Absalom in Shadow (InnRoads) Chapter 1 - In my Time of Waking

Game Master Song of Chiroptera

There is a new darkness taking shape in the city. It's tendrils are stretching forth to greet the waiting world outside.

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Getting things started!


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Greetings all Applicants! If you've found your way here, you're in the right place!

Once you've developed your character profile (alias), post up and begin by introducing yourself (Real Life) and then introducing your character. As more people stop by, I'll begin posting In Character as one or more of the NPCs you'll be interacting with over on the Gameplay thread. (see above tabs)

Once there, we can start role playing so I can get a feel for writing styles and character personalities. It'll give me a chance to get a feel for who meshes well and to do my best to put together a solid adventuring group. As stated in the recruitment article, I'm looking to go with 6 - 8 players, depending upon interest. Just for my own sanity and making sure I can dedicate time to individual character development, 8 characters will be my max.

So, happy posting! I'm looking forward to your entries!

- Jeff


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...................† Beckett Arrives in Cassomir †...................

He’s being pulled from the carriage, a hand upon his, delicate but firm. All he can hear is the stamping and snorting of the horses and of the rain that never seems to yield its fullness. Off in the distance, the waves beat against the cliff walls as the rain soaks his face. Beckett wants to stop, but the sense of his childlike fear gives way to a young man’s bravery. And he doesn’t want to disappoint his mother.

The cobblestone walkway is a vein leading to the house. Rain flows down the stone, pooling in the mud and cobble at their feet. Ahead of him the manor’s wood and stone bulk sits atop the cliff, a macabre sense of longing in the windows staring over the side. Bits of paint were chipped away leaving behind gashes of bare wood and stone. Could a house crawl with tremors and chills? Could a house want nothing more than to no longer dwell in its own facade? Amid the wind and rain and waves, the house instead groaned under the weight of its own history. It had not the life left in it to leave its foundation, the rot is too deep.

Beckett wipes rain from his eyes and as the moon’s sickle slips behind a cloud the dark stain of wet on his hand makes him think of blood. Their steps bring them passed the manor’s well, the rope long dessicated and useless on the crank wheel. He fancies the sounds of scrabbling and worse from the well’s depths and finds his feet moving a bit faster. But his eyes focus on the blocked stone of the well’s edge, expecting to see the source of the sounds to peer out in search of freedom. It’s only when he loses his grip on his mother’s hand that he tears his eyes away.

Lighting slashes across the sky and illuminates the front yard of the manor for but a moment. Then the thunder rolls in and causes his guts to churn with renewed fear. His mother is gone! Beckett summons a scream but all that emerges is a strangled croak. Another peel of lightning and he sees the front of the manor more clearly...the front doors are closed...windows are boarded on the ground floor. The thunder rolls and rumbles and a crash of wood and iron wrings a cry of shock from the young boy. To the side of the house, the shadowed wing of a basement door is buffeted by the wind, rising and crashing back down, rising and crashing back down.

He tries to call out to his mother, but only finds another strained whisper for his trouble. The house groans again. Behind him, the scabbling at the well increases as though its cause is given a renewed strength for exodus. Beckett’s eyes try to penetrate the veil of dark and rain but cannot see more than the black silhouette of the well.

The crashing of the cellar doors fray his nerves further. Had his mother tried going in there to get out of the rain?

The sucking sound of mud coming from the direction of the well runs up and down his spine and sets Beckett’s feet to moving. He soon finds himself using all his strength to hold the loosed cellar door aloft on its hinges. Below him, sodden and chipped and rotting wood steps lead into darkness. With an effort spurred on by the fear of what lay slurping and sloshing behind him, Beckett throws the door aside and prepares to descend…

...and shadowed arms stretch forth to welcome him! Lightning flashes all around but nothing illumines the force which grabs hold of his shoulders and which begins drawing him down into the depths of the manor’s basement. Beckett calls out for help, calls out for his mother! Again his voice betrays him. Again he hears the sloppy mud-steps, faster and faster from behind him…

ઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋઋ

The dull thumping at the cabin door brings Beckett bolt upright in his tiny cot. Despite the cold night and the dank conditions afforded on the Lamprey, he is drenched in sweat. The cabin wall behind him is the ship’s hull, the Inner Sea crashing against it as she rocks the vessel to and fro. Next to him, a half eaten bowl of what could barely be called porridge sloshes and slurps and threatens to cast itself over the edge of the crate.

Another thump at the door to his modest quarters. A 6’ by 4’ part of a set of cabin quarters built into what most likely used to be the Lamprey’s secondary cargo hold. Beckett shakes away the cobwebs of his dream, uses his nightshirt to wipe away the sweat from his face and neck and rises to open the door. On the other side is the welcome face of Lord Bromathan.

”We arrive in Cassomir in a few hours.” He announces with a smile at his lips. But his eyes are down turned with the slightest twinge of worry. He leaves a question unasked.

Beckett: Okay, first post up working in IC. Let's start flexing those RP muscles and see what Beckett's got under the hood.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett scrambles to his feet, his eyes still wild from the fading memory of the nightmare. The small cabin fills with the sudden creaking complaints of the small cot as it bows under the stress of his rapidly shifting weight. Only after drawing himself up to his full height does he notice his Lord’s downward gaze. The simple act of kindness, preserving a young man's dignity, finally penetrates the web of terror clouding his mind.

Beckett takes a deep breath and mentally recites a portion of his morning offering

More precious than gold, your shining splendor.
Sweeter than honey, your radiant forgiveness.
Oh dispeller of darkness, shining one,
You banish choking night and the blindness of our ignorance.
The dawn brings new light, let us embraces it with your might.

Releasing a deep breath he had not known he was holding, he notices the threadbare blanket still clutched in his white knuckled grip. Slowly he relaxes his fingers and begins folding the thin cloth into precise squares. At length, he feels confident enough to speak

Thank you Milord. I am pleased that this part of our journey nears its end.

Recognizing the trembling still in this voice, Beckett falls silent once again and continues working on the old covering.

This weakness disgusts me! How could I be so blind!

Glancing down when the folding is complete, he slowly bends to place his work squarely at on the foot of the cot, adjusting the corners so that they line up perfectly with edges of the worn canvas.

Standing straight, Beckett notices the worry in his Lord’s eyes.

How much to tell? It is not a matter of trust. Surely Lord Bromathan has earned my confidence. It’s just that... No. Not now. Not yet. Just a little. Honesty is the way of the Dawnflower. But not all of it. He just needs to know that the darkness does not hold sway in me, as I need to know the same of him.

Beckett squares his shoulders and smooths his worn traveling clothes. Lowering his voice and casting his gaze downwards he addresses Lord Bromathan formally.

I apologize my Lord. This journey has been difficult for me. I... I do not like the sea. Even at home in Korvosa, I avoided it whenever I could. It... has troubled my sleep and... I have allowed it to rob me of my peace.

Lifting his eyes to meet his benefactor’s, Beckett raises and deepens his voice, speaking in clear, crisp sentences.

I had thought myself strong. Detached from comforts. The Dawnflower has shown me my pride and my weakness. I was attached even to the small luxuries of my cell at the Temple. No more. I am grateful for this lesson. I will double my time in prayer, training and fasting. This weakness will be expelled from my body and spirit. The Dawnflower will have no less from me.

Beckett’s eyes slide off from his Lord’s and fall on the opposing wall of the cabin. But he is not looking at it. His mind is already leaping ahead to the riggers of the day. He will make himself stronger.

Regardless of the cost.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

        ❊ 40 Miles Southwest of Cassomir ❊
           ❊ 4:00 am, 9 Lamashan, 4714 ❊
                  ❊ Heavy Fog, 11 °C ❊

”She is the goddess of the Healing Light, as well, Beckett,” Bromathan responds. ”Sometimes our best efforts to reconstruct our souls fall far short of what Sarenrae’s light can do.”

He stands back from the doorway, glancing down the narrow hall lined with narrower doors. There were other passengers in the Lamprey’s makeshift guest’s quarters. But none were up at this hour unless they were part of the crew. Bromathan glances upwards as though he can see through the decks to the sky above. ”There is fog this morning. But there are few powers in this world that can omit the Dawnflower’s awakening.” He steps in the room briefly to give Beckett a firm grip on the shoulder, careful to not catch the hilt of his scimitar on the door frame. ”Sort your belongings, then meet me on the deck to greet the sunrise. We shall give your troubles to Sarenrae together and search for her answers in the coming days.”

With that, he steps back and closes the door behind him. Bromathan makes his way to the steep stairs at the end of the hall and ascends to the decks and the outside world. There to greet him is a halfling named Corvim.

”Your things are still gathered, good sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?” The halfling offers. Though a part of the crew, the captain had been good enough to spare him for Lord Bromathan’s needs. Well, good enough was by degree of the coin crossing the captain’s palm. At the least, Corvim had proven to be helpful and surprisingly lacking in the motivations thievery.

Bromathan shakes his head, gathering up his cloak that is draped over his belongings and fastening it about his shoulders where the winged-symbol of the priesthood was apparent. Not for the first time, the Lord from Korvosa notes Corvim’s big, blue eyes locking on the symbol and his lips moving in a silent prayer. And not for the first time, Bromathan makes the same offer he’d made over the course of the last two months. ”Please, Corvim, I would be pleased to have you pray at my side to welcome the dawn. Will you not join me and my companion?”

The halfling’s eyes drop to the deck and he licks his lips as though he tastes some hidden shame on them. ”Oh, I couldn’t, milord. T’wouldn’t be right n’ all.”

”Nonsense, I won’t have any more of it, Corvim. In a few moments, Beckett will be along and you will pray with us.” Bromathan smiles and rests a hand on the halfling’s shoulder. ”This will be my last hours aboard ships.”

Corvim nods silently and steps to the side, turning away so the man won’t see him wipe away a tear. ”Maybe I could bring along a few of the crew?”

Bromathan nods. ”Absolutely.”

The halfling bounds off, little bare feet flapping along the deck. Beyond Corvim, the rest of the crew made up of a mixture of races; halflings, humans, a pair of half-orcs committed to the more brutish of tasks and the captain himself, Lav Ordna, a human of swarthy complexion that minded Bromathan of the folk from Osirion and Katepesh.

Beyond the bow of the Lamprey, through the strangling fog looms the coast of Taldor and their ultimate destination. Soon you will have to give him over to the Dawnflower’s fate. There will be no more protecting him. He rests his hands on the rail of the ship, dark eyes unable to penetrate the veil of the future no more than they could the fog. My task is done, Broken Man. I’ve done all I can do.

As Beckett makes his way to the open deck, he spies the halfling Corvim bringing several other halflings to the open space normally reserved for his and his mentor’s prayers. The halfling’s normally shrill voice is made all the more with an infusion of excitement. Across the deck the Inquisitor spies his mentor casting a weather eye to the northeast.


