The Good Doctor

Nobody quite knows where Doc came from. Just kinda came into the crew following Lucas. Doesnt like to talk much about himself, but people close to him know he has a elven sister out there that he looks after from time to time. He must have some formal training because he is a maestro in the operating room. In a pinch he is handy with a pistol almost as well as he is with his scalpel. Man does have money for those in need of some. Just dont ask him where he got it.

A Discordant Note
Story of Nadric Flywheel
The short, stocky old man spun his tray across the floor, smiling happily as it clanged against the steel frame of the cell door. Ping The sound resonated in the small six by six cell. He chuckled quietly to himself, or at least, he thought he chuckled. After living so long without speaking, it was sometimes hard to tell if he was speaking, or just thinking. Usually, the only sounds he heard were the rattle of the food panel on the cell door, the sound of the food tray being set on the floor, and the boots of his hosts as they walked away. No one ever spoke to him, and so he never spoke to anyone. How long had it been since he’d last spoken to anyone? Well, not that time mattered here in his cell. Still, he supposed it must have been years; not since Algy. He missed Algy sometimes; he wasn’t talkative by nature, but Algy had been some much needed social interaction. But then, Algy went away, just like all the ones before him. While he mused about this, he reclined on his small pallet, glancing at the toilet, wondering if he should go now, or after a nap. Maybe after, he thought. After all, I’m already comfortable. No sense spoiling a good thing. As he lay there dozing, he heard the steady rhythm of the hosts coming to collect his tray. The sound was almost comforting, reassurance that the day progressed as normal. How many meals had he had, courtesy of his hosts?

Sleep overtook him, and with it came the dreams; he did so love dreams. Perhaps not surprisingly, when the mind is idle for too long, as his most certainly was, it begins to crave a certain amount of activity, any kind of activity really. The dreams consumed him, dreams of a younger man haring of across the galaxy (Hmm, what a solid old spaceship), of a beautiful young woman waving goodbye (Quite the looker there, wonder who she is), of looking up and seeing a sky for the first time (Yep, gonna be sick). The images flashed before his eyes, one after another, as if they were memories. The only question, where did the memories come from? Who dreamed me these dreams? Who lived me this life?
As his sleeping mind pondered, another scene flashed before his mind’s eye: the young man, sitting happily, tinkering with a giant engine that was producing a quiet hum. The machine before him was a mass of complex parts; some moved faster and some slower, but all of them come together as if to follow a single magnificent score. That hum was music to the dreaming old man, and he smiled in his sleep at the sound of it.
While he lay there smiling to himself, listening to the symphony of the engines in his dreams, he heard a discordant note. Clank He stirred briefly, frowning at the stray note in the music. He’ll need to fix that. As he started to relax back into the hum, the discordant note came again, and again soon after that. The old man started to rouse from his rest, frustrated by the ugly sound. Ehh? Sounds? With that, he shot up on his pallet, looking about the small cell in alarm. From outside the cell came the sound of boots by the door, and the sound of metal scraping metal. Huh, haven’t heard that sound before. Wait, have I?
With a rusty screech, the old steel door opened, and the old man screamed in pain as light flooded the cell. My eyes!!! he shrieked. Well, he thought he shrieked. After a few moments of futilely trying to shield his eyes from the piercing light, a hand touched his brow, and he felt something slip over his eyes. All at once, the incredible pain faded away to a dull ache. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes again, fearing the return of that horrible agony, but it never came. He vaguely saw a blurry figure standing tall in front of him. Then came a sound, a sound he hadn’t heard in a very long time.
“Well old Dwarf,” came a man’s voice, filling the small space, echoing off the close metal walls in a rich tenor. “How would you like to see the stars?”
After struggling for a moment, the old man finally managed to get his voice to work. “ The stars?,” he coughed out, wondering at the effort.
“The stars.” came the man’s voice, the rich sound singing in the Dwarf’s ears.
“Seen ‘em before.” rasped the old man, his voice weak and husky from long disuse. “Can’t much have happened to ‘em. And no need to yell, dear host.”
“Yell? Ah I see, you’re sensitive to sounds as well, after so long in silence. The opposite of aural fatigue, as it were.”came a slightly quieter response. “As for the stars; well, a hundred years of prison might see a lot of changes in the universe around you lieutenant.”
One hundred years? LIEUTENANT??? All at once, memories of years long past crashed into him as he fell to his knees, images of people long since dead and places long gone. Memories of conversations with his father, of graduating from the academy, of hours spent tuning Mercurius’ rear thrusters, and the pleasure he felt at a job well done. Then, nipping on the heels of those pleasant memories, he was rushed down by a nightmare: fire in the engine room, the ship shaking around him, a hole being punched through the hull. Shadows dragging him from a wreck, hours of inquisition, months of torture at the hands of his hosts. Captors! came the vitriolic thought.
“I understand it’s a lot to take in, but we should get you ready to move. No reason to keep you here any longer than you already have been.” the man whispered to the dwarf, helping him to his feet. “Plenty of time to sort it all out once you’re free. For now, just hold onto the thought that you’re not alone anymore. Your century of solitude is over. Once we get you to the ship, you’ll have plenty of chances to talk it out with us.”
Us? Ship? came the hesitant thought. SHIP! Engines humming, grease under my nails, and food, real food! With a new sense of urgency, the old dwarf rose, looking up at the blurry man through what he now realized were a pair of welding goggles.
“Well, new friend whose name I don’t know,” came his rasping voice, “Let’s get a move on. If only Algy could see this.” With that, he stumbled to the cell door, breathing heavily and humming as he left the man behind.
The tall man watched the old dwarf walk out the cell in concerned puzzlement. Algy? Who the hell is Algy. File said he’s been here alone for over a century? Oh boy, this is gonna be trouble.

