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Point-and-Click Roleplaying: "Train Hero"
myles08807
Member, NW M9 Playtest Posts: 409 Arc User
Level 18 Leadership task, 18 hours, requires 4 Adventurers:
“Train Adventurers to find a Hero. Several will try, but only one in four has what it takes.”
This is an example of what I envision my DC going through when he chooses this specific Leadership task:
I hear her come into the building’s concealed side entrance from my office up on the third floor. Not quite an hour before midnight, with raucous Deekin Street in full swing, I can clearly hear her. Subtlety is not her strong suit. Slaying the enemies of Neverwinter with holy fire, on the other hand, is. It helps, of course, that she lets out a howl of mixed triumph and disgust as soon as the door closes behind her and her bodyguard, a cry that would have woken the entire block had not the building been protected by a variety of security rituals. I hear her curses from down the stairs and I knew that she is not hurt, but rather, she is hurting.
Familiar sounds accompany her progress up the stairs, sounds easily identified: clinking of metal on metal (sack of ill-gotten gains tossed to the duty sergeant), rustle of cloth (riding hood and gloves thrown aside), dull thud followed a few seconds later by another (riding boots similarly discarded), and all along, mirroring her progress, the tramping of her bodyguard’s iron-shod feet on the stairs.
Kalia, priestess of Tymora, she of the sharp, dusky Amnian features and raven-black bobbed hair, stops at the open doorway of my office, sighs deeply, and speaks with deep disgust in her voice. “I need to bathe.”
I am not at my desk; rather, I am slouched across the thick gold-leather armchair in the far corner of the small, bookshelf-lined room leafing through The Grand History of the Realms, a rare copy annotated and ink-stained by the comical Volo himself. I do not look up as I speak. “No, you do not. From your first days with me you have been ritually purified every morning, and even the vilest filth of the Chasm would not cling to you. You smell like dawn over the Storm Horns, crisp and pure and electric…” I look up with my best sly smile. “…and you look like a million astral diamonds.”
She does. I do not exaggerate. My most skilled henchmen, my agents among the streetwalkers and hustlers of Deekin Street, are priestesses of the various goddesses of the Gates of the Moon, and all are beautiful, each in their own unique way. Kalia is not tall, but she is sturdy, thick of body in all manner of wondrous places and physically far stronger than I shall ever be.
My complements seem to ease her heart a touch, and she begins to loosen the multiplicity of straps that hold her chainmail in place. “Lord Myles…I do intend to soak away my cares before the ceremony. Red Wizards are bad enough, but the devils with whom they consort…they are truly disgusting.” She turns to her bodyguard with a curt nod. “We are here and physically unharmed, so you know we were successful. Another attempt by the Thayans to stir up the Plaguechanged has been thwarted by the luck of Tymora and Her radiant energy acting through her humble servant.”
Kalia stops fiddling with her armor and catches my eye. “Miroln was once again very useful. I look forward to the protection of his sword when next I venture forth.” The bodyguard, who had stopped at attention at the doorway, straightens just that much more. Kalia turns away from me and sweeps out of the room, headed upstairs to her quarters.
Let me interrupt this narrative to give away a small secret of mine. I am who I am because I have a sense for subtle interactions, a talent for intuiting the will of Sune in situations both ordinary and unusual. It is precisely this insight, this wisdom, that grants me my holy power…and it makes me, in spite of my loquacious tongue, a very, very good listener. A suggestion, a request, had just been made ever so gently.
The bodyguard Miroln, a young male human in shining plate armor, nods, his chin to his chest for a full second, as Kalia walks past him. To his credit, his eyes do not follow her form as she walks away.
Mine do.
No apologies.
The boy looks up at me. “By your leave, Lord Myles?”
He imagines that tonight will be just like the past hundred or so nights: seeing to his gear, swapping war stories with the other large, equally dangerous persons I’ve chosen to act as bodyguards for the priestesses, maybe a drink or two, maybe a game of cards, and then to bed.
The poor boy has no idea.
I stand from my chair and straighten out my robe. “Stay for a moment, Miroln.” His eyes widen a bit, but otherwise he remains his usual disciplined self.
