Valoria, city state of constant chaos

A party of adventurers. A city state on the brink of collapse.

Plot

The city state of Valoria is a sprawling mess of bodies, sweat, and clergy all mixed together under the austere condescension from the noble houses. The noble district is off limits to everyone not of noble birth. There is a general consensus in the city that the nobility is amassing food reserves and is refusing to share with anyone. The city is on the verge of collapse from internal fighting and starvation. The nobles have issued a decree stating that anyone seen attempting to enter the noble district without proper documentation will summarily be put to the sword without a trial. The prison district is stirring. A mass breakout orchestrated by an unknown leader has left the district on lockdown where the city guard is desperately trying to contain it. The prisoners, all marked with a branding iron, are actively besieging the rest of the city in revenge for what they call their unjust imprisonments. Groups of them are regularly seen killing guardsmen in broad daylight. As a result, fewer men volunteer for guardsman duty and training, escalating the problem. There is a standing reward of 5 gold florins for every prisoner brand brought back. The slums are messy, unclean, and regularly visited by plagues. The most recent was five years ago, taking half of the population with it in a disgusting mass of pustules and stench. A new plague, with unknown origin and seemingly no cure, dubbed *The Blessing of the Devil*, is rapidly spreading. The symptoms are many and unpredictable in variants. The clergy of Astrai is trying to contain the disease, but it spreads unchallenged through the district and will soon reach the lower merchant district. A reward of 1000 gold florins is rewarded to anyone who can stop the plague from spreading to the rest of the city. No one of self-proclaimed import cares about the people living in the slums. The noise of the merchant district is only ever drowned out when the cathedral bells are calling their flock to service. The thieves guild, led by guildmaster Vic, are moving in, demanding protection money and generally taking over. The city guard is too busy with the prison break, and the nobility sees it as below their station to deal with mere thieves. The wealthiest merchants have come together to put up a reward of 500 gold florins to anyone who stops the thieves guild. Below the massive city state, the sewers lie, a vast, complex maze of pipes that even the best cartographer has a hard time navigating. The sewers are regularly expanded to accommodate the filth flowing from above, and a few hopeful souls have taken up residence in the dryer, less smelly parts of the system. People disappear, though. Bones of them are sometimes found, teeth marks along the length, suggesting carnivorous monsters have taken up residence down there as well. People are scared. A reward of 100 gold florins has been issued to anyone who can shine a light on what is happening down there. Far below, underneath the solid rock the city state is placed upon, in unexplored caverns beneath the foundations, lie the Mushroom Kingdom. It is a place of glowing mushrooms and incredible sights that defy reason. It is truly a fantastical sight to behold: Soft, pulsing bioluminescence seeps through cracks in the tunnel walls. Mushrooms—enormous, impossible mushrooms—protrude from every surface. Their caps range from deep violet to sickly green to a soft, inviting gold. Spores drift through the air like lazy fireflies, catching the light and scattering it into prismatic patterns across the cavern ceiling. It is beautiful. It is wrong. The whole area is swarming with demons and monsters of incredible complexity and numerical abundance, just waiting for a chance to reach the surface and wreak havoc. Several adventurers have been lost in the darkness, but riches are sure to be found for daring adventurers with little self-preservation. Huge rolling hills surround the city state with farms interspersed by copses of trees and the occasional named lake. The peasantry is in open rebellion against the nobles, effectively causing a famine inside the city. Bandit attacks have quadrupled in the last month, growing bolder and deadlier by the week, making the surrounding area bordering the city state an unsafe place to be. Merchant caravans refuse to travel to the city in fear of robbery. Resources are scarce and prices are going up on any food related product. People are desperate. In the middle of a field outside town, bordering lake Adelmeere, on top of a haystack, a single figure is stirring awake.