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As a side note, throughout the journey you've made an effort to inquire after your mentor's plans after Cassomir. His replies have been cryptic at best, mostly citing family business that needs attention north of Taldor. There is never the sense of betrayal in the man, despite his upbringing, that is not his nature. What is clear, you'll be making the journey to Absalom on your own. Bothaman's focus the past 2 months had been firming your mind and trying to ensure that the path of the Inquisitor doesn't harden your heart to the point it can no longer be reached. His sermons generally center on lessons to that point.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett scans the deck of the ship in the foggy predawn, noting the number of crew and their activities. Not finding anything obviously amiss, he pulls his heavy traveling cloak tightly around himself and makes his way across the deck towards his mentor.

As always, he feels terribly vulnerable on this accursed ship without his coat of mail. He had worn it the first two days aboard, despite the snickering of the crew about his “death wish.” He would be wearing it still, if not for Bromathan’s gentle rebuke.

"She is the goddess of the Healing Light, as well, Beckett..."

Beckett’s lips curve in a tight smile, thinking upon the kind words. He had grown quite fond of his mentor. Surely, Beckett would not be the man he was without his guidance and sponsorship. Bromathan was the closest thing he had ever had to a father...

No... Don’t think upon that now....

Still... Bromathan had remained an enigma to Beckett. Such a confusing meld of peace and power, zeal and temperance. The lord had surrendered so very much in service to Sarenrae. Truly a man of grace and noble wisdom. Beckett would consider himself fortunate to one day possess a fraction of the man’s devotion. But...

We are cut from different cloth, Bromathan and me.

Beckett’s hand unconsciously fell to the morningstar, swaying gently under his cloak.

Different... cloth...

Golarion needed men like Lord Bromathan. When the darkness strikes, someone must be there to heal and comfort. Someone must regain control of the scattered sheep, tend their endless wounds, pick up the pieces and restore the peace.

But it also needed a different sort. It needed people who would strike back... or better yet... strike first! It needed those willing to take the fight into the darkness. To smash crypts and follow the howling monsters into the darkness of their netherworlds. It needed those willing to burn and be burned.

I should already be dead.

Beckett turns his face toward the approaching dawn. Every new day is a gift, not to be squandered.

He notices the glances of the assembled halflings, their gaze falling to his hand, still gripping the morningstar tethered to his belt. Beckett allows his hand to fall away and this time his smile is genuine. He approves of halflings. They are generally hard working and honest folk, and surprisingly resistant to the allure of the shadow.

He nods to Corvim.

“Good morning, Master Halfling. I am pleased that you have finally joined us to welcome the dawn.”


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

DM Rolls:
CHB: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7
CB: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6
BSM: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (14) + 9 = 23

Corvim licks his lips and gives a bow to Becket. "And a good morning to you too, sir." He knuckles his brow, a nervous gesture the Halfling uses normally during his interactions with the tall folk of the crew. "Lord Bromathan told me I could bring some of the others to morning prayer." Behind Corvim are six other Halflings, all looking as though they'd hastily straightened themselves for the event. "I best see to them, milord..." Corvim manages and heads over to the prayer area.

Beckett noticed that the diminutive porter and deck hand is not nervous for the brief moment the inquisitor had touched the morning star. No it was something about one of his fellow halflings. In fact a specific one by the name of Linkah. It's to him Corvim turns and walks and shares a word or two. Corvim appears to be making a plea for something, but Linkah just shakes his head.

To his right, Beckett notes his mentor is still staring off into the northeast.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett maintains the outward appearance of his genuine smile.

Roll:
Bluff: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25

Well now... What have we here?

While glancing toward Lord Bromathan, the Inquisitor quickly searches for any indication of danger near his mentor. Maintaining his smile, he then turns his gaze toward Linkah and the assembled halflings, and approaches them once again, looking for any signs of subterfuge.

Roll:
Perception: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (6) + 8 = 14

“My good Halflings. I wanted to ask, if you would be so kind, whether you could assist me before our prayers begin."

Beckett widens his smile and gestures toward the foggy sea with his palms turned upward.

"As I am a guest in fair Taldor, and this is our first opportunity to join in prayer, I have to wonder if your methods of welcoming the dawn differ from the proprieties of Korvosa. Perhaps you could teach me some of your ways? If we differ in the particulars, perhaps I could, in turn, explain some of ours?”

Roll:
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (12) + 8 = 20


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

DM Screen:

DC Group 10 (Religious Practices) - Success
DC LI 20 (Improve Attitude) - Success
LSM: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10
LB: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (10) + 11 = 21

Beckett casts a sharp eye towards the surrounding area, his practiced methods of ferreting out danger not spying anything out of the ordinary with respect to the nearby crew. But he does spot the captain standing at the top of the stairs leading to the aft castle, swarthy complexion and deep set eyes watching the goings on in Beckett's area. When the young warrior of Sarenrae meets his gaze, the captain simply waves greeting but doesn't cease his study of the situation. Perhaps he is Osirion, judging by the strange manner by which he conducts himself. Beckett had heard stories from other clergy in the church of Korvosa about the desert peoples far to the south. A strange lot.

You're currently located near the front of the ship on the forecastle, so the captain is watching you and the rest from right 150 ft away.

Other than the near unsettling way Captain Lav Ordna continues his study, Beckett feels his mentor is safe for the moment. He turns his attention to the Halflings and spies Linkah giving Corvim a reassuring nod as all concerned face Beckett. From behind his smile, Beckett considers those arrayed before him with the same wariness he had eyed the rest of the deck. But of any signs of difficulties or subterfuge he finds none.

The group of Halflings return the inquisitor's smile in response to his request, Corvim going so far as to tap the others on their shoulders in an 'I told you so gesture'. They begin talking over one another but eventually Beckett is able to puzzle out that they normally sing to the coming Dawn. Something he now understood as that had been the practice is several of the ship's Halfling contingent since the beginning of the voyage. While they had been singing in their native tongue as they went about their duties, Beckett had felt a certain connection to the tunes of the diminutive folk.

With a growing trust in the human before them, they begin teaching him some of the words. All the while, Linkah remains on the periphery, quietly studying Beckett. To be honest, it's the longest periods of time Beckett had been near him what with Corvim serving as their porter. But to the Inquisitor, there appears to be a weight on his shoulders.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett enthusiastically engages with the group, putting his best efforts into learning their song. He also offers some of the words from his own prayers, and other insights, when the opportunity arises.

It is for the simple, such as these, that the darkness comes. To the fiends these little ones are food... Or worse...

He only occasionally glances in a direction that allows him to note Linkah or Ordna in the periphery of his vision, never looking directly at them.

Evil is always lurking, always hidden.

He had heard so many sermons about balance. They all seemed contradictions. Do not jump at shadows, but also be aware. See the good in all, but be prepared smite those who are not.

They make it all far too complicated.

Vigilance! That is the way... the price to be paid. It is a burden to those called, but it is the price for these silly little creatures to live their lives unmolested.

Beckett is content to banter and sing with the Halflings, until Lord Bromathan calls them to prayer.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

DM Screen:

LB: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (2) + 11 = 13
CP: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (8) + 6 = 14

Bromathan leaves the rail of the ship, a weight still apparent on his shoulders. A smile in response to the Halfling songs brings back the normally positive demeanor Beckett is used to in his mentor. The cleric of Sarenrae begins to clap in time to the last song, even going so far as to add in a few words in a different language that seems very close to the one being used by the Halflings.

As the song winds its way down Bromathan rests a hand on Beckett’s shoulder and waves the halflings into a semblance of an organized audience. He says to the Inquisitor, ”A dialect I learned quite a while ago in Magnimar. In the years of my youth I had leaned towards Linguistic studies. The first year or so as an acolyte, I fancied myself as a missionary of sorts.” Bromathan sighs with a wane grin and whispers between them. ”But alas, the trials of my House were such that leaving them behind for years at at time meant trouble. I’d already caused such a stir by not taking up the sword with Sable Company. But thankfully in my journey with you to Cassomir, I’m able to live a bit of that dream to be a missionary.”

He reaches into his satchel and produces a leather-bound volume. Beckett knows the book well for it contained the thoughts and commentary of not only Lord Bromathan and his mentors in the church, but also thoughts and conclusions Beckett Foxglove had provided during the many conversations he and his mentor had shared over the years. The book also held several of Bromathan’s favorite sermons.

The Birth of Light and Truth tells us that like a symphony with no conductor, so too would the world be without the light of the Dawnflower.” He places a finger in the book and closes it so he can hold it in one hand. ”The dawn reminds us each day that there are new beginnings for all of us. That there is redemption on the other side of darkness… That we can take joy in the light and despite whatever situation we find beneath our feet...the sky promises deliverance.” His hand draws upwards to the dense fog but then points towards the east and the glow of light which sets violets and pinks to the sky.

Around Bromathan and Beckett, the Halflings seem enraptured by the man’s baritone voice, but they wiggle and move with excitement as the first light of the new day begins painting the east. All except Linkah. The singular Halfling listens intently to the words of the sermon, but as each second and minute goes by, instead of joining in on the growing fervor of his fellows, you see instead a resolve firming in his jaw and eyes.

Beckett finds himself looking directly at Linkah when the Halfling finally draws his attention from Bromathan and turns it to the Inquisitor. They lock eyes for a moment, then Linkah nods to the side and moves to the back of the gathering. It’s apparent that he wants to discuss something, and from the posture of his diminutive form, it’s of great import. Looking about with care to not draw too much attention, Beckett takes note that the place Linkah wishes to talk is conveniently on the other side of the mizzen mast, effectively blocking sight of the forecastle...and the watchful eyes of the captain.

As Lord Bromathan continues his sermon Beckett makes his way over to Linkah.

”Wasn’t sure you’d come over. I need some help…” He blinks and looks to the rest of the halflings who are still listening to the sermon then he looks back to Beckett. ”We need some help.” He glances about carefully, verifying no one is within earshot outside of the other halflings, Bromathan and of course Beckett. ”I think I’ve found a way to get my brother and the rest of us out from under this ship. Something that will set us on a course of our own choosing.”

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett takes a knee to look Linkah in the eye, his countenance concerned and thoughtful.

Ah... Yes... I should have known...

His thoughts briefly flash back to a day at the Green Market. A fat, greasy Chelaxian noble with his "slips" weighted down with bags of goods. Their hollow eyes... lash marks visible though their...

He forces his attention back to the present.

In a low voice, almost a whisper, Beckett asks:

"Tell me, my friend, how did you and your brother come to serve aboard the Lamprey under Captain Lav Ordna?"