“Do you know anything about this ceremony that Kalia mentioned?” I step over to my desk but look at him, on the lookout for telltale signs of misdirection or lies.
“Um, no, my lord Myles…actually this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
I smile, an honest smile. He is telling the truth. “You are given to the worship of Tempus the Battle Lord, if I remember correctly. You know who Tempus’s enemies are, but probably not a whole lot more about all the world’s deities and demigods. I understand that: It’s not your concern.”
It’s time to work in a little truth. If this is what Kalia wants, then I have to do what I can. “In around two hours you are going to receive an urgent message summoning you to the ceremony space up on the fifth floor. You will be told to drop everything, take no equipment, and run there, and you will do just that.”
Miroln hesitates a moment and nods. “Of course, my lord.”
I pause, phrasing my words carefully. I don’t want to frighten the boy, but neither do I want him to go into all of this with too much confidence…so yes, maybe I do want to frighten him a little.
“The priestesses have decided to choose a new hero, as they name their most trusted escorts. You are one of four that they have designated as worthy of that title: You have Kalia’s admiration and nearly-equal endorsements from several of the others. That ceremony will take place tonight and into tomorrow. Over eighteen hours or so you will be tested. Four bodyguards will enter the fifth floor, but only one will come down those stairs a hero…the rest will leave my service with my thanks and a fat purse. Do you understand?”
He comes to attention with a look of absolute certainty in his eyes, staring past me into what he imagines to be his future. “Yes, Lord Myles!” He does not shout, but it appears that he would very much like to.
I pause.
“No, you don’t.” I say with a shake of my head and a small smile.
Those certain eyes flicker towards me, suddenly uncertain.
“Tonight is the new moon. Selune’s light is softest, and some twenty-one priestesses gather to honor she for whom the cloak of darkness is garment enough, the lovely Sharess, goddess of pleasure. They will be up there for an hour before they call for the four of you…and weapons and armor will not be required.”
Uncertain eyes go wide as realization changes to anticipation and fear rises up like a sudden storm. It is time to put the courage of Tempus back in this boy. He will be needing it.
I do not raise my voice as I poke him in the chest with one finger, but I take the tone that I imagine his very first cleric-instructor did. “What is the first rule of war?”
Reflexes imparted by months of drill kick in as I hoped they would. Miroln stiffens and looks past me with a hard stare.
“All is war, sir!”
“Yes!” I clap him on the shoulder and laugh. “That’s right…everything is war. Even this…and if you know yourself, and know your opponent, you need not fear the outcome of a thousand battles. I’m going to help you with both of those things, as a favor to Kalia.”
Visibly relieved, he gives a shuddering laugh, then looks at me intently. “Kalia?”
“Yes. She loves you. You might not have noticed…you two are usually neck-deep in monstrous threats when you’re together, and she's only just realized it herself."
Suddenly the boy looks very thoughtful, as he recalls and reclassifies a thousand gestures, words, and glances now given far more meaning. I take the opportunity to open a carved scrimshaw box on my desk and withdraw four small bottles from it.
“Prepare yourself as you would for battle, with rest and focus…oh, and scrub yourself well. Then, when the call comes, drink these in no particular order.” I hand him three of the four vials and he looks questioningly at me.
“The red will increase your stamina and take away your need to sleep for a full day, the blue will dull your aches and pains for an equal time, and the orange will boost your senses just a bit, to make you more sensitive to, shall we say, social cues. All these will help, and the other men will have these as well…but this silvery one here? ” I hold it up and swirl it gently in the light; it seems to be an ounce or two of cloud lit by twinkling starlight. “This, we hope, will give you the edge you need. It also cost me more to make than I will pay you for the next five years’ service…but I love my priestesses and I want them to be happy.”
Miroln blinks, waiting for an explanation. I consider not telling him, letting him find out for himself, but then shake my head. Forewarned is, after all, forearmed.
“Sune, the Lady Firehair, has given me many gifts in my years of service to her. This vaporous, silvery potion is the distillation of one of those gifts. In addition to its lifesaving original purpose, it has amazing applications in the ceremony that you are about to attend.”
“Alchemists call this the Last Breath of the Gods. Drink it and for an entire day, you will not need to breathe.”