An Elf Among Trolls

Reynaud Chaustin is a second-generation dissenter Elf. His parents, while they were still relatively young, decided to leave the Kingdom of Helana, seeking prosperity and opportunity among the stars. They ended up, through poor planning and understanding of interstellar travel, on one of the many slum planets that make up most of the Holy Empire of the Trolls, and it was here that Reynaud was born. His father found work as a servant to a clergyman, while his mother took odd jobs doing whatever she could to support their child.
It quickly became apparent that life outside of the Kingdom was not what they had hoped, and after only a few years Reynaud’s mother was killed on a job during a minor scuffle between two gangs. Already struggling with depression at the futility of their situation, his father committed suicide soon after, and at the age of six, the young Chaustin child was forced to venture out into the streets of the slumworld to survive.
Many in his situation would have died almost immediately, but Reynaud got lucky. The gang which controlled the territory he happened to be in picked him up out of the pure novelty of his race, and treated him as a mock member, much to their amusement. Over a few years, this lie became the truth, as Reynaud showed a particular skill with guns which, combined with an agility and dexterity far beyond his troll counterparts, won him a place as a true member of the gang.
It was during this time that Reynaud learned everything he needed to know about street life in the slumworlds, knowledge that he took in with a grim determination. Eventually, he left the gang behind, parting on good terms with the members who had become the closest thing he had to family, and began working as a freelance mercenary. The only individuals on the derelict planet that were willing or able to hire him were the clergymen of the Holy Empire, but these had no shortage of jobs, and his growing reputation found him plenty of work.
Reynaud held a deep grudge against the Trolls who made up the Church, quite correctly blaming them for both his own state and the deaths of his parents, but this was counterbalanced by a pure desire to survive. Little by little, his situation improved, and he eventually found steady work as a combination smuggler, hitman, and cleaner for a corrupt priest he knew only as Ioel.
Ioel represented everything Reynaud hated. The Troll was fat, decadent, and uncaring of those under him. He was also, however, a brilliant and ambitious politician within the Church and, by using Chaustin’s ever-growing talents, he was able to maneuver into ever-better positions, which in turn meant better jobs for Reynaud. Every week, he would report to Ioel, and every day he would barely succeed in keeping himself from shooting the pudgy Troll right between the eyes.

Recently, Reynaud managed to accumulate enough money through his work to afford transport out of the Troll slumworld, achieving a dream that his parents were never able to. He now seeks work as a mercenary to whoever will hire him. Despite his hate for the man, his parting with Ioel was a good one, and the now-influential clergyman made for an excellent reference.
For now, he has little purpose but to earn more money in a vague attempt to return to the Kingdom of Helana. The stories told of the Elven realms are the only memory Reynaud has of his mother and, though he does not know whether dissenting Elves are let back into the Kingdom under any circumstances, it seems as good a goal as any.

Physically, Reynaud is tall and slender of build, but obviously fit and well-muscled for a member of his race. During his time as an operative on the Troll slumworld, he learned that an out-of-place Elf attracts a lot of attention, and so has developed the habit of wearing a hood and a pair of thick sunglasses at all time which, when combined with his musculature, allows him to easily pass as a Human.
Reynaud’s talents lie almost entirely in his speed and fine dexterity, and this is obvious in the way he holds himself. Even when standing still, he seems to be filled with pent-up energy, almost like a small animal ready to bolt. Rather than running from threats, however, he has a strong tendency to sprint into danger, relying on his reflexes and hard-earned instincts to keep him safe. This run-and-gun method earned him the nickname “Ransack” in the gang he once belonged to, and Reynaud continues to introduce himself as such rather than use his real name.