Roll:
Sense Motive: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (12) + 9 = 21


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

Linkah looks at Beckett for a moment and the human can see the term “friend” being mulled over in the halfling’s mind. But diminutive deckhand answers in a whisper to maintain their conspiracy. ”Corvim and I, we joined up proper actually, up ahead in Cassomir some 5 years gone.” He wipes at his nose and casts a guarded glance around Beckett. Briefly he exchanges a look with Corvim who still sits before Bromathan. ”Yeah, we joined up proper when some of Ordna’s blokes were wonderin’ the Admiral’s Fen looking for experienced deckhands. They’s lookin’ for kinder, if ya catch my meaning. Ones whose small enough to get into the knooks and crannies of the ship for repairs and such. Halflings like as not fit the bill for ya every time. Plus me n’ Corvim got experience working down in the shipyards as builders.”

”The coin was good, we even brought in our mates ta join up our next port o’ call. They needed the coin too, so why not, eh? That’s when the captain drew up a contract, ta make it all legitimate of course. We signed, shoulda read more of it...guess the clause is in there we gotta serve with ‘em till he gives a release or 800 gold crosses his palm.” A flash of anger crosses the halfling’s face, perhaps directed inward more than towards the captain or anyone else. ”Good captain always seems to be shy of getting our contract fulfilled. We never quite get enough ta spring us. That’s when I went freelance…” He gestures for Beckett to come closer, his big brown halfling eyes glancing about again...but this time he includes his compatriots as well. ”I met up with a longshan...er, I mean a human in Korvosa a week before we took you n’ Lord Bromathan and the rest of the passengers on. He gave me something I’m ta deliver safe and sound to someone in the Dog’s Teeth...a half-elf name o’ Feyn.”

A smile slides across his face and he rests a tiny hand on Beckett’s shoulder. ”That’s where you come in, chummer. Dog’s Teeth’s not a place for folk such as myself and Corvim ta travel all on our onesies, ya kin? I was hopin’ you could get me in and out o’there, collect our golden ticket n’ get me and my mates off this ship for good.”

Beckett studies Linkah as he stands back a bit to see the Inquisitor’s reaction. In his bearing there is truth, in his words there are truths to be found...but there’s something more. Something more that he’s not telling...

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett glances around to ensure they are still speaking privately.

Roll:
Perception: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (10) + 8 = 18

"Nothing obviously demonic here. Still... perhaps this could be useful. It will have to be handled carefully... Milord is no fool."

"Thank you, Linkah, for your confidence. Your people have good reason to distrust mine. It must have been difficult to share something of such importance with a longshanks."

Beckett smiles warmly, then grows serious once again.

"Rest assured that I will keep your confidence and not speak of this without your leave." Beckett shakes his head thoughtfully. "However what you ask is difficult. Those in service to the Dawnflower are not well loved in Taldor, especially in cities such as Cassomir. And even if I were capable of doing what you ask, I am under holy obedience to Lord Bromathan until I have fulfilled my obligation to him."

Beckett holds up a hand to forestall any objections.

"I want to help you Linkah, if I can. May I have your leave to discuss this, in confidence, with Lord Bromathan? I give you my word that he will also keep your secret. He is both powerful and wise. He may be able to help us, and I would certainly need his permission in any case."

Roll:
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (20) + 8 = 28


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

The Halfling's tanned face gains a touch of red, eyes darting with the wheels of thought. But something in Beckett's face draws forth a nod of confidence. "Okay, but be careful." Linkah glances over Beckett's shoulder beyond where he's kneeling. "We'll be up in Admiral's Fen. Captain's got me n' my lot lodgins in a room in the back o' the Scarlet Knuckle Tavern. Don't think we can talk much more this mornin', eh?" The halfling gives the Inquisitor a meaningful nod of thanks.

Behind him, Beckett hears the sound of booted steps. He stands and turns in time to see the captain approaching the group. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes that Linkah was already back within the group of his fellows by the time Ordna appears.

"Good Morning to you, Master Foxglove." the Captain greets in his peculiarly accented common. His words follow a rhythm making them distinct. While he can't quite figure its origin, if he hears it again in others, Beckett is sure it would stand out. The Captain, for his part, studies the gathering and lends a grin that doesn't touch his eyes. "I trust you and your Lord are eager to be ashore after so long in the oceans bossom, no?"

"We were just finishing our greeting to the dawn, Captain Ordna." Lord Bromathan responds, approaching from Beckett's right shoulder. "A pity you missed it again."

"Somehow, my Lady of Storms would not appreciate me dividing my loyalties." He grins at Beckett's mentor, a disquieting thing in the light of the coming dawn. "Of course, you can understand that, eh milord?"

"Indeed I can, Captain." Bromathan inclines his head a small measure of respect, but says no more. Beckett has been involved with the politics of nobility long enough to recognize an offer of gentle dismissal.

The captain returns the nod and gestures to the halflings as they are rising from the morning's sermon. "Cassomir approaches and I must have all hands upon the Lamprey's decks. We should make dock inside the hour." Just before leaving them for his own place at the aft castle and the wheel. "Assuming of course Treacherous Jack don't see us smashed against the rocks. Then we'll arrive much sooner." His eyes follow the halflings - especially Linkah - as they set about their duties. In fact, the whole of the crew's activities have been rising like a symphonic crescendo the closer they got to port.

Lord Bromathan watches the captain walk smoothly through the throngs of deckhands and ropes. Whatever his opinions of the sailor, he keeps them to himself. "Treacherous Jack is the name Taldans gave to one of the last remaining magical lighthouses. It was constructed thousands of year ago, but in its old age has developed certain eccentricities. On occasion it's been known to turn off its guiding light." The man soon finds a place close to where some of the crew are stacking crates and the belongings of the other passengers. The cleric busies himself with looking over his own things, but he casts a sidelong glance to his compatriot. "Tell me, what is it our small friend requests? And what are your impressions? Should we help them?"

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett begins organizing his pack... attempting to keep his face passive at Lord Bromathan's questions. Once again the Lord had seen right through him.

"I hate it when he does that."

Speaking softly, "Our friend foolishly signed a contract which has left him, Corvim and the rest as indentured servants to Ordna. He wants help delivering an unspecified item to an unspecified person in the 'Dog’s Teeth' which I take to be an unsavory district of the city."

Beckett’s face hardens.

"As to your second and third questions, milord.. I do not see how it is our business."

Setting down his traveling pack, Beckett leans in more closely and lowers his voice to a harsh whisper.

"When I spoke to Linkah, I had hop... I had worried that Ordna might be in league with something demonic. So many of the books in the library talk of demons and devils taking slaves... wanting to make slaves of the whole world."

Beckett's lowers his gaze to the deck, returning to his pack, not meeting Bromathan’s eyes. "But this is just a contract dispute."

Beckett makes the final adjustments to his pack, tightening the outermost straps.

"This isn’t going to work... but it may be my last chance."

"Ultimately, it is difficult for me to discern, milord. For my part, a small delay may not be costly. But for your lordship... perhaps if milord would speak of his purposes in Taldor, I could make a better recommendation about this matter?"


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

Bromathan gives only a minor pause in his actions, one Beckett notices immediately. ”I travel to Cassomir to see my most promising pupil delivered to the largest city in the known world.” He smiles and puts the finishing touches on the trunk containing his things. He draws forth a dark blue cloak that will match the outfit he’d chosen. Into the trunk he places his normal, clerical vestments. ”I am also meeting with allies of my house to secure imports of lumber from the Blackwood Swamp. Then to Maheto to meet with the dwarven smiths there to perhaps gain their permission in sending dwarves in my service to them for education in metallurgy and fabrication.” A smile crosses his face as memory brings about a warmth to his persona. ”Then I carry on to keep a promise to an old friend in Greengold.”

Behind him, the halflings have all but dispersed. ”The Dawnflower’s light shines on us all, Beckett.” He keeps his voice barely above a whisper. ”I may be far removed from the plight of those underprivileged, but not so far that I would think a bit of time spent to support the freedom of those who bask in Her Unfailing Light to be unworthy. But I will not be able to accompany you on this venture, should you so choose to take up the call.”

”Beckett, you’re going to learn that not all evils in this world are readily apparent. Sometimes they will require a bit of delving before the application of Sarenrae’s purging light.” He withdraws a set of gloves from where they had been looped over his belt and begins pulling them on. ”The infestation of the Castle Garland in southern Ustalav began with a small family of gypsies taking up residence on the grounds. A kindness extended to the wandering folk but regretted many generations hence.” Another pause as he spies a halfling drifting by with a coil of rope. The little deckhand spares nods of respect for both Bromathan and Beckett. ”It can be that way when darkness is allowed to foster in our hearts. A small seed of despair can grow into something truly unwholesome to behold. Contracts are not always what is written on paper. ”

He reaches into a satchel at his side and withdraws a pair of scrolls. One turns out to be a writ of passage for the Prince Rhineholdt and sees the bearer - one Beckett Foxglove - under the protections of Lord Ricton Vengrof and is to be accorded ‘all possible courtesies’. The second is a map of Cassomir, a call out mark denoting the port at which the Rhineholdt will be found, and then the markings for districts. The Dog’s Teeth appears to be a stretch of islets just off the coast. A note in the precise hand of Bromathan’s aid, Barthel, indicates it’s only accessible during low tide. Both scrolls he hands to Beckett.

”I trust in your insights, Beckett.” He reaches over and grips the younger man’s shoulder. ”On the one hand, you give assistance...perhaps the dangers are great enough your story ends here. On the other, you will no doubt begin your story anew as you find your feet aboard the Prince Rhineholdt in one week’s time. But that story’s first words are penned when you convey your declinations to Linkah.”

”Consider well, my friend. For the next few days will begin your forging anew and set the metal of the Inquisitor you’ll become.” He stands and nods towards the bow, Cassomir is coming into view. A sprawling dockyard where hundreds of ships move to and fro or are moored. ”I’ll be going to the Threegates district. The whole reason I had you grow the beard during the voyage owed to how the beardless are treated within the country. Whatever you decide, you can find me there in the Inn of the 7 Doves.”

He pauses as activity on the deck increases the closer the ship draws to port. For the time being, he is content to answer any other questions Beckett has in the offing.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett straightens, as he accepts the scrolls. “Thank you, My Lord.” Leaving unsaid whether the thanks for was the scripts or for the trust Lord Bromathan offered by revealing part of the purpose for his travels.

Glancing back in the direction of the Halflings, Beckett speaks quietly.

"It is your will that I assist Linkah, even though you do not make it a command."

Returning his eyes to Bromathan

"I will, of course, obey milord."

Beckett then leans close and speaks urgently, gaining courage, his voice almost desperate. "But, please, consider this your Lordship. Is it wise to venture into forsaken Taldor, with neither guard nor guide, knowing how they persecute us here? Would it not be better for us to stay together? I am truly anxious to gaze upon the Shining Star and greet the dawn at the Mark. However, I would gladly aside that desire, for a time, if I could be of the slightest assistance in assuring your Lordship’s safety."

Beckett holds Lord Bromathan’s gaze for a moment, then drops his eyes.