He thinks, considers, ponders for a moment, and then the implications hit him like a bolt of heavenly fire. The smile that breaks across his face convinces me that Kalia has nothing to worry about.
“Train Adventurers to find a Hero. Several will try, but only one in four has what it takes.”
This is an example of what I envision my DC going through when he chooses this specific Leadership task:
I hear her come into the building’s concealed side entrance from my office up on the third floor. Not quite an hour before midnight, with raucous Deekin Street in full swing, I can clearly hear her. Subtlety is not her strong suit. Slaying the enemies of Neverwinter with holy fire, on the other hand, is. It helps, of course, that she lets out a howl of mixed triumph and disgust as soon as the door closes behind her and her bodyguard, a cry that would have woken the entire block had not the building been protected by a variety of security rituals. I hear her curses from down the stairs and I knew that she is not hurt, but rather, she is hurting.
Familiar sounds accompany her progress up the stairs, sounds easily identified: clinking of metal on metal (sack of ill-gotten gains tossed to the duty sergeant), rustle of cloth (riding hood and gloves thrown aside), dull thud followed a few seconds later by another (riding boots similarly discarded), and all along, mirroring her progress, the tramping of her bodyguard’s iron-shod feet on the stairs.
Kalia, priestess of Tymora, she of the sharp, dusky Amnian features and raven-black bobbed hair, stops at the open doorway of my office, sighs deeply, and speaks with deep disgust in her voice. “I need to bathe.”
I am not at my desk; rather, I am slouched across the thick gold-leather armchair in the far corner of the small, bookshelf-lined room leafing through The Grand History of the Realms, a rare copy annotated and ink-stained by the comical Volo himself. I do not look up as I speak. “No, you do not. From your first days with me you have been ritually purified every morning, and even the vilest filth of the Chasm would not cling to you. You smell like dawn over the Storm Horns, crisp and pure and electric…” I look up with my best sly smile. “…and you look like a million astral diamonds.”
She does. I do not exaggerate. My most skilled henchmen, my agents among the streetwalkers and hustlers of Deekin Street, are priestesses of the various goddesses of the Gates of the Moon, and all are beautiful, each in their own unique way. Kalia is not tall, but she is sturdy, thick of body in all manner of wondrous places and physically far stronger than I shall ever be.
My complements seem to ease her heart a touch, and she begins to loosen the multiplicity of straps that hold her chainmail in place. “Lord Myles…I do intend to soak away my cares before the ceremony. Red Wizards are bad enough, but the devils with whom they consort…they are truly disgusting.” She turns to her bodyguard with a curt nod. “We are here and physically unharmed, so you know we were successful. Another attempt by the Thayans to stir up the Plaguechanged has been thwarted by the luck of Tymora and Her radiant energy acting through her humble servant.”
Kalia stops fiddling with her armor and catches my eye. “Miroln was once again very useful. I look forward to the protection of his sword when next I venture forth.” The bodyguard, who had stopped at attention at the doorway, straightens just that much more. Kalia turns away from me and sweeps out of the room, headed upstairs to her quarters.
Let me interrupt this narrative to give away a small secret of mine. I am who I am because I have a sense for subtle interactions, a talent for intuiting the will of Sune in situations both ordinary and unusual. It is precisely this insight, this wisdom, that grants me my holy power…and it makes me, in spite of my loquacious tongue, a very, very good listener. A suggestion, a request, had just been made ever so gently.
The bodyguard Miroln, a young male human in shining plate armor, nods, his chin to his chest for a full second, as Kalia walks past him. To his credit, his eyes do not follow her form as she walks away.
Mine do.
No apologies.
The boy looks up at me. “By your leave, Lord Myles?”
He imagines that tonight will be just like the past hundred or so nights: seeing to his gear, swapping war stories with the other large, equally dangerous persons I’ve chosen to act as bodyguards for the priestesses, maybe a drink or two, maybe a game of cards, and then to bed.
The poor boy has no idea.
I stand from my chair and straighten out my robe. “Stay for a moment, Miroln.” His eyes widen a bit, but otherwise he remains his usual disciplined self.
“Do you know anything about this ceremony that Kalia mentioned?” I step over to my desk but look at him, on the lookout for telltale signs of misdirection or lies.