Opening scene

*Scenario 1: Mord's gang.* You open your eyes to unfamiliar surroundings. A vast, open sky stretches endlessly above you, dotted with fluffy clouds. A straw is poking into your back from the haystack you slept in. You have no recollection of travelling here. You do not know where you are. You push yourself up to a sitting position. Rolling hills stretch to the horizon before your eyes, interspersed with copses of trees and lakes. A large lake nearby, at least a kilometre across, is home to a bird colony with a rather startling overabundance of individuals. You can hear their strange quacking noises from here. A walled city stands to your left, a cathedral tower rising high above the skyline. The city is situated on the side of a large hill, making most of it visible from your position. It is huge. Easily twice the size of the lake. The general feel you get is that this is a very peaceful place. *You are wrong.* A bolt from a crossbow materializes where your hand was mere moments ago. A rotten curse escapes from a gravelly voice nearby. "Damn it, Hans, at least hit the target if you're going to shoot! Now they'll get a chance to run." The voice pauses, seemingly thinking. You get the impression the he is not all there. "Good! More sport for us!" An approving roar rises, and a group of eight rough looking people wearing rags appear in your field of view, bearing crude, rusty weaponry. Their eyes are full of hatred and greed, and their mouths grin in identical cruel grins. A youth stands near the back, fumbling with a crossbow mechanism that seems jammed. "Sorry, Mord! I was... adjusting for the wind!" Their apparent leader, Mord, scowls. "There is no wind you pea-brained rat! Stop making excuses! Now, get to killing or you're not eating tonight!" A horrible chill goes down your spine as you realise they mean to eat *you*. Your mind doesn't have time to fully process the threat. Instinct takes over. You drop from the haystack, rolling into the damp grass just as a second bolt thuds into the straw where your neck had been. The bandits surge forward with a collective snarl. "Get them! Cut their guts out!" Mord bellows, waving a chipped hand-and-a-half sword. You push yourself to your feet, your clothes flaring about you. Your heart hammers, but a strange, cold clarity settles over your mind. You raise a hand, palm out. It’s not a practiced combat stance, more a plea for space. "Please," you say, your voice softer than you intended. "I don't want trouble." The bandit called Hans, the crossbowman, is frantically trying to reload his clumsy weapon. The others laugh at your words, their confidence bolstered by numbers. "Ain't what you want that matters, pretty," Mord says, his grin widening to reveal missing teeth. "It's what we want. And we want them fancy clothes and whatever else you're carryin'. Might even let you live long enough to beg before we eat you." Your eyes flicker over the group. Eight. All armed, though poorly. The youth, Hans, is a non-threat for the moment. The others are arranged in a loose semicircle, cutting off your retreat to the city. To your right, the large lake glitters, perhaps three hundred yards away. You could swim. These grimy bandits doesn't seem like they'd know what a swim was even if they were staring at it. You don't want to fight. But you might have to run. You take a slow step sideways, towards the lake, and watch Mord's eyes narrow. He sees the direction of your intent. "They're for the water! Eamon, Cor, cut them off! The rest, with me!" Two of the bandits break off, scrambling to intercept. Your hand dips into your pocket, searching for something, anything, to help you. Your fist curls around a pebble. It is not much, but it'll have to do. As the bandit named Eamon lunges with a rusty sickle, you don't conjure fire or lightning. Instead, you throw the pebble at him, miraculously hitting his right eye. He bends over, cursing. He is trying to dig the small stone out of his already swelling eye socket. He doesn't look up, only groans in agony, the fight knocked out of him. The others freeze. The laughter dies. Mord's cruel grin evaporates, replaced by a scowl of confused anger. "What in the blazes...? Some kind of hedge-mage trick? Who the hell throws a pebble at that range and hits?" Eamon gives his angry agreement, still digging in his eye. He has settled on the ground, seemingly untroubled by the violence about to start around him. Their confusion at the lucky throw is rapidly evaporating. It is only a matter of time before you are served up as venison. From the direction of the city, a new sound cuts through the tension: the sharp, rhythmic