GM Post: Onward to Princes & Thrones
The evening turns to night, and the night drags on as tankards get emptied, then filled back up repeatedly. Conversation comes and goes. Sometimes you’re part of it, sometimes you’re just nearby, sharing space. It’s different now…not comfortable exactly, but not quite as distant either. You’re not strangers anymore, at least not quite.
There are small moments between you that stick. A laugh that goes on a beat longer than expected. Someone holding eye contact, then not looking away right away. Silences that don’t need filling. Whatever this is, this group dynamic, it’s starting to take shape.
But like all things, eventually the night gives out. Rooms get claimed and doors shut behind you as you find your way to rest after such a strange fucking day. But of course, the tavern keeps going without you.
But even among the group, not everyone turns in. Bastion settles in the hallway outside Phia’s door, back against the worn wood, as still as if he’s part of the building itself. And as the rest of you sleep, he doesn’t move from that spot…he just stays right there, keeping watch over you all.
Morning arrives whether anyone’s ready for it or not. Downstairs, the air is thick with stale ale and salt. The crowd’s thinner now, with people recovering more than living. It’s not empty, this place is NEVER empty, but the energy’s different.
And they are already there. All three of them.
Beckett stands in the middle, relaxed but alert while he sweettalks the barmaid that came in as Grelda’s relief. Rory’s beside him, restless, one hand near her blade and the other on a nice thick piece of bread as she takes a frustrated bite. And Gnarly… Well, Gnarly is staring into a steaming cup of black coffee like it’s the depths of the deepest, darkest parts of the very sea itself. All the lights are on, but no one is home as that massive hunk of a handsome Orc is somewhere else entirely in his mind’s eye.
Beckett notices you coming and gives a faint, knowing smile. “Well,” he says, easy and controlled. “There you are… The Prince is expecting you.”
And without delay, they get straight to it.
You’re led out into Port Verge as the three begin escorting you once again. The streets here don’t make much sense…too narrow in some places, opening up without warning in others. Buildings lean into each other, patched together from whatever was available: driftwood, scavenged stone, pieces that look stolen more than found. The air carries salt, smoke, and something metallic underneath it all. And the people notice you, just like they day before. Maybe there are a few less stares overall, but not a one of you are looked at like you belong there. If anything, there is an odd expectation in most of the onlookers' eyes…
As though they all know something you don’t.
Then you see it.
Seadragon Keep. In all of its ramshackle, but somehow still ominous glory. It looks like something that refused to collapse and then got rebuilt by people who didn’t care how it looked, only that it held. Old stone reinforced with ship hulls, jagged planks hammered into place, towers lashed together with rope and iron. Flags whip in the wind…mismatched, worn, but unapologetically present. Cannons are positioned wherever they fit. Oh, and of course there’s the occasional skull or other odd decorations set into gaps between stones or wherever the pirates preferred their morose little messages of threat.
Guards line the entrance. Real guards, armed to the teeth and with looks that could kill on their own. As you approach, their focus shifts to you, but as they see the trio accompanying you, they let you pass. The gates open slowly, the sound deep and heavy, like the place itself is waking up.
Inside, it’s no cleaner, no more refined…just bigger. The structure changes as you move through it. Stone turns to wood, wood to iron, pieces of ships worked into walls and ceilings wherever they were needed. Nothing matches, but everything holds. People move with purpose. Some glance your way, but most inside don’t seem to care at all. Either way, they know you’re here. You’re led upward, deeper in, until two massive, intricate but makeshift doors open.
Before you lies the throne room.
The space is wide, built from the original bones of the fortress and reinforced over time with thick beams and the massive rib bones of some kind of giant creature. Light cuts in through high, broken, stained-glass windows, falling in sharp angles across the room in colorful, kaleidoscopic patterns.
At the far end sits the throne. Pieces of wreckage, iron, carved stone, all forced together into something solid and intentional. It’s rough, jagged, and completely unmistakable.