"I'm... I'm sorry... if I have stepped out of my place. I... just couldn't..."

Straightening again, but not looking at the Lord.

"I would be most sorrowful if anything happened to you, and I was off... helping..."

He makes a half nod in the direction of the nearest Halfling, and then falls silent.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

Lord Bromathan smiles warmly and nods understanding. "Even the light of the sun must hide on occasion," His eyes look to the thick fog and marine layer, how it extends from the sea and into the city and beyond. The arriving dawn's light lends the shades of magenta and reds like the soft light of a theater upon the curtains of the stage. "My attire does not mark me a cleric of Sarenrae, but just another in a long line of nobility. And we've garnered the services of a ship whose continued business with our homeland is worth more than selling out our loyalties."

He points to a separate pack leaning against his trunk. "Alternate clothing for you. Subterfuge and playing to the...peculiarities of the Taldan society will go towards our safety. And the allies of my house will be at the docks to see to our transport. The Threegates district is safe enough."

"And this business with Linkah," Bromathan takes a seat on his trunk and holds eye contact, a shift in his aspect to one of fatherly concern. "My desire for you is not specific to the halfling's aid. What I want is for you to see beyond the long shadows of our goddess' enemies. Our faith is one of restoration, healing, honesty and redemption. The measure of our dedication is seeing the people and places upon which the Dawnflower shines her light. And the wiser we are in her counsel, the more apt we are to identify what it is she shows us." The cleric and lord rests his hands on his knees and sighs. "I'm not giving you a mandate, my friend, I want you to explore your heart, the situation...and make your judgement accordingly. This is your holy calling, one to which I am proud to have played a part. But my time as your mentor is coming to an end." A smile blooms once more on his face. "At least in a week's time when the Prince Rhineholdt carries you to Absalom."

The Lamprey's crew begins mustering at the rails, ropes to hand. The Captain begins shouting orders and keeping his men in line, but it seems to be for show as they all know their place and duty.

"If you decide that assisting Linkah is not in your path, I will support that decision. But I want your to make this judgement with no concern over me."

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett listens attentively to his mentor’s words. Then, a genuine smile comes across his face.

"Absalom."

"I am a week away from Absalom."

Beckett gazes out at the sea, looking toward the approaching Cassomir.

The smile fades, his stern countenance returning.

"I shall meditate on your words, milord. As always."

He glances back towards the crew, and ponders for a long moment. Straightening his shoulders, still staring at the sea, he says softly "I choose to help the Halflings."

"Perhaps this is my penance for not smiting that Chelaxian fiend all those years ago... Besides... Who can say what wickedness may be lurking in the Dog’s Teeth of this accursed city."

Looking back at Lord Bromathan, "I will see it done. And then, milord, what service would you have me render this Bard, Caleb?"


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Beckett

Further up the wharf, the Imperial Shipyards sends the smells of burning tar upwards, a sweet and, heady odor that begins to permeate the air around the ship. Ordna continues about his business, this time enlisting the aid of his bruising half-orc - lovingly called Bucket - to speed the process of rope distribution along.

”I won’t deny that I’m pleased with your decision, my friend. I only hope you remain safe and watchful.” Lord Bromathan shifts his position on his trunk and reaches into a pouch at his side. From it he produces a silver coin that’s been threaded with a length of leather to make a necklace. ”When I was younger, not more than your age, I met Caleb Manycloaks in the dwarven city of Janderhoff. I was there under the tutelage of my uncle, learning the methods of trade with our stout neighbors. Caleb stood out as one of the few human bards allowed to perform in dwarven homes due in no small part to his command of both the language and a rich history of dwarven tales.” The lord held out the silver coin, allowing it to sway with the ship and the breeze as memory held him. But after a moment he places the coin in his other palm and the leather strap coils after it. ”It is him you have to thank for me not becoming a slave to caste and house and social isolation. He nurtured my desire to become a cleric instead of following in the footsteps of the rest of my house.”

Bromathan chuckles a bit to himself and hands it to Beckett. ”Here. When you see him, present this coin and tell him, ‘Valdur’s path is clear’.”

”As for what services are to be expected? Caleb owns a shop in the Merchant’s Quarter, Tomes & Curiosities I think it’s called. After so many years on the road, the old man has seen fit to survive to his retirement.” Bromathan looks to the sky as though asking Sarenrae for the right words. ”He still has his connections throughout the city, a way for him to keep his eyes and ears open. Caleb has a knack for being in the right place at the right time. A scrap of paper with random scrawlings may be a bit of rubbish to one man, but in his hands it could be the final clue in a decades long mystery or the last piece in a map leading to a long lost trove of information.”

”Last I heard, he was lending aid to the Church of Iomedae. Even the Grand Lodge will sometimes bend his ear on matters of antiquity.” Lord Bromathan sighs and claps his knees as he presses to his feet. ”Keep your eyes and ears open, Beckett. Listen to the man and learn from him. You have my word that he can be trusted.”

And in the midst of their conversation, the other passengers had emerged from their tiny cabins and the Lamprey had made her berth. Crewmen bound for the gangplanks and porters begin gathering up the baggages and supplies of the other passengers. A contingent of halflings - Corvim and Linkah among them - shoulders forward to carry Lord Bromathan’s trunk and offer to carry Beckett’s few possessions off ships.

”I trust your passage was adequate, by the stars above I hope it to be true,” Captain Ordna intones for those disembarking. ”Mind the step and please seek us out again should you wish safe passage.”

Beckett feels a chill on his back as he descends the gangplank, glancing back to see Ordna’s eyes firmly fixed upon his person as though the captain were asking questions and answering them in the same breath. But the others behind the Inquisitor prevents him from observing further. And by the time he and Bromathan arrive on the dock, his mentor is already being greeted.

”Lord Valdur Bromathan, ‘tis an honor, sir.” A man of medium build and slender frame runs a thumb and forefinger along the curving sweep of his moustaches and then down the manicured luxury of his beard. ”I”m hoping your journey was uneventful?”

”The seas were merciful and the winds no more full of mischief than normal.” Bromathan waves Beckett forward and gestures by way of cultured introduction, hand palm up. ”Might I present Beckett, Inquisitor of the Dawn and my personal guard.”

Then to Becket. ”And I present to you, Lord Ricton of House Vengrof, close friend of House Bromathan and the man who adds sponsor to your voyage for Absalom.”

”An honor to be sure,” Ricton returns. His garment is of fine cut, blues and whites with thread-of-gold woven throughout. His turndown boots are given a shine as is the fine basket-hilt of the rapier at his side. But outside of his appearance, the new acquaintance - to Beckett’s eye - stands with a confidence of the self, not self-importance. Formidable despite his short stature. ”Come, come, I have a carriage awaiting just over there.” He gestures for the halflings to carry Bromathan’s wares to a dark, cherry-wood paneled vehicle being drawn by four appaloosas that lingers nearby. The driver stands to the door to the carriage, awaiting passengers.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

GM: Does Beckett understand that he is to journey with them on the carriage? Or does he expect them to depart and that he is to make his own way from here?


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

Beckett: Good point. I could have been more clear there. The impression is that you'd climb aboard for now. You'll be dropped off en route to Threegates. Or you can elect to make your own way to the Admirals Fen and the Scarlett Knuckle tavern. By leaving them now, you could wait for Linkah and the others and go with them directly.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Lavios Daleborn
 
 
 
 

                     ❊ Northeast of Cassomir ❊
  ❊ Somewhere along the Blackswamp Causeway ❊
          ❊ 6:00 pm, 2 Lamashan, 4714 (Fall) ❊
                   ❊ Heavy Fog and Rain, 10 °C ❊

❊ Suggested Reading on Blackwood Swamp ❊:
Blackwood Swamp surrounds the Taldan port of Cassomir on all landward sides. It is a murky, rotting, brackish marshland of tangled trees, dense overgrowth, quicksand, man-eating plants, menacing hydras, marauding humanoids, and other monsters. Once it was part of the primeval forest that covered the region. Cassomir was long ago cut from this swamp and the city constructed an enormous moat to protect the city from the monsters. The road that travels through the Blackwood Swamp from the main gates of Cassomir is an elevated causeway constructed of wooden beams and thick stone piles. It is always patrolled by the Taldan Phalanx, and most merchant wagon trains travel the swamp accompanied by guards

The young boy casts the rock over the side of the causeway, listening past the rattling of the wagon’s wheels as it rattles along the cyprus and lands in the marshes to the side of the road.

”No more rocks, Andre” Gorin says, grabbing at his son’s collar gently. Laurel, the boy’s mother gives his face a wipe to clear a bit of the rain water.

Gorin protests but he wears a grin on his face. ”One more…”

”I said, no.”

The cart rocks and protests at the irregularities in the road. Rain falls on them all, cart and horse and driver and the heavy canvas covering the passengers. Gorin gives his son a twist of the hair and laughs, trying stay positive as daylight dwindles. He knows, as do the others on the cart, that they’re only a few miles into the Blackwood and even the relative height of the causeway is no promise of safety.

”Will the Phalanx be back through?” Kinjin asks the driver next to him. Even with the rain and the noise of the cart, the four people in the back of the cart can hear the question.

The driver is a cantankerous lout named Abner, whose clothing and smell are all together offensive. He spits over the side and wipes his lips with his sodden sleeve. ”Taldan Phalanx er soldiers, they patrol the causeway inta Cass’ during the day, not at night when ya ain’t supposed ta travel. Even they’s not so stupid ta be out this late, no siree. I’m just south of idiot ta let ya talk me inta this, Kinjin. Ya see any other carts er caravaners?” He gestures with a gnarled hand to the causeway road.

”Only a few miles left to the city.” Kinjin offers, looking back to the people in the back of the cart.

Gorin, his son Andre and his wife Laurel huddle together under the meager cover of a heavy tarpaulin. Also sharing the cover is a young man with a long beard, roughspun cloak and assorted gear and a burning fire in his heart. Lavios Daleborn, the Inquisitor of Gozreh. And the weeks behind him have seen him no closer to his quarry.

Since leaving his home village behind, all that has filled his heart is the pursuit. His prayers to Gozreh filled with the beggings for wisdom and perception. Here and there, in passing farm houses or an occasional traveler, Lavios has heard rumors of a group of men traveling off the road. Further still, this group of men are described by locals with an aspect equal parts fear and derision. The larger mass of this band of half-castes and filth keep to clearings and the smaller roads off the main. But they do send smaller groups into towns for supplies. For the most part they pay, intimidating sundries shops to lower their prices. But one tale unfolds a battering of a blacksmith in Glimmervale a few days back. The blacksmith, a well-muscled man of stout frame called Reph, said they accosted him late in the evening. A group of eight ruffians roused him late in the evening and set about pummeling him until he agreed to shoe a string of horses. But in this account of Reph the blacksmith, Lavios had garnered the first draught of solid information in weeks. The group had wanted horse shoes better suited for soft ground.