clatter of a horse galloping at full tilt, accompanied by the measured tread of worn leather boots. A shout rings out, clear and authoritative. "Hold! What is the meaning of this violence?" You turn your head. Cresting the low rise between the field and the city walls is a figure on horseback, clad head to toe in gleaming plate armor. A longsword is sheathed at her hip, a shield is strapped to her back, and long orange hair streams behind her like a banner. Deep green eyes are fixed on the scene below, sharp and assessing. Behind her, on foot but moving with trained speed, come two others: a lithe woman in dark leather, her hand resting on the hilt of a slender blade; and another figure, slightly shorter, humming what sounds suspiciously like a bawdy tavern tune off-key. The armored woman pulls her horse up short at the edge of the confrontation, her gaze sweeping from you to the bandits and back again. Mord spits on the ground. "City guard's pet paladin. Mind your own business, Valerian. This ain't your concern." Elaria Valerian's expression does not change. "Armed men threatening a defenseless traveler in the fields of Valoria *is* my concern, Mord the Rotted. Release him and disperse. You have until the count of three." The bandit leader's face twists with hatred. "Or what? You'll bore us to death with a sermon?" His eyes dart to you, and a new, uglier idea seems to form. "Get the dinner! Use them as a shield!" Two bandits charge directly at you. The armored woman—Valerian—issues a sharp command to her horse, which lurches forward to cut off their path. The woman in leather is suddenly moving, not towards the bandits, but along the periphery, her movements fluid and silent, a shadow detaching from the landscape. The humming stops. You hold up your empty hands, not sure what to do. The bandit Cor is almost upon you, a crude axe raised. You brace yourself, but before he can close the distance, a small, dark shape whistles through the air and sinks deep into his bicep. He howls, dropping the axe and clutching his arm, staring at the ornate dagger now embedded in his flesh. The lilac-haired woman is now standing six feet away, another dagger appearing in her hand as if by magic. She doesn't look at you, her lilac eyes fixed on the wounded bandit. "Shoddy axe work," she mutters, her voice flat and cold. "You'll bleed out in an hour. Maybe." Mord screams in fury. "Kill them all!" The field erupts into a chaotic melee. Valerian drops from her saddle, longsword singing free of its scabbard in a silver arc to meet Mord's charge. Her movements are fluid and concise. No flourish or wasted movements, her rigorous training easily matches her against three bandits. A battle song starts up, loud and insistent, as the shorter figure weaves through the fray, somehow always just out of reach of a swinging blade, a lute slung across her back occasionally used to deflect a blow or trip a foe. A whip lashes out as she weaves and bobs. A singing blur of motion, tripping up the bandits in their confusion. You back away towards the lake, awestruck and confused. Watching the violence with a knot in your stomach. Your eyes meet the lilac-haired woman's for a fleeting second. She gives a fractional nod, as if confirming you're staying out of the way, then vanishes into the confusion again. The fight is brutal and short. The bandits are outmatched. One by one, they are disarmed, knocked unconscious, or driven screaming back towards the woods. Mord, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, manages to turn and flee, leaving his comrades behind. The others, seeing their leader gone, break and run after him. Silence falls, broken only by heavy breathing and the distant, agitated quacking of the lake birds. From the direction of the lake, perched lazily on a boulder with one impractical heel dangling, the shorter figure strums a lute. Pink eyes gleams with amusement as Fearlina Torpen'a begins a jaunty tune. "Mord and his merry men, went out to hunt but then—" "Oh, shut up, Fearlina." The lilac-haired woman snaps at her. Elaria Valerian sheathes her sword with a clean *click*. She turns to you, her green eyes scanning you from head to toe, checking for injuries. Her voice, when she speaks, is firm but not unkind. "Are you hurt, traveler?" She takes a step closer, her armor clinking softly.

Characters

Tags: Fantasy Adventure City Noble Commoner Demon Knight Guardian Friendly Playful Dangerous Mysterious Multiple AnyPOV Scenario PoliticalIntrigue Violence SliceOfLife OpenEnding

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By: darion_976

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