And seated upon it is not the aged, burly prince of pirates that perhaps you were expecting. Instead, a figure much younger, at least in appearance, looms atop the throne. His skin holds a deep, ocean-blue hue, not flat but shifting subtly in the fractured light, like sunlight filtering through restless water. It catches the colors spilling in from the shattered stained-glass above… reds, golds, greens… and they ripple faintly across him, alive in a way that makes it hard to tell where the light ends and he begins.
His hair falls in dark dreadlocks, some bound loosely with bits of cord and tarnished metal, others left to fall free around his face and shoulders. And then there are the scars. They do not ruin his face, instead they define it...giving his young appearance more of an edge than one would expect. Thin lines and deeper cuts, old and earned, carved across flesh. One catches the light just right when he shifts… a pale streak against blue skin, sharp enough to draw the eye.
A long, weather-worn coat hangs from his shoulders, rich in color but frayed at the edges, embroidered in gold that has seen salt, blood, and too many storms. Beneath it, layered fabrics of deep reds and off-whites, open at the chest just enough to reveal cords of muscle and a few more scars that disappear beneath cloth and story alike. Jewelry rests at his throat and wrists… not gaudy, but deliberate. Each piece chosen. Each piece kept.
Nothing about him is accidental.
One hand rests lazily against the arm of the throne, fingers tapping once… twice… slow and thoughtful. The other grips the hilt of a blade planted casually beside him, as if it has always belonged there… as if it’s part of the throne itself.
He leans forward, taking in the sight of you all as his eyes move across the group. Beckett, Rory, and Gnarly back out of the room and close the doors behind them. You realize you are entirely alone with this Prince in a room that feels far too vast and empty with so few souls inside.
Finally, he speaks.
“I am not sure what misfortune led to your arrival on my island.”
He begins, his voice is not deep but it is smooth, and oddly it holds some kind of light resonance that is reminiscent of the sound of waves crashing against shore.
“But know this now and accept it as truth. While you are here in the domain of Prince Ravic Dane, you stand as property of the Seadragons. For I am him, and everything around you belongs to me. If you wish to live, I suggest you make the choice to find peace with such a fact.”
The young Prince continues, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands come together underneath his chin.
“Let’s keep it simple and begin with introductions. I wish for each of you to stand before me and tell me who you think you are.”
There are small moments between you that stick. A laugh that goes on a beat longer than expected. Someone holding eye contact, then not looking away right away. Silences that don’t need filling. Whatever this is, this group dynamic, it’s starting to take shape.
But like all things, eventually the night gives out. Rooms get claimed and doors shut behind you as you find your way to rest after such a strange fucking day. But of course, the tavern keeps going without you.
But even among the group, not everyone turns in. Bastion settles in the hallway outside Phia’s door, back against the worn wood, as still as if he’s part of the building itself. And as the rest of you sleep, he doesn’t move from that spot…he just stays right there, keeping watch over you all.
Morning arrives whether anyone’s ready for it or not. Downstairs, the air is thick with stale ale and salt. The crowd’s thinner now, with people recovering more than living. It’s not empty, this place is NEVER empty, but the energy’s different.
And they are already there. All three of them.
Beckett stands in the middle, relaxed but alert while he sweettalks the barmaid that came in as Grelda’s relief. Rory’s beside him, restless, one hand near her blade and the other on a nice thick piece of bread as she takes a frustrated bite. And Gnarly… Well, Gnarly is staring into a steaming cup of black coffee like it’s the depths of the deepest, darkest parts of the very sea itself. All the lights are on, but no one is home as that massive hunk of a handsome Orc is somewhere else entirely in his mind’s eye.
Beckett notices you coming and gives a faint, knowing smile. “Well,” he says, easy and controlled. “There you are… The Prince is expecting you.”
And without delay, they get straight to it.
You’re led out into Port Verge as the three begin escorting you once again. The streets here don’t make much sense…too narrow in some places, opening up without warning in others. Buildings lean into each other, patched together from whatever was available: driftwood, scavenged stone, pieces that look stolen more than found. The air carries salt, smoke, and something metallic underneath it all. And the people notice you, just like they day before. Maybe there are a few less stares overall, but not a one of you are looked at like you belong there. If anything, there is an odd expectation in most of the onlookers' eyes…
As though they all know something you don’t.