His connection to nature told Lavios that this meant the bandits sought the refuge of the Blackwood Swamp. An insane prospect given what the young Inquisitor knew of the place. But with the regular patrols of Taldan Phalanx along the causeway, it was a possible lead. The bandits may have gone into the swamp to avoid the patrols. Could Lavios intercept them before they reached the port town of Cassomir and a ship? Maybe he wouldn’t have to go so far as Absalom to rescue his loved ones.

So rather than traveling on foot, Lavios had given coin and the prospect of armed protection to Abner and Kinjin in exchange for a ride on their cart.

Now, seated in the back of the cart, Lavios’ mind spans the possible outcomes of a conflict with the bandits. He would have to be cautious, a direct attack would more as like land him dead and the situation worse. But to be certain of their location was first and foremost. All the while, the symbol of the bandits floats before his mind’s eye. The stag holding a horn in his mouth.

Gorin, the patriarch of the family riding in the cart with him, reaches into his pack and withdraws some bread and cheese to begin passing around. At the last, he offers a slice of both to Lavios. ”You haven’t said much stranger. Do you have business up ahead in Cassomir? I’m going for work, seasonal fishing off the coast. My family here stays in Admiral’s Fen while...”

But before he can finish his tale, Gorin is interrupted by the abrupt halting of the cart. Over his shoulder, they can hear Abner shouting for his horses to hold still. The cart swims back and forth from the front end, a sure sign that the horses are pacing and stamping left and right.

The flap leading to the front of the cart comes open and Abner’s scraggly-bearded face pokes in, his breath acrid and singing. ”Hey ya hairy guardsman,” he pokes a chaotically bent finger in Lavios’ direction. ”Make yerseff useful and help Kinjin take a looksee. Somethin’ in the road up ahead, the horses er gettin’ spooked.” The flap closes, ending the conversation.

Lavios heads out the back of the cart and joins Kinjin whose staring into the growing darkness and rain ahead of them on the causeway. Kinjin’s got his crossbow out, a bolt knocked and his finger on the trigger. ”Can’t quite make it out,” The cartman says, sparing a hand briefly to make a calming gesture to the horses behind him. ”But I see a shape leaning to the rail of the causeway ahead. Lump of shadow, can you see it?” Kinjin points.

Sure enough, nought 30 or so feet ahead, a dark shape lay slumped against the right side rail of the road. All around them, on either side of the road, the lawless growth of cyprus and moss that makes up the Blackwood looms.

”C’mon,” Kinjin says, moving forward with his crossbow at the ready.

Lavios rests a hand upon the sword given him by his father and moves along with him. The rain continues to pour down, Gozreh perhaps expressing displeasure or some other emotion upon the travelers unfortunate enough to be traveling on the causeway. The two men’s steps draw them closer and soon enough the dark shape resolves into the form of a body.

”Oy, get your hands up, stranger. You sick or something?” Kinjin gestures menacingly with his crossbow, coming to a stop a few feet away from the body.

No answer.

After a few moments of careful curiosities, Kinjin signals back to the cart. ”What is it, eh? Some drunkard?” The reedy voice carries through the rain sounding all too noisome in the dank air of the surrounding swamp. Then the driver adds, ”Check ‘is pockets, eh! Ifn’ he got some coin er somethin’, I - err, we got rights to it!”

Kinjin waves him off and shoulders his crossbow after safing the weapon. ”Let’s have a look. I’m curious how this stranger met his end…”

As the man searches the body, he pulls back the hood of his cloak to reveal the man’s face. While his visage is as unfamiliar as the surrounding swamp, the tattoo borne on the man’s neck is all too familiar to Lavios Daleborn. The head of a stag, a brass horn held in its mouth.

”Looks like he got hit with some kind of poison, probably something he picked up in the swamp.” He points to a set of scratches along the man’s left forearm, a dark bruising along along the lines and a thick mass of puss and blood congealed. Then he points to the body's mud-caked boots. Kinjin stands from his inspections and looks over the side of the causeway. ”I can see where he climbed up, but what got a hold of him to set his mind to stupid? What in graces of Abadar was he doing out in the swamp?”

     ❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊❊

Lavios: Here’s your opening. Read carefully and let me know how you’d like to proceed. You can stick with the cart, gathering what information you can from the dead body here. Or you can see where the man’s tracks lead into the Blackwood. I’m good either way.

Be sure to click on the Suggested Reading button at the top of the post to get some idea of what the Blackwood is all about. Email if you have any questions or you can post an OOC here on the board.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett bows deeply to Lord Ricton.

"The honor is mine, Your Lordship. I am at your service."

Turning to Lord Bromathan

“With your leave, my Lord, I will see to my belongings.”

Beckett considers the carriage, and the horses, as he approaches scanning for any signs of danger or anything out of place.

Beckett examines his pack, laying next to a wheel of the carriage and the long, narrow pole like object loosely wrapped in cloth laying next to it. He takes a knee and lifts one end of the the pole, revealing a large bulge in the cloth at one end.

Reverently, Beckett inspects the leather straps holding the cloth in place. Satisfied that they could be quickly removed at need, he stands to carefully places the seven foot long object in the area designated for baggage, ensuring that it is placed as near to the side door as possible.

Beckett then retrieves his pack and tosses it on board as well.

The Inquisitor takes this opportunity to look inside the passenger compartment, inspecting for any signs of danger or betrayal.

Once complete, Beckett stands by the carriage door, awaiting his Lord’s arrival.

Roll:
Perception: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (3) + 9 = 12


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Beckett
 
 
 
 
 

The interior of the carriage is simple in design, but given the comforts one would expect when dealing with the bearded nobility of the city. Cushioned seats, a flooring paneled in dark walnut polished to a luminous sheen, all casting an inviting sensation to Beckett’s eye. But of a sense of danger, there is none to be felt outside the alien of Cassomir itself.

The region of the docks is an abundance of variations. Soldiers and navymen, wandering hawkers awaiting the new arrivals and departures alike to sell a bit of Cassomir to those who are willing. A married couple who’d been on the Lamprey makes quickly for another carriage and climbs inside. In moments the horses are in motion.

Beyond them, the immensity of the docks is given new life as the sun rises ever higher and strains to shine through the shroud of fog. Galleons and rakers and skiffs and schooners fly the white lion on green and blue field. All around the shipyards are low-slung buildings for rope makers and carpenters and shipwrights. And behind them all the tar and pitch factories with plumes of smoke rising like ghastly figures in wispy black cloaks.

”Quite a sight,” Ricton says appreciatively from Beckett’s side. ”Though I’ve lived here all my life, the industry of it still grabs hold of me.” He climbs into the carriage and finds his seat, gesturing for Bromathan and Beckett to do the same. His servant, a man of 6 feet with black hair drawn back in a tight gathering and a cleanly shaven face inclines his head and keeps his eyes closed until all are aboard. Then the door is closed behind them and he disappears from view, the carriage rocking as he steps into the driver’s seat.

As they move away from the docks, the young Inquisitor catches a glimpse of Linkah and his brother Corvim still seeing to the baggage and supplies of those disembarking the Lamprey. Somehow, he feels their eyes drift towards him, hope a glimmer and promise. Lord Ricton’s carriage rolls away from the docks proper, finding a road amid the throngs of folk eeking out a living on the docks. Shouts for local pubs and inns and fighting pits are clear to the casual ear. In the brief silence within the carriage, Beckett thinks on the darker things unheard in the offers of the women and men lining the road.

”A sailor’s haven,” Bromathan interrupts the younger man’s thoughts. ”Even amid these we know light can shine. But it does not make the danger any less plain.”

”I have us going directly to my manor in Threegates, I hope that is appropriate?” Ricton reaches into a lacquered box fitted to the wall of the carriage opposite the door and between the two benched seats. The lid opens on well-oiled hinges and reveals crushed ice and a cool fragrance of clean air. ”I have some chilled wine, a rose-blush as I recall it to be your preference, old friend.”

”I appreciate the consideration.” He leans forward on the bench and accepts a goblet into which Ricton pours a draught. ”As to our destination, that will be splendid. I look forward to seeing your home and your lovely wife.”

”Edith passed, my friend. Not two months now.” Regret is plain on the man’s thin face as he pours a second goblet and offers it to Beckett. ”Something in her food it seems. You know how fond she was of the Tian Xia style of fish preparation.”

”I do, Ricton. My condolences. Edit was a fine woman, and Pharasma will have no trouble seeing her gentle soul to its rest.” He raises his goblet and offers a toast. ”To Edith, a better woman not to be found in Taldor.”

The other noble nods in gratitude and tips his goblet before drinking. ”So tell me, Valdur. In one week, the Prince Rhineholdt will be on its way to Absalom.” He points a finger to Bromathan, a wink in his eye. ”And you will be without student and left to the tender mercies of the Wildwood Lodge to negotiate for Blackwood lumber.”

”I think an agreement can be reached,” Bromathan responds. ”In fact, I’m sure of it.”

Ricton, his melancholy drifting away with the topic change, looks about the carriage as though searching for a lost item. ”I don’t seem to have one of the gnomish logging representatives handy… How pray tell, can you be so confident?”

”You know why.”

”Ligdon?”

”The very same.” Bromathan responds with a grin. ”He’s the one who’s been my champion with the Druids for...oh, going on a year now.” He pauses and looks to Beckett and explains. ”The Blackwood is under the protection of an ancient druid sect called the Wildwood Lodge. The Taldan government, Cassomir in particular, have an arrangement. The Taldans limit their logging, the druids allow them to log. One of many stipulations is that the logging be handled by a village of gnomes.”

”And your mentor here has one in particular in his debt.” Ricton waves off the stern gaze Bromathan gives him. ”I know, I know. You didn’t help his family with the expectation of payment.”

”Ligdon came to me, sent word by raven over a year ago. It took me a long time to weigh out the ramifications of such an arrangement. But in the end, Sarenrae shined her wisdom and blessing on it.” Bromathan nurses his drink and smiles. ”Ah, if there ever was a gnome with whom to share a tale, it would be Ligdon. I hope you’re lucky enough to meet him this week before you depart.”

The carriage continues down the streets, weaving its way through narrows and crowds and buildings that seem to want to close upon them like the fingers of a hand. But eventually the dankness in the air recedes and the denizens outside the vehicle are bearded more often than not. Music changes from the bawdy songs of lute and guitar players to the dulcet tones of flutes and baritones.

Beckett listens and the conversation continues, the young man seeing a slightly new facet to his mentor that hints at a past not often discussed.
 

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It’s clear that Ricton and Bromathan are according Beckett a measure of equality when it comes to the conversation. This gives you an opening - culturally - to ask questions at your leisure. If you have questions regarding the Admiral’s Fen (the district where the halflings are staying) or the Dog’s Teeth, ask away. Or if you want to just post up your impressions of the city and the two men before you, that works too.

