[The capital city perches along the clifftops of a vast, blue lake, a grand castle with bold green banners flying, easily visible like the crest of a mountain on the horizon. Marble buildings and colorful landscapes pepper the direct vicinity of the royal grounds, painting a faint picture of luxurious normalcy until massive iron gates cut them off abruptly, stone walls with a sheer drop of two stories marking the pedestal of the rich, plenty of guards keeping post around every corner.
The rest of the town - what other characters will be far more prone to see - is in squalor. There are plenty of buildings, but most have seen their fair share of decay. Many of the more thriving businesses are covered in scrap metal, warped and miscolored as though it has melted, cooled, and melted again multiple times in a row. Though different races of creatures file the streets, there is a definite and noticeable aura of segregation. Many cower from the Orcs, beasts with oily black skin and enormous pig-like jaws, often dressed finer and armored more heavily than anyone around them. Here or there a goblin is kicked out of a building for fear they are a pickpocket, while a human is thrown against a wall for being duplicitous. And too easily can anyone see the state of the elves - spit on, cursed at, shoved simply for walking too close to someone. They scurry into darkened alleys, into the curving slopes of the sewers, many preferring to hide rather than fight. The further from the palace one goes, the worse it gets. Around any corner of the slums could easily sit a man with his eyes blinded or a child missing an arm, skin and bones, dying where they lie. Very few bat an eye.
There is no food. There is never food. No matter where you look, there are no vendors or stores to sell rations or water. Many beg in the streets for crumbs out of your coat or drops from a waterskin, please, for their starving parent, for their dying child... If one asks where rations can be found, they point you to the monastery, housed by the tall, scaly winged creatures known as the Wyverns. They will also politely inform you that there is, indeed, no more holy rations to be given today, but they will pray for your survival until morning.
Near the stone walls of the royal quarters lies a particular tunnel, and today it has been opened. Signs posted easily explain that this is where the nobility keep those slaves and servants for barter, as well as political prisoners for mockery. And oh, do the people mock. Most of them rich, looking for something or other, but the common folk can be seen taking a curious peek through the bars that line the long stone halls, looking for loved ones or simply something to gossip about to the people of the streets later.
Many of those chained up are elves of all ages and genders. Many have done no crime, marked as nothing but a simple item. Those that have committed some sin or another, in contrast, have red seals stamped against the papers outside their cells, their deeds scrawled out in Orcish. It is in one of these cells that Lutha can be found chained to a wall, clothed in the fine fabrics of the rich save for how tattered and bloodied they now are, ripped heavily at his waist and one of his shoulders.]
2
[If you're a little luckier (???) you might end up outside Ordo entirely, perhaps at a later date. What remains of the land is now dirt, stone, and sand, a stretch of dry and angry browns in every direction. Those plants that remain are black and twisted, trees horrifyingly mutated with only the stumps still truly living. There is no grass, no flowers, no sparks of color. Just the sound of the wind whipping the dust into lazy spirals, carrying the call of some hungry creature howling in the distance.
Clouds are gathering with the distinct rumble of thunder. It's growing cold, and the air is getting hard to breathe. Your lungs start to burn.
It's only when you pass through one turn, around the curving rock of a canyon wall, do you finally spot other travellers, hiding under a crudely made shelter of debris and the metallic remains of a boat. It's a small party, consisting of a wyvern, three humans, and an elf, all far too busy trying to reinforce their makeshift ceiling as tightly as possible. It probably takes about two seconds to realize one of those humans is Lutha.
One of the others, a very ancient and very short man hobbling around on a crutch, spots you first. He does a double take towards his company, shrugs, and waves you over with a toothless grin.]
Quickly, lads, before the rain makes ye into so much bloody soup!
[Someone else swears in a foreign tongue at the older man with some garbled commentary about how they're not going to have enough room, but half of them have now hesitated long enough to try and take a look.]
Lutha Pahr
[The capital city perches along the clifftops of a vast, blue lake, a grand castle with bold green banners flying, easily visible like the crest of a mountain on the horizon. Marble buildings and colorful landscapes pepper the direct vicinity of the royal grounds, painting a faint picture of luxurious normalcy until massive iron gates cut them off abruptly, stone walls with a sheer drop of two stories marking the pedestal of the rich, plenty of guards keeping post around every corner.
The rest of the town - what other characters will be far more prone to see - is in squalor. There are plenty of buildings, but most have seen their fair share of decay. Many of the more thriving businesses are covered in scrap metal, warped and miscolored as though it has melted, cooled, and melted again multiple times in a row. Though different races of creatures file the streets, there is a definite and noticeable aura of segregation. Many cower from the Orcs, beasts with oily black skin and enormous pig-like jaws, often dressed finer and armored more heavily than anyone around them. Here or there a goblin is kicked out of a building for fear they are a pickpocket, while a human is thrown against a wall for being duplicitous. And too easily can anyone see the state of the elves - spit on, cursed at, shoved simply for walking too close to someone. They scurry into darkened alleys, into the curving slopes of the sewers, many preferring to hide rather than fight. The further from the palace one goes, the worse it gets. Around any corner of the slums could easily sit a man with his eyes blinded or a child missing an arm, skin and bones, dying where they lie. Very few bat an eye.
There is no food. There is never food. No matter where you look, there are no vendors or stores to sell rations or water. Many beg in the streets for crumbs out of your coat or drops from a waterskin, please, for their starving parent, for their dying child... If one asks where rations can be found, they point you to the monastery, housed by the tall, scaly winged creatures known as the Wyverns. They will also politely inform you that there is, indeed, no more holy rations to be given today, but they will pray for your survival until morning.
Near the stone walls of the royal quarters lies a particular tunnel, and today it has been opened. Signs posted easily explain that this is where the nobility keep those slaves and servants for barter, as well as political prisoners for mockery. And oh, do the people mock. Most of them rich, looking for something or other, but the common folk can be seen taking a curious peek through the bars that line the long stone halls, looking for loved ones or simply something to gossip about to the people of the streets later.
Many of those chained up are elves of all ages and genders. Many have done no crime, marked as nothing but a simple item. Those that have committed some sin or another, in contrast, have red seals stamped against the papers outside their cells, their deeds scrawled out in Orcish. It is in one of these cells that Lutha can be found chained to a wall, clothed in the fine fabrics of the rich save for how tattered and bloodied they now are, ripped heavily at his waist and one of his shoulders.]
2
[If you're a little luckier (???) you might end up outside Ordo entirely, perhaps at a later date. What remains of the land is now dirt, stone, and sand, a stretch of dry and angry browns in every direction. Those plants that remain are black and twisted, trees horrifyingly mutated with only the stumps still truly living. There is no grass, no flowers, no sparks of color. Just the sound of the wind whipping the dust into lazy spirals, carrying the call of some hungry creature howling in the distance.
Clouds are gathering with the distinct rumble of thunder. It's growing cold, and the air is getting hard to breathe. Your lungs start to burn.
It's only when you pass through one turn, around the curving rock of a canyon wall, do you finally spot other travellers, hiding under a crudely made shelter of debris and the metallic remains of a boat. It's a small party, consisting of a wyvern, three humans, and an elf, all far too busy trying to reinforce their makeshift ceiling as tightly as possible. It probably takes about two seconds to realize one of those humans is Lutha.
One of the others, a very ancient and very short man hobbling around on a crutch, spots you first. He does a double take towards his company, shrugs, and waves you over with a toothless grin.]
Quickly, lads, before the rain makes ye into so much bloody soup!
[Someone else swears in a foreign tongue at the older man with some garbled commentary about how they're not going to have enough room, but half of them have now hesitated long enough to try and take a look.]