wherein 20 years ago five floating cities crashed to the ground after a magical disaster known as The Flare seemingly ruptured the Weave, bringing forth a host of eldritch influences known as Aberrance. That's a whole lot to parse through, but will make more sense as you get acquainted with the tale. For now, what you need to know is that these floating cities are now on the ground, and are infected with Aberrant magic. Now, with that bare-bones pitch out of the way, let's get to my favorite part of this campaign: the characters!
A couple disclaimers before I get into introductions: first up, I'll be introducing the characters in the order in which they first appear in the campaign. The second, and much much much more important disclaimer is that any art used aside from the crappy MS Paint title card in NOT MINE and is made by the members of this campaign!! If you're interested in seeing more of their work, check out caverncrooner here on Tumblr, or poeticfinch and gingersnappedneck on Instagram! Anyways...
First up, Wren Amberstaer! A highly refined noble wood elf from the Emerald Enclave, Wren is the party's cleric, treasurer, and resident complainer. Wren was the most fish-out-of-water among the members of the party, having come out to the Great Wide Empty not for fame or money, but as an exile from her family back home in Alaghon in the land of Turmish. Wren also occasionally has deceptive prophetic visions that leave her questioning if her fellow party members will die, or if it's just her goddess Selune playing one big practical joke on her. By now, Wren is finding she quite likes the rough lifestyle of a scavver, and eagerly awaits her next foray out into the desert...
Next, we've got Muriel Penmangle-Castor (whew what a name)! Muriel is the party's rogue-tificer, acting as the party's thief, utility man, and resident expert on Aberrant magics all in one. Muriel lived on one of the Castaboves before The Flare, and watched it happen in real-time from a distance. He's lived through the worst the Great Wide Empty has to offer (so far), and has only come away with a little bit of madness! At the moment, he's particularly interested in the spells created by the Aberrant magics of The Flare, regardless of what it does to his mind. Say one thing for Muriel Penmangle-Castor, say he's determined to get to the bottom of this...
This finely dressed fellow is named Atticus Freeman! Atticus is the party's Warlock, acting as an amateur occultist, researcher, and divine telephone line to an enigmatic figure only known as The Patron. Atticus also dwelt upon a Castabove, but just as The Flare hit, was snapped out of his reality and into a time-void, in which he met The Patron. The Patron had Atticus sign a contract, put on a suit, and promise he'd do just exactly as The Patron asked, no questions asked. Atticus acquiesced (I mean what else can you do when caught in a time-void with an interdimensional businessthing), and after an onboarding process complete with a powerpoint presentation, was dropped right back into the Great Wide Empty twenty years later. Now, Atticus tags along with the party, doing his best to handle a rather toxic work-life balance on account of that pesky Patron always cropping up...
This one here is Spike Spiegel, with much inspiration from the Cowboy Bebop character of the same name. Spike is the party's monk-fighter, acting as the heavyweight drinker, brawler, and sharpshooter so no one else has to. Spike's past is shrouded in much ambiguity, but he has worked together with Muriel on scavving jobs on more than one occasion, and seems to respect his expertise when it comes to more arcane subjects. Spike has briefly mentioned his brother on more than one occasion, but seems unwilling to share more than is absolutely necessary at the moment. Perhaps he is due for an unfortunate encounter with his past sometime soon...
Alfred Delveccio is up next, and what a gentleman he is! Al is the party's full-on fighter, acting as the pure muscle, the smooth-talker, and the city slicker as well. He was initially the most reluctant of the gang to continue on adventuring, having previously worked for the party's enemy, Jonithas Frew. Al had himself a gang of goons that sadly all perished(?) in the literally explosive final session of Act I. Al keeps a cool head most of the time, but has been known to lose his temper on those taht seem to be taking advantage of those weaker than themselves. Now, Al is a staunch ally for everyone in the party, willing to die for his new gang...
This ray of sunshine is Aimens Ingres! Aimens is a fresh new recruit for the party, fulfilling the role of ranger. He also acts as the party's perch-seeker, pocket-healer, and friendly face to those less sociable, like Muriel. Aimens has come from Waterdeep, seeking out a strange voice in his head urging him to venture forth into the Great Wide Empty. He and Al know each other from Al's days as a mob boss in Waterdeep, but seeing Al as he is now (much more docile) has certainly taken some getting used to for Aimens. Aimens is seeking to become a Mage Knight, a well-respected guard position in the city of Boundtown. However, only time will tell if he will stay with his job, or seek the voice that calls him out into the wasteland...
And finally, rounding out the party, we have Flint Laramie! Flint is an interesting fella, taking up the mantle of the party's sorcerer. At the moment, Flint is the party's gunslinger, spellslinger, and problemslinger. His family owned a ranch out in the Great Wide Empty before it was the Great Wide Empty, and has since lost it due to a particularly violent altercation with some scavvers, one of which possibly being Spike Spiegel. Flint has taken up his grandfather's old revolver, heading out into the wasteland, promising revenge on those that killed his grandfather and his kid sister. Now, Flint can only hope that no more problems arise on his account, as the party has already had to save his sorry self from the clutches of a particularly ruthless thug in the lower third of Boundtown. For now, it's only a matter of time before Flint and Spike are set on a crash-course to a reckoning...
Hoo wee! That's everyone, PC-wise at least. There's a whole cast of other side characters that you'll come to know as you read, but they don't matter quite as much as the stars of this show. Give it up for the fantastic party members of SMPR! I sincerely hope you enjoy reading through this blog. It's been such a treat getting to craft this world, watching these players romp around in it, and I hope you enjoy it just as much as we are! If you stick around, expect plenty of western, a healthy serving of weird fiction, a bit of comedy, a lot of drama, and perhaps even a hint of romance... (I'll let you speculate between whom)
Good evening, campers. The time is 25:25 and I've decided to host a "CHNTTOBER" as I've yet to see a CHNT one! There's a prompt for each day in October, have fun, campers!
This is my first year hosting something like this, so excuse the quality.
Submissions can be art, writing, cosplay, anything; I'm not your boss. I'm just the prompt maker. ;)
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