The Ballad of Lucas Singh

Colonel Marquez reviews the datapad once more. Lucas Singh, born in Caracas, no other records until his enlistment in Solar Alliance Command combat arms at approximately 17 years old, issued a sin at that time. After basic, moved on to 0-gravity training and drop school. The colonel eyes the list of commands and campaigns, each annotated with “served with distinction.” He thumbs the next link, an application for OTS, overlayed with notes from reveiwers.  Nothing of substance in the notes, Singh was admitted with little problem. Next up are his school records. Nearly top of his class in each subject, sim ops records are outstanding. Review notes command style “crookedly direct,” whatever the hell that means. Graduated with honors.  Tapped by Special Warfare Command for high threat resource retrieval.  Marquez takes a moment to stare at the ceiling “Black ops, with all the fuckery that entails.” He sighs, and continues out loud, “but that is why we are here now, isn’t it?” The ceiling doesn’t respond, and he turns his attention back to the tablet. He pages forward the service record, right into an encryption wall.  Classified encryption ABRUPT PROPHET.  Marquez doesnt recognize the code, but he wouldnt be dealing with this if he didn’t have the access.  He pulls up his encryption keys, digs out abrupt prophet, and plugs in.  He waits for authentication and decryption to run its course.  Afterwards, a lot of redacted records are staring at him, but the details of his last operation, the reason they were all here, were open.  He rubs his face.  This shit was sketchy as hell.  What happens when the resource doesn’t want to be retrieved? He tabs back to the main page, pulls up medical’s report.  Extensive mods, fast and tough made faster and tougher.  Psych report boils down to, “not dangerous, probably.” He locks the pad, and comms the Masters-at-Arms.  “Bring them in.”

He is not waiting long, as guards enter the room, followed by a stately woman and the subject himself.  Not a particularly large man, but composed like a warrior. 

“Counselor Artemis, has Mr. Singh been made aware of what we face here?”

“As much as can be made clear in these uncharted waters, colonel.”

“Well then, Mr Singh, please, your own account of what happened on your mission?”

Lucas looks at the counselor for confirmation, recieving a brief nod in response.

“My fireteam was tasked with the retreival of a dark probe, an asset designed to be an undetectable wide spectrum e.m. monitor.  Extremely sophisticated passive sensors, with powerful filtering and analysis software.  No means of broadcast or ping, only way to retrieve its data is to physically crack it open.  They sit for years collecting intel, only retrieved under certain contingencies. Doesn’t get you real time, but is a tried and true method of getting data on particularly tough nuts to crack.  This particular one was pointed at an elven skunk works shipyard. We skip in in a prowler, and spend weeks in sub-light creeping up on this rock it bolted to, breaths held and sphincters tight, just waiting to be caught out by their security.  We get to the asteroid, find the probe, and our decker cracks it open.  Imagine our surprise whenit starts talking to us. It had a mind, and isolation had driven it a bit mad. It takes it about five seconds to go from excited at the prospect of rescue, until it realized we were here to rip out its mind and remove evidence it existed with an imploder.  It grabs our comms, and well, screamed. Wide-bamd distress call.  Right outside what the elves thought was a well kept, tightly secured shipyard.  Tactical channels lit up and interceptors started full burn straight at us.  We convince the mind that we aren’t going to kill it, allow it to piggy back, and boogie out.  We spend a week on random deep space jumps until we are as sure as we could be we weren’t being followed, nearly overhearing the powerplant, coupled with the damage we took on our run, so we limp back to base. Brass was not thrilled at all with how loud the op had gotten, and were waiting none to patiently for our return.  Fortunately, Bob, our emergent AI, was a far more urgent matter to deal with than us.”

He trails of for a bit

“Anyone who says those things aren’t sentient has never talked to one.  And that probe, Bob, was little more than a scared kid.  I couldn’t terminate it, not in good conscience.”

He goes silent at this, giving his interlocutor a defiant stare. Colonel Marquez lets out a breath he didnt realize he was holding, opens the pad, and pulls up the last set of documents stored there.

“Due to the confidential nature of this incident, there will be no court martial.  However, effective immediately, you are relieved of duty, and will be resigning your commission. Son, you are going to sign this, and in return for cooperation, you dont get fed to the wolves prowling at the door.”

Singh thinks on it, and makes the only real choice he has. He put his biometrics to the paperwork.

Colonel Marquez takes one last look at the pad, commits the resignation to long term storage, and drops the pad into an E.M. chamber, purging it of anything stored.  He turns back to the man sitting in front of him.  “Thank you for your service.  Mr. Singh, Counselor, have a good day.”

Welcome to your campaign!
A blog for your campaign

Wondering how to get started? Here are a few tips:

1. Invite your players

Invite them with either their email address or their Obsidian Portal username.

2. Edit your home page

Make a few changes to the home page and give people an idea of what your campaign is about. That will let people know you’re serious and not just playing with the system.

3. Choose a theme

If you want to set a specific mood for your campaign, we have several backgrounds to choose from. Accentuate it by creating a top banner image.

4. Create some NPCs

Characters form the core of every campaign, so take a few minutes to list out the major NPCs in your campaign.

A quick tip: The “+” icon in the top right of every section is how to add a new item, whether it’s a new character or adventure log post, or anything else.

5. Write your first Adventure Log post

The adventure log is where you list the sessions and adventures your party has been on, but for now, we suggest doing a very light “story so far” post. Just give a brief overview of what the party has done up to this point. After each future session, create a new post detailing that night’s adventures.

One final tip: Don’t stress about making your Obsidian Portal campaign look perfect. Instead, just make it work for you and your group. If everyone is having fun, then you’re using Obsidian Portal exactly as it was designed, even if your adventure log isn’t always up to date or your characters don’t all have portrait pictures.

That’s it! The rest is up to your and your players.


I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.