[@The Large Dumbo]

You have been a deep sleeper, as of late, betraying your Fey ancestry. Except when your beauty rest coughs up a mountain of clots. 

Your eyelids haphazardly retract revealing an avalanche of cloth draped over your body.

The sounds of a quenched laboratory, the whizzing narcotic blades of a fan, and the mechanical pacemaker’s induced lub-dub of a tell-tale heart nearby remind you that this is not the spirited remnants of a seaming afterlife or another elemental plane. 

As you move, your contracted grimace aches. You quickly discard the shroud, only to reveal your corpus in a blanche gown, with labyrinthine tubes scuttling from both your upper extremities to eight other covered slabs. After spitting and wiping off your soporific chin with the leathery white sleeve, an uncut crimson gem roars, from within your forearm, to your arousing sight, as if attempting to uproot the bole of a gnarled willow within your mind. The shimmer and reflection intimate the visage of your face, weathered by unaccustomed long hair, a seeming crow’s nest overflowing with thinning thatch and twig. Your disposition grows dark as you relish a constant buzz from an adjacent table, eventually pocketing an ebony omen soon to come.

[i]Did I pay the tab?[/i] Your brain wonders, devoid of your volition.

Your comatosed hippocampi rumbles the risks, permutating the rationale of this Kolmogorov-like prison. 

No windows. 
	No doors.  
		Just echoes, flickering radiance and stale air.

Whispered, uncouth voices in the distance force your hand, a now left-sided grip on the bench stabilizing your fragile body, simultaneously providing heat as you glean the mention of this [i]hated city[/i],

[i]Waterdeep.[/i]

Home of the [i]Wards[/i], a historic bastardization of ghost-bred conquistadors and a myriad of proud merchants. 

Your joints creak as you sit up. The ceremonial gavel in your throat waits to strike to regain order and balance, as you attempt to mouth in silence. Your plastered stupor is interrupted by a couple more gory gags, beelining to the cobbled floor. 

Your neighbors are beginning to stir.

Swinging your veil ajar, no weapons, no armor, not even shoes can be discerned. Only a centerpiece elevated with a black mantle draping, consuming all the conduits, filled with sparkling red ether. Each wall hosts a bench, filled with lit candles, beakers, liquids, and dying orchids. Papers are scattered atop, inked with blood, white dust, and darkness. The stench of iron, sulfur, and phosphorus remind your nares of a cauldron, aged and riddled with nightmares. 

[i]Why?[/i]

[hider=DM Mechanics]
Everyone is at exactly half their max HP as one level of Exhaustion. Each will awaken according to their Initiative order. Each character has 6 seconds (1 round) when they awaken before the next person rises, to do whatsoever they wish.

Remember, no one knows anyone, except possibly those who have lived in the [i]City of Splendors[/i] for quite some time.

This will take place in the [i]Theater of the Mind[/i]. For now, unless something devious erupts from amongst y'all.

The room is 50 feet by 50 feet. Each slab is 10 feet long, arranged as a square, with the center 5 feet higher than the rest and draped with black cloth. Tubes are everywhere. But no apparent exit.

[@The Large Dumbo], your PC is currently shown by the X.

[X][ ][ ]
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[/hider]