Grand Lodge

Human Human Inquisitor lvl 3 | HP: 31/31 | AC: 17; T:12; F: 15 | cmd: 15; cmb: +3 | Save: F+3 R+4 W+5 | init +9; perc. +3

Lavios strokes his unkempt beard while thinking of plan. Lavios stood up when he thought of the idea. He pulled down the collar of his shirt and used his divine powers to brand the bandits symbol into the same spot where the dead bandit put his.

Lavios looks over to Kinjin "I have a plan" Lavios draws his sword, "but you have to trust me with your life"

Intimidate Roll:
intimidate: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

"Now get over here before I make you"

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett listens to the lords’ conversation. Taking mental notes of the people and the places and how they relate to Lord Bromathan.

Sipping politely at his wine, he looks out the carriage window, absorbing the sites of Cassomir.

“So different than Korvosa... yet so much the same.”

Who could say which of the squat buildings gave succor to practitioners of darkness, and which were innocent? The same held true in Korvosa... but how much more so must it be true in blighted and darkened Taldor.

Beckett turns his attention back to Lord Ricton, smiling at his observations and comments. Then gazes once more at the city and its people... all enslaved to darkness in this land that exiled and outlawed the Everlight. Who could say how far some of them had fallen into the empty darkness that remained... festering...

“I could. I could say. I could purge this city, given time and leave. I could raise an army out of the remnants of righteousness. Many would convert. Others would burn, if that be their choice. In the end, future generations of Taldor would finally be free welcome the dawn!”

Beckett slipped once more at his wine. It was not his custom to drink anything that muddled his mind. But, at times, the proprieties of nobles required sacrifices from him which he would rather avoid.

“Milords?” Beckett questions at a pause in the conversation. “May I beg your pardon to ask a question regarding the service I bound myself to aboard the Lamprey?”

Glancing once more through the carriage window, he continues.

“It is my intent to travel to the Admiral’s Fen this night, to meet with my charges.

Turning back to the nobles.

"As I am new to fair Cassomir, it may be prudent for me to beg milords’ wisdom for information about the Fen. And perhaps the Dog’s Teeth, to which I will soon also be journeying. I would be most grateful for any advice Your Lordships may wish to impart.”


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Lavios
 
 
 
 
 

DM Screen:

AP: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (5) + 8 = 13
KSM: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (6) + 12 = 18
KB: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (18) + 14 = 32

Intimidate Rules (for Reference):

Action
You can use this skill to frighten an opponent or to get them to act in a way that benefits you. This skill includes verbal threats and displays of prowess.

Check
You can use Intimidate to force an opponent to act friendly toward you for 1d6 × 10 minutes with a successful check. The DC of this check is equal to 10 + the target's Hit Dice + the target's Wisdom modifier. If successful, the target gives you the information you desire, takes actions that do not endanger it, or otherwise offers limited assistance. After the Intimidate expires, the target treats you as unfriendly and may report you to local authorities. If you fail this check by 5 or more, the target attempts to deceive you or otherwise hinder your activities.

Kinjin’s DC 18:

Kinjin's Status (Traveling Merchant-NPC)
   Human Expert 7
   10
   +7 Hit Dice
   +1 Wis Modifier

Rain pours down in dull taps along their clothing and road and rings upon the metal of Lavios’ bared blade. The Inquisitor’s words hang in the air between them as Kinjin stares at the tattoo. He licks his lips and reflexively raises his hands in surrender.

”Hey, what you two on about, eh? Quit yer dancin’ and singin’!” Abner calls from the wagon. The horses whinny at his elevated tone, stamping their hooves on the causeway. ”Ee got any money, eh?” The old driver is standing on the wagon now, head motioning back and forth like a bobber on a lake.

Kinjin keeps his hands where Lavios can see them clearly in the downpour. ”Look, I don’t want any trouble. If this is someone you knew, maybe we get his personal effects, right? We can load him on the cart if Abner and Gorin’s family agree.”

He takes a half step back, his hands beginning to pick up a tremor… ”If your one of ‘em,” Kinjin licks his lips as his eyes dart from Lavios’ face to the tattoo and back again. ”...you’ve been with us since Glimmervale, all the coin we got was given by you and the family. You’re welcome to it…”

”Hey!” Abner calls again, voice a thinly pitched assault on the ears. ”That’s it, ya gol’brickers! I’m comin’ up!” He gives the reins a whip-snap and the cart lurches forward.

”Set ‘em runnin’, Abner!! Brigands!!” Kinjin bellows, the facade of fear he’d been wearing all but gone as he sets to motion.

Initiative
   ❊ Kinjin Init: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (14) - 1 = 13
   ❊ Lavios Init: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9
   ❊ Abner Init: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (14) - 1 = 13

Round 1
Kinjin quick steps back 5 ft and brings swings his crossbow off his shoulder aim the bolt at Lavios' chest. "You've got a short time to explain yourself. What exactly are you up to?"

Abner whips his reins with a sudden fury and sets the horses to running.
Handle Animal: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (8) + 10 = 18

Lavios is up, Abner will be barreling down the causeway next round, but if he won't be here until next turn.
 
 
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Lavios: Okay, here's what's happening. If you take a peak behind the DM Screen above, there's three rolls.

  • The first is for Abner to get an idea of what's going on. But the light of day is dwindling and the rain is coming down heavy. So he elects to begin moving the horses forward.
  • The second is Kinjin's Sense Motive. It wasn't too swift, but enough to know there's a grim determination behind Lavios' eyes that Kinjin isn't all that comfortable seeing. Add to that the    same tattoo on the bandit is now on your neck. (I get what you're doing, but poor Kinjin does not quite get it and is electing the way of caution)
  • The third is Kinjin's Bluff Roll. This was exceptionally high and gives him the ability to make Lavios think he's in fear for his life and ready to surrender

So at this point, it appears Kinjin is in fear of the cart being overrun by bandits - considering he's got a family as cargo - and he's concerned that you're possibly a bandit in disguise with the addition of that tattoo on your neck.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Beckett:
 
 
 
 
 

Ricton’s brows steeple. ”Truly, you seek to get right to things, Mr. Beckett.”

”He is providing aid to a small group while in the city.”

”You’re a bolder man than I,” Ricton remarks. He looks to Beckett. ”Do you happen to have a map in your possession…?”

The lord sets about drawing in the location of several buildings in the Admiral’s Fen, not the least of which is the Scarlett Knuckle Tavern. The ones of particular peril, he marks with a circle and a line. Then he marks the streets and alleyways that aren’t sunken into brackish mire so Beckett can make his way to the Dog’s Teeth. His drawing and lettering done, Ricton sprinkles a bit of sand on the map to dry the ink then sits back in his cushioned bench and sighs. ”You’re going to need to be cautious in these areas of town. Cutthroats of all types are looking for an angle on newcomers. They’ll go for your pouch or your throat in equal measure. The Admiral’s Fen was the Prince’s stroke of genius to try and expand the area south of the Shipyards into the swamp. They drained it and settled it, but eventually the Blackwood set to reclaiming her property with a vengeance. Now, what remains is a stretch of filth and stink that houses the beardless lower classes; craftsmen, dock workers and thugs.”

He shakes the sand of the map onto the floor of the carriage and points to the string of rocks drawn at the southwest corner of Cassomir. ”This is the Dog’s Teeth. Not even the Constabulary goes there, day or night. It can only be accessed during low tide on foot, or at low tide by canoe. Nothing goes on in Dog’s Teeth without the knowledge of Tarik, the ruler of the rogues and scoundrels that call that place home. So if you’ve got business there, then Tarik or at the least his Lieutenant Eutharic. The first is a merciless, bloodthirsty half-orc and the second is a sneering human. Be on your guard if you’re going there, Beckett.”

Ricton, seeing that the map is dry, rolls it up and hands it to Beckett. ”Keep to yourself as much as possible. Intimidation and the threat of violence is the primary language in both districts. But amid the dirt, there are a few whose lot is not thrown in with the criminal elements. If you find yourself in trouble, seek out a man named Agidor Lim’ehl. He travels among the taverns down there earning his keep as an entertainer. He knows my name and will aid you...for a reasonable price.”

It isn’t long after Ricton’s disclosures that the carriage comes to a halt in front of a well appointed Inn whose signage displays the silhouettes of 7 doves taking flight.

”As always, my friend,” Lord Bromathan extends a hand towards Ricton. ”...you are a most hospitable host.”

”I owe you that much and more, Valdur.” Ricton grips the man’s forearm and then nods to Beckett. ”Caution and awareness is the name of the game where you’re going, Inquisitor. Take that advice and this with you…” He goes to the lacquered box once more and withdraws a flask. ”A potion to mend your wounds should the need arise.”

Outside the carriage, porters from inside the establishment are quick to begin unloading the articles to which Ricton’s driver points. Once collected, they await Lord Bromathan and Beckett at the entryway to the Inn.

”I’ll see you tomorrow, Lord Bromathan,” Ricton reverts to the proper name now that they’re out of the carriage. ”We will make for the northside of the district to take in a meeting.”

Bromathan nods thanks and climbs the 5 steps to the porch of the Inn, waving for Beckett to join him while he simultaneously gestures for the porters to go inside with his things. ”You have the day to make your way down to the Fen. Perhaps get your bearings before night falls.” A pair of carriages pass by the front of the Inn of the 7 Doves, both appearing to be of similar color and make. ”There are carriages which will take you south, but not so far as the Fen. Feel free to take advantage of them. Or you can walk under your own power to take in the city.”

He provides a tightly wound pouch of roughly the size of a palm to Beckett. ”In case it’s needed. May the goddess be a light unto your feet.”

There is a pause as Bromathan awaits any other question. If there are none, he smiles and turns his attention back to the front door of the inn. Behind him, Beckett’s gear is situated on the patio.
 
 

                        ☨☨☨☨
Received a potion of Cure Light Wounds

Bonus to Knowledge: Consider yourself to have a +1 to Knowledge (local) checks specific to Cassomir while in possession of this marked map.
                        ☨☨☨☨

Grand Lodge

Human Human Inquisitor lvl 3 | HP: 31/31 | AC: 17; T:12; F: 15 | cmd: 15; cmb: +3 | Save: F+3 R+4 W+5 | init +9; perc. +3

Lavios sighs and licks his lips as he starts to explain "The bandit's overran my village, kidnapping my mom and slaying my father. I'm going to impersonate a bandit and follow this dead bandit's tracks, and I needed you to come" Lavios takes a 5 ft step of the track and put's his sword away to show he means no harm. "I have divine powers, I put the tattoo on by branding it on me, I can take it off easily" Lavios braces himself for the imminent pain of a bolt to the chest.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett offers sincere thanks and turns towards his belongings. Both of Lord Ricton's gifts are securely stored with the scrolls he had been given by Lord Bromathan.