“Um, no, my lord Myles…actually this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
I smile, an honest smile. He is telling the truth. “You are given to the worship of Tempus the Battle Lord, if I remember correctly. You know who Tempus’s enemies are, but probably not a whole lot more about all the world’s deities and demigods. I understand that: It’s not your concern.”
It’s time to work in a little truth. If this is what Kalia wants, then I have to do what I can. “In around two hours you are going to receive an urgent message summoning you to the ceremony space up on the fifth floor. You will be told to drop everything, take no equipment, and run there, and you will do just that.”
Miroln hesitates a moment and nods. “Of course, my lord.”
I pause, phrasing my words carefully. I don’t want to frighten the boy, but neither do I want him to go into all of this with too much confidence…so yes, maybe I do want to frighten him a little.
“The priestesses have decided to choose a new hero, as they name their most trusted escorts. You are one of four that they have designated as worthy of that title: You have Kalia’s admiration and nearly-equal endorsements from several of the others. That ceremony will take place tonight and into tomorrow. Over eighteen hours or so you will be tested. Four bodyguards will enter the fifth floor, but only one will come down those stairs a hero…the rest will leave my service with my thanks and a fat purse. Do you understand?”
He comes to attention with a look of absolute certainty in his eyes, staring past me into what he imagines to be his future. “Yes, Lord Myles!” He does not shout, but it appears that he would very much like to.
I pause.
“No, you don’t.” I say with a shake of my head and a small smile.
Those certain eyes flicker towards me, suddenly uncertain.
“Tonight is the new moon. Selune’s light is softest, and some twenty-one priestesses gather to honor she for whom the cloak of darkness is garment enough, the lovely Sharess, goddess of pleasure. They will be up there for an hour before they call for the four of you…and weapons and armor will not be required.”
Uncertain eyes go wide as realization changes to anticipation and fear rises up like a sudden storm. It is time to put the courage of Tempus back in this boy. He will be needing it.
I do not raise my voice as I poke him in the chest with one finger, but I take the tone that I imagine his very first cleric-instructor did. “What is the first rule of war?”
Reflexes imparted by months of drill kick in as I hoped they would. Miroln stiffens and looks past me with a hard stare.
“All is war, sir!”
“Yes!” I clap him on the shoulder and laugh. “That’s right…everything is war. Even this…and if you know yourself, and know your opponent, you need not fear the outcome of a thousand battles. I’m going to help you with both of those things, as a favor to Kalia.”
Visibly relieved, he gives a shuddering laugh, then looks at me intently. “Kalia?”
“Yes. She loves you. You might not have noticed…you two are usually neck-deep in monstrous threats when you’re together, and she's only just realized it herself."
Suddenly the boy looks very thoughtful, as he recalls and reclassifies a thousand gestures, words, and glances now given far more meaning. I take the opportunity to open a carved scrimshaw box on my desk and withdraw four small bottles from it.
“Prepare yourself as you would for battle, with rest and focus…oh, and scrub yourself well. Then, when the call comes, drink these in no particular order.” I hand him three of the four vials and he looks questioningly at me.
“The red will increase your stamina and take away your need to sleep for a full day, the blue will dull your aches and pains for an equal time, and the orange will boost your senses just a bit, to make you more sensitive to, shall we say, social cues. All these will help, and the other men will have these as well…but this silvery one here? ” I hold it up and swirl it gently in the light; it seems to be an ounce or two of cloud lit by twinkling starlight. “This, we hope, will give you the edge you need. It also cost me more to make than I will pay you for the next five years’ service…but I love my priestesses and I want them to be happy.”
Miroln blinks, waiting for an explanation. I consider not telling him, letting him find out for himself, but then shake my head. Forewarned is, after all, forearmed.
“Sune, the Lady Firehair, has given me many gifts in my years of service to her. This vaporous, silvery potion is the distillation of one of those gifts. In addition to its lifesaving original purpose, it has amazing applications in the ceremony that you are about to attend.”
“Alchemists call this the Last Breath of the Gods. Drink it and for an entire day, you will not need to breathe.”
He thinks, considers, ponders for a moment, and then the implications hit him like a bolt of heavenly fire. The smile that breaks across his face convinces me that Kalia has nothing to worry about.
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