Then you see it.
Seadragon Keep. In all of its ramshackle, but somehow still ominous glory. It looks like something that refused to collapse and then got rebuilt by people who didn’t care how it looked, only that it held. Old stone reinforced with ship hulls, jagged planks hammered into place, towers lashed together with rope and iron. Flags whip in the wind…mismatched, worn, but unapologetically present. Cannons are positioned wherever they fit. Oh, and of course there’s the occasional skull or other odd decorations set into gaps between stones or wherever the pirates preferred their morose little messages of threat.
Guards line the entrance. Real guards, armed to the teeth and with looks that could kill on their own. As you approach, their focus shifts to you, but as they see the trio accompanying you, they let you pass. The gates open slowly, the sound deep and heavy, like the place itself is waking up.
Inside, it’s no cleaner, no more refined…just bigger. The structure changes as you move through it. Stone turns to wood, wood to iron, pieces of ships worked into walls and ceilings wherever they were needed. Nothing matches, but everything holds. People move with purpose. Some glance your way, but most inside don’t seem to care at all. Either way, they know you’re here. You’re led upward, deeper in, until two massive, intricate but makeshift doors open.
Before you lies the throne room.
The space is wide, built from the original bones of the fortress and reinforced over time with thick beams and the massive rib bones of some kind of giant creature. Light cuts in through high, broken, stained-glass windows, falling in sharp angles across the room in colorful, kaleidoscopic patterns.
At the far end sits the throne. Pieces of wreckage, iron, carved stone, all forced together into something solid and intentional. It’s rough, jagged, and completely unmistakable.
And seated upon it is not the aged, burly prince of pirates that perhaps you were expecting. Instead, a figure much younger, at least in appearance, looms atop the throne. His skin holds a deep, ocean-blue hue, not flat but shifting subtly in the fractured light, like sunlight filtering through restless water. It catches the colors spilling in from the shattered stained-glass above… reds, golds, greens… and they ripple faintly across him, alive in a way that makes it hard to tell where the light ends and he begins.
His hair falls in dark dreadlocks, some bound loosely with bits of cord and tarnished metal, others left to fall free around his face and shoulders. And then there are the scars. They do not ruin his face, instead they define it...giving his young appearance more of an edge than one would expect. Thin lines and deeper cuts, old and earned, carved across flesh. One catches the light just right when he shifts… a pale streak against blue skin, sharp enough to draw the eye.
A long, weather-worn coat hangs from his shoulders, rich in color but frayed at the edges, embroidered in gold that has seen salt, blood, and too many storms. Beneath it, layered fabrics of deep reds and off-whites, open at the chest just enough to reveal cords of muscle and a few more scars that disappear beneath cloth and story alike. Jewelry rests at his throat and wrists… not gaudy, but deliberate. Each piece chosen. Each piece kept.
Nothing about him is accidental.
One hand rests lazily against the arm of the throne, fingers tapping once… twice… slow and thoughtful. The other grips the hilt of a blade planted casually beside him, as if it has always belonged there… as if it’s part of the throne itself.
He leans forward, taking in the sight of you all as his eyes move across the group. Beckett, Rory, and Gnarly back out of the room and close the doors behind them. You realize you are entirely alone with this Prince in a room that feels far too vast and empty with so few souls inside.
Finally, he speaks.
“I am not sure what misfortune led to your arrival on my island.”
He begins, his voice is not deep but it is smooth, and oddly it holds some kind of light resonance that is reminiscent of the sound of waves crashing against shore.
“But know this now and accept it as truth. While you are here in the domain of Prince Ravic Dane, you stand as property of the Seadragons. For I am him, and everything around you belongs to me. If you wish to live, I suggest you make the choice to find peace with such a fact.”
The young Prince continues, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands come together underneath his chin.
“Let’s keep it simple and begin with introductions. I wish for each of you to stand before me and tell me who you think you are.”
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