Hefting his pack upon his back, and lifting his covered pole arm, Beckett climbs the steps to answer his mentor’s summons.

“Truly a kind and generous man milord.”

Glancing back toward the street.

“A good friend, indeed.”

Inwardly, Beckett ponders the Lord's words and actions within the carriage... discerning if anything was out of place.

Roll:
Sense Motive: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (19) + 8 = 27


Male Human Rog1/Rgr2 HP 31/31| AC:18, T:13, F:15 | CMD:15 CMB:+2 | Save (F+4, R+8, W+1) | Init:+3 | Perc: +7 | (+1 trap sense)

Please allow me to introduce Karl Marsh to the group and, his sword.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

Welcome aboard, Mr. Marsh. I'll have an introduction post set up for you shortly. Then we'll get your character into the RP!


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Lavios Daleborn
 
 
 
 
Kinjin’s eyes remain steady on Lavios. They search and verify and conclude from behind the crossbows sights. To his right, Abner was whipping the horses into a run and their hooves were beginning to gain traction on the causeway.

”Whoa!!” he calls out finally, hand coming off the crossbow to wave at Abner. ”Hold on, hold on!” Kinjin lowers his weapon modestly, but the bolt is still aimed in the general direction of Lavios’ lower body.

”The pit o’ nine hells, you say!” Abner shouts, his thin voice cracking like thin strips of veneer. The old man heaves on the reins and slews the cart left and around the two men in the road, coming to a stop some 20 feet beyond. ”What’s in yer head, Kinjin? Rocks n’ tacks, eh?”

”Give us a minute,” Kinjin responds and steps closer to Lavios so they can share a word. ”Look, kid, if I’m understanding you correctly, your goal is to march me into their vicinity like a prisoner, right?”

A moment and Lavios nods.

”I’m sorry for your situation,” There is a touch of regret at the corner of his eyes, mixed in with the crow’s feet. ”...but I’ve got a responsibility to those folks in the wagon. Abner and I, we don’t often make runs like this, all by our onesies. But we didn’t have any cargo and we need to be in Cassomir by early morning...so this little jaunt fit for us. When we picked up Gorin and his family...we hired you as extra muscle to keep them safe.”

The rain continues the pour down, Gozreh not giving a tittle for conversation or travel. From the cart, the sound of boots hitting the mud and rain strewn causeway brings their attention. Gorin is approaching, his cloak pulled up over his head, his wife and son watching from the shelter of the canvas tarp on the wagon.

”Head back, Master Gorin,” Kinjin takes a step towards the father, ensuring that he slings his crossbow now that he feels the danger has passed. ”We’re just having a word on what to do about the fella here.” He points to the dead body on the side of the road.

”Who was he?” Gorin asks. He’s of average build, short hair and a 3-day shadow of hair on his square-jawed face. Brown eyes with the sharpness intelligence and quick reaction scan the nearby area and then resettle on Kinjin and Lavios.

”A brigand it would seem.” Kinjin points to the tattoo on the man’s neck, now barely visible with the day nearer its end. ”Lavios here has run afoul of them before, his family having suffered for the encounter.”

”Are there more nearby?” He doesn’t sound fearful, but Gorin’s voice brims with concern as he glances back to the wagon and his family.

Kinjin shrugs. ”We were discussin’ that possibility...and the opportunity to check on the condition of this dead man’s fellows.”

”Better to move on,” Gorin says, a grimness settling on his shoulders. He turns to Lavios. ”I’m ashamed to say that fear for my family’s safety would put aside my desire to see you reunited with yours...but it’s plain fact.”

The traveling merchant rests his hands on his hips, thinking on the situation. ”We could spare a few minutes to check around the area. But we run the risk of discovery and the dark of night is close upon us. And there’s worse in the Blackwood than bandits.”

”No.” Gorin says flatly. ”I won’t endanger my family. What if we bring this fellow along and turn him over to the Constabulary?”

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Lavios: Here’s the situation. It’s close to full nightfall, the rain coming down means clouds so visibility is going to be next to nill. The family man, Gorin, looks immovable in his position to just keep the cart going. Kinjin seems almost willing, knowing your story, but he also feels responsible for the safety of Gorin and his family. It’s a tight spot, I know, but let’s see how you role play your way through it!

Grand Lodge

Human Human Inquisitor lvl 3 | HP: 31/31 | AC: 17; T:12; F: 15 | cmd: 15; cmb: +3 | Save: F+3 R+4 W+5 | init +9; perc. +3

Lavios plays with the options he has in mind.

After a few moments of thinking he turns to Gorin's family, but more towards Gorin's son, Andre. Andre appears to be young and seems to care for his family. Lavios knows the pain of losing his family, but at Andre's age, it would be worse.

"Let's get in the wagon and get moving, I heard the bandit's might be heading in the direction I hope we'll be heading, if so, I'll get out and confront them, if not

Lavios sighs.

"If not the hunt for the bandits will last longer than I hoped it would"


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Beckett:

❊ Cassomir, Taldor (Threegates) ❊
❊ 11:00 am, 9 Lamashan, 4714 ❊
❊ Light Fog & Storm Clouds, 18 °C ❊
 
 

Beckett considers what he heard in the carriage. While he’d his mentor to be frank and honest over the years, there had always existed veil between them when it came to Bromathan’s past. Now, hearing the conversation with Lord Ricton, there was the first true glimpses of that history. Like skimming the first few chapters of a book. An association with a gnome named Ligdon, and the apparent friendship between Ricton Vengrof and Bromathan that extended through a long stretch of years.

One thing was for certain, there was no lying in the other man. Beckett had witnessed enough of the political game back in Korvosa and Magnimar to know that Ricton was every bit as forthright as his mentor. A behavior out of place within the nobility, but not necessarily evil in and of itself. Better still, it seemed he was truly interested in seeing Bromathan succeed in his venture with the gnome Ligdon.

”So, my friend,” Lord Bromathan inquires, bringing Beckett back to the present. ”Will you be coming in for a bite to eat or do you want to get an early start for your meeting? I’ll be happy to have what possessions you don’t need taken to your room.”

☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨

Beckett: To be clear, Bromathan is giving you the option to remain at the 7 Doves Inn and join him for a meal, or getting an opportunity to get to the Admiral’s Fen - and the Scarlet Tavern - early. In the prior post, he intimates that carriages are available to take you as far as the edge of the district/town, but you’ll have to proceed on foot from there.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

Greetings all!!

I had a bit of a busy evening but will look to have more updates posted tomorrow!

         - Your Humble DM


Male Human Rog1/Rgr2 HP 31/31| AC:18, T:13, F:15 | CMD:15 CMB:+2 | Save (F+4, R+8, W+1) | Init:+3 | Perc: +7 | (+1 trap sense)

Hey boss, any reason we are not posting in the gameplay section?


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

Mr Marsh,

Once the party is finalized, I'll be moving us over to the Campaign Tab.


Male Human Rog1/Rgr2 HP 31/31| AC:18, T:13, F:15 | CMD:15 CMB:+2 | Save (F+4, R+8, W+1) | Init:+3 | Perc: +7 | (+1 trap sense)

Enjoying the writing so far guys. I also like the shades of grey, no black and white option feel of the campaign so far. I would love to see what the characters are thinking. I think it adds depth because we are not at a table hearing the inflections.

In other campaigns I have played character thoughts are in italics like this:

I really think this story has some potential. I am drawn in to know more about each character. I wonder what emotions were going through Lavios's head when he decided to not put the family at risk.

Or,

Man, I sure hope someone posts tonight because I am really digging this storyline and setting.

Silver Crusade

Inquisitor 3 | HP 26/26 | AC:16, T:10, F:16 | CMD:14, CMB:+4 | Save (F+3, R+1, W+7) (+2 vs. Mind-Affecting effects of Evil Outsiders) | Init:+4 | Perc: +10 (+4 to identify the abilities and weaknesses of creatures)

Beckett nods once, and sets his pack upon the ground. Then straps the pole arm and shield across his back, and tightens the leather belt securely fastening the morning star to the waist of the right side of his armor.

“Thank you, milord. I had hoped to get an early start to the Fen.”

Kneeling down, Beckett retrieves the scrolls from his mentor, as well as the map and the flask from Lord Ricton.

Standing once again, Beckett faces Bromathan.

“Milord, I am well aware of the danger I now enter. You have trained me well, and it for the Dawnflower to render judgement on our efforts.”

Beckett stands taller, squaring his shoulders.

“It is my hope that I do not disappoint you milord. I... I have listened to your council. I do not always understand, but I have listened, and I will continue my meditations.”

The Inquisitor turns to look down the road toward the direction of the Fen, and takes a step. Then he turns his head back, not quite meeting Lord Bromathan’s eyes.

“Milord, if I may beg a favor. Should this quest prove the better of me... Would milord perhaps pen a letter to my mother... Telling her of the manner of my passing to the Everlight? She... well... she would approve of this mission to free the halflings. It may give her some solace... and I owe her at least that much... after... everything she has been through.”


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Karl Marsh
 
 
 
 

   ❊ Cassomir, Taldor ❊
    ❊ (Admiral’s Fen) ❊
❊ 9:00 pm, 9 Lamashan, 4714 ❊
    ❊ Heavy Rain, 15 °C ❊
 

There is a foulness most establishments can only dream to attain, a richness of character that stains the most seasoned walls and brings to mind the worst representations of the lower strata of society. Depending on your point of view, Scarlet Knuckle is all the worst and all the best in quality for a proper tavern in the Admiral's Fen. Past the heavy, oaken doors of the 2-story establishment, the miasma of smells and filth can be overwhelming for those not from the area. But then again, the stench of the swamp is waiting just outside like a drunk collapsed on your doorstep in a puddle of his own vomit. Scattered amongst the round tables of the common room, the denizens are dock workers, most coming off a day-lighter and ready to drink or gamble their wages in one of the more notorious taverns in Admiral's Fen. There are dice games, assorted card games ranging from Rook to a clutch of older men in a corner table with a Harrow deck for an ancient game of Towers. A mix of humans, halflings, half-orcs and a couple of dwarves.

Amid the stink and the drink and the laughter and the curses there is no shortage of weaponry. Short-swords hang openly along with cudgels and daggers, a rusty cutlass or two on the hips of bravados, over in the corner a crossbow leans against one table where three men and a Halfling play a game of cards. Even the five serving girls carry knives with the history among them for taking a finger or two from those men unwilling to guard themselves from straying. So being unprepared is frowned upon.

The proprietor is a particularly foul-tempered dwarf, his hair and beard the deep colors of flame to match. Those outside his hearing call him Outhouse, not for the unfortunate face Torag had forged at his anvil, but for the rancid odors wafting from his curse-ridden mouth. His given name is Rivens Cogsetter and his best friend is the heavy Ash, iron-banded cudgel at his hip he calls Bruiser. That weapon receives all the affection the surly tavern owner can manage to squeeze out of his blackened heart. All his other emotions dwell within the till behind the bar. It’s not in the black, he makes sure there’s red on the floor.

The tavern’s bar takes up the whole left wall, a cracked mirror with shelving flanking. Bottles with worn out labels promise the spirits of long dead nations to carry you away to oblivion…if your coin is right and your look doesn’t annoy Outhouse. At current he’s wiping away a spattering of blood belonging to a man Harole and his boys just dragged into the back past the bat-wing doors meant for employees and deadbeats. The deadbeats are Harole’s business, one that his little half-orc heart delights in pursuing with all the vigorous drive of a successful merchant. He’s not too bright, but that’s why he has two humans to keep their eyes open for trouble. Hep and Tommy spot it, Harole cracks his massive and calloused knuckles and sets to work. The only folks Harole respect include Outhouse and Marsh. We’ll get to him soon enough…

Towards the right rear wall, stairs lead up to another area with tables. Through the bannister the waitress serving whoever is in attendance is by far fairer than the ones working the common room. Those in the know understand the second floor is off limits without an invitation. Nobody goes there, it’s foreign soil, Skinner country. If you don’t know who that is, better to keep your trap shut, maybe fill it with an ale or what passes for food in this place.

Opposite the stairs in the left corner, a platform resting on 2x4 risers holds a pair of entertainers. One a scrawny, hawk-nosed human named Agidor who claws at a guitar, his raspy tenor singing melancholy refrains that set the gathered denizens to clapping and shouting approval. Agidor is a local and knows what the crowds like as he moves from tavern to tavern in the Fen. Some whisper questions as to why he doesn’t move on to the better districts. A clean tunic and cloak and boots could mean an easy job in Threegates. But rumor has it he left the Rhapsodic College in Oppara for trying to steal a teacher’s set of lyre strings. Those making the suggestions of greener pastures nod understanding.

The second performer, a dwarf with a broad-brimmed hat, runs a consistently driving rhythm on a worn but well-crafted drum. Drogan is the name that floats along from person to person. He’s new to the area, that much is for certain, but he’s been working with Agidor going on a month now. The two travel from one tavern to the next each week, this being the second time they’ve played the Knuckle. The duo is an appreciated addition to the tavern that lands them. The dwarf and his voice and drum and the tales are a new thing to the area where new is not always welcome. But Drogan is every bit as able to tailor his stories and songs to the crowd before them.

At present, Agidor gives a sly wink to his dwarven companion and begins stamping his feet on the raised platform and deftly lets his fingers fly to a different rhythm. They pass the vocals of the local song back and forth, Agidor’s gravely voice mixing well with the Drogan’s booming patterns.

”Don't alter my altar
don't desecrate my shrine
My church is the water
and my home is underneath the empty sky
Don't underestimate the spine in a poor man's back
when it's against the wall and his future's black...

One man's story is another man's shame
I’m bound for a gallows twirl, I ain’t bound for fame
Take to the swamp boy, and cover up your tracks
Go away child, go away child and don't look back

Sad is the lullaby from a mother's heart and soul
when she knows her child has strayed from the fold
The clean coats will perish
by death's cruel hand
and finish the job that fate began

All that static in the attic,
that's just an old drunk ghost
His chains are rattlin' but his end is close
There’s no storm of sun just the empty sky
I came for the drinks but I stayed for the lie.

The myriad in the tavern stomp their boots on the wooden floor, tankards and other instruments slamming the table tops in time to the music. It’s a favored song in the Scarlet Knuckle, and in most parts of the Fen as it comes to it. It’s also familiar to a man who sits alone at one the tables in the back. His hair is dark save for the hints of gray at his temples. He places calloused hands over the rim of his tankard and gives the slightest hint of a grin as Agidor and Drogan continue the song.

”’nother ale, Karl?”

I think I promised we’d get back to his one, right? Karl Marsh looks up to barmaid and shakes his head. ”Not tonight, Miranda.”

The waitress smiles back down at him as though a solution for the weathered man was just on the tip of her mind. ”Suit yourself, dear. I’ll bring ya some caffe then?”

A simple nod from the man.

Miranda rests a hand briefly on his shoulder and slips her way through the drinking throngs to disappear passed the bat-wing doors. Out of instinct, Karl’s eyes follow her until she’s safe. It was a louder bunch than normal tonight. Probably given to the fact a few fishing trawlers would be heading out early the next morning. Putting out to sea for months at a time meant they needed their fill tonight. The dawn of the 10th would bid welcome to a great many pained heads. To Karl Marsh, It just meant more strangers than he was used to seeing in the Knuckle. In a small way the tavern is home to him. And a man like Karl watches out for his home.

From across the tavern’s common room, Outhouse’s famous temper - and no doubt his infamous halitosis - harrangs a rotund man so soundly that even though he’d just entered, turns right around and leaves. Marsh eyes the departing man and marks his face to ask the cranky dwarf if it was someone worth watching. If things didn’t always warrant a visit from Harole the half-orc, sometimes Outhouse tossed problems Karl’s way. The human’s hard gaze and equally confident manner of wearing a sword at his hip could defuse a situation and prevented Outhouse from having to divert his barmaids to clean up. The dwarf shares a glance with Karl and simply nods, hocking a chunk of spit for the bar top that he wipes away with a dirtier rag.

There was an incident some years ago in which Karl interceded on behalf of the owner of the Knuckle. A band of thugs who thought it wise to attempt extortion. Karl had broken two of their legs, sank a broken bottle of cheap whiskey into the hip of another. Between himself and Outhouse, the gang had tucked tail and run. But as it was with a lot of their kind in the Fen, they had to "fix" anyone known publicly to humiliate them. They threatened to come back and kill Marsh. Marsh told them they were welcome to try and that he would be waiting at his table.

And wait he had. Seemingly unperturbed, perhaps even welcoming some say, that they would return for his blood. When they did, a gnarled hardcase was with them. A veteran of the Phalanx from the look of him. Rumor says the vet recognized Marsh or at least his sword. Some words were exchanged but Marsh never stood or made any move other than revealing his weapon’s pommel. The gnarled vet had told his men to back down.

In and around the Knuckle, folks said Marsh had drawn his sword and the appearance of naked steel had unsettled them and sent them running. But Karl had no recollection of having had to draw his weapon. All it had taken was standing alongside Rivens and letting his longcoat drape enough to reveal the weapon’s pommel. Others claim that marsh is an assassin feared by even the crime lords of the city, still others whisper that he is a fallen lord or paladin. In all cases his extraordinary sword figures into the story somehow.

He doesn’t do anything to correct the rumors. In the long run they help him maintain a quiet life in the middle of Admiral’s Fen. And it kept him out of the business of the Skinners upstairs. That in and of itself is an accomplishment.

Karl is brought back to the present as the doors to the tavern open and admit a band of 10 Halflings. Despite his normally stoic exterior, he can’t help but smile in recognition at seeing Linkah and Corvim among them. While Karl knew them all by name,he had a particular fondness for the brothers. Even some of the bar’s regulars left up a pint in greeting. It doesn’t take long for Linkah to spot the Marsh at his usual table and he gives his brother a shot with his elbow and they make their way over.

As they approach, Karl reflects on his discussion with Linkah some 8 months prior. After so long in the service of the Lamprey’s captain, under a thinly legal contract, the clever halfling had found a way towards freedom. But it meant making good on a delivery from Korvosa to a less than honest man named Marcum who had a shop in the heart of the Dog’s Teeth. Karl had agreed to work with Linkah upon his return, but he’d spent some time looking into this Marcum. As with all people in the Dog’s Teeth, Marcum served Tarik, although at a distance. From what Karl had gathered, he was a dealer in odd items that flowed down the Sellen River. Trinkets, maps, books...so long as Marcum paid his percentage to Tarik, he kept his business. But Karl had also heard Marcum was notorious for double-crossing his business partners in an effort to gain favor with Tarik and his ilk.

That’s why Marsh had decided a month ago that he’d be going with Linkah.

”Karl! Five years is up, longshanks!” Linkah hops into a chair next to Karl and slaps the table top in delight. ”Gots tha viddles, n’ even got a good bloke ta join in,”

Corvim, though quieter than his boisterous brother, is no less excited as he joins too. ”It’s true, Marshy. Linkah what done ‘em. A good fella n’ his teacher.” He leans in close and his grin grows as he whispers. ”They’s followers o’ the Dawnflower.”

”Good on ‘em I says.” Linkah adds. ”Been too long since we ‘eard a good talk at the dawn.”

”Oy, when we get a dwarf story guy?” Corvim glances towards the stage. ”He’s much bettuh lookin’ din Outhouse, eh?” He whispers to Linkah.

Karl feels the old stirrings of concern as he digests what they’re saying and weighs what he learned about Marcum.
 
☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨
 
Mr. Marsh: Time to flex the character a bit. How to proceed?


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For Drovan Anvilsong
 
 
  

 

       ❊ Cassomir, Taldor ❊
❊ (the Kelp Bed Tavern at the Docks) ❊
   ❊ 9:00 pm, 9 Lamashan, 4714 ❊
     ❊ 8:00 pm, 1 Rova, 4714 ❊

He takes a long swig of ale from the tankard chained to his traveling pack. "Mah what now? Oh, my name? My name is Drogan Anvilsong. Son of Draevon Anvilsong. I'm a proud dwarf of Highelm, though I'm pretty sure they are not so proud of that ancestry. While my father toiled 'imself to the bone scribbling in Iron Archive, I made my way to the Hollow and found no reason to leave.”

Agidor shifts in his chair a bit, the seat not all that comfortable and he was pretty sure it was still wet from where someone had spilled ale. ”Why’d you leave?”

"Do not get me wrong now. I have a great deal a' respect for my father. He's a good man, and a true dwarf. But the walls of the archive are no place for a fellow of my fine quality to be kept. It's the winding road fer me, where each mile holds new stories to tell and a new tavern to drain.”

He takes another long sip and waves his hand for another. The barmaid comes to fill his tankard with a smile. ”Ah, yes. That's the stuff. Loveliest site for a traveler. And might I say you look rather pleasant to my eyes, dear.” Drogan says with a wink. The barmaid giggles as she leaves. ”May the Lucky Drunk bless you, Lass.”

The human sitting across from him, a guitar laying across his lap in a soft leather case like a newborn babe, clears his throat with a grin. I like him already.

"So where were we? That's right, talking about me. I needed to get out of the capital, but I'm an Anvilsong. Archivist and scriveners to the council. I thought I'd be trapped for sure, until Cayden Cailean decided to send me a message. I spent some time with our friend Darby Thrushbill. I'd take a bolt or two for that one for true. He told me of the wide world as we told old stories over aged whiskey. He reminded me that archivists are nothin' but storytellers that decided to keep their stories to themselves. Said I should share them with the world, Darby did. Seeing as the old ones keep saying the old