[color=f7976a][h3]P l o t [/h3][/color][color=fdc68a]
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Crown-on-Skull - the gothic city of Crosk was a capital built on the largest bone-laden labyrinth of catacombs in the known world. A graveyard with a vast ribcage of tunnels that burrowed deep down into the depths of hell, paving infernal roads for denizens of the underworld to traverse upwards into the viridian misted streets above. The culture of Crosk was to never polish your own tombstone - if you’re not a fiend, the dealings of others are not your concern, making the city’s narrow, cobbled alleys a refuge for everyday warlocks and rogues.

Crosk was prepared to celebrate the upcoming coronation of its future queen. Bunting threaded between the buildings like flying fleets of ships docking at balconies draped with sails. Crown-on-Skull’s stunning courthouse, second only to the grandeur of the royal castle, was a gargoyle-guarded cathedral dedicated to the worship of fiendish law. Its smoke-stained facade was lit with lantern light in honor of Princess Oletta’s ascension. In contrast, a ragged halfling woman with frizzy tangerine hair that stood on end like tree branches pleaded at the landmark's twenty-foot hellish doors. She slid her back down the side of the building; this was the City of Broken Pacts to her. In acceptance, she held her legs to her chest like a beggar and stared down the sloped streets towards the sea. Even the lower districts were illuminated in string lights that stretched down to the port, a hub for merchants from mysterious lands, now braced to receive guest ships.

As a center for magical commerce, Crown-on-Skull was a vital stop along the continental trade route; therefore, the coronation was a world event that welcomed courtesans and envoys from distant nations. Music sounded through Crosk’s famous plaza, the Iron Lip, as busking bards competed for the purses of wealthy visitors, their songs the soundtrack to a wondrous festival of mingling foreigners. The square itself was enclosed by a continuous wall of grand, attached buildings, including Crelore's Collegium of Conjuration and a fortified gatehouse that marked one of the seven descents into the catacombs. The buildings’ upper levels formed a joint gallery that overlooked the plaza like an open-air stage. From up there, an unusual golden-masked man adorned ostentatiously with hundreds of shimmering necklaces, brooches, bracelets, rings and timepieces eyed the Iron Lip with insidious intentions.

As the coronation drew near, the celebration coordinated on the keep, where caterers readied the halls in abundance and entertainers warmed up for a performance. Processions assembled in a bottleneck at the gates, filing through the entrance as the moment approached. Two hairless crones shared a red velvet hood; conjoined in a sensual embrace, they were coiled around one another like a pair of shed snake skins. The pair slithered in unison towards an onyx organ, a musical behemoth with great pipes that pierced the walls and ran all throughout the royal castle of Crosk. The crones’ four hands peeled from their regal robe and with unnatural strength, pressed down on coal-colored keys. The resulting billow swelled through the organ’s flues, throughout the citadel and into the catacombs, where it was amplified a thousand times over, bouncing off skeletal glockenspiels. Crown-On-Skull trembled as the foundation beneath the castle gave way and it plummeted into a chasm, taking with it all those inside.

[b]Four Weeks Ago[/b]
The high road to Crown-on-Skull was crowded with pilgrims en route to the capital. Campsites gathered at dusk along the roadside, their fires an ideal environment for the fruiting of gossip - a shoe thief, a lost horse, a beautiful ghost and many more intriguing stories spread through the night. By day the caravans would flood small towns with sudden business, leaving no quiet place on the road to Crosk.

It was a three-week journey from the village of Steppingsforth… [b]where your journey began…[/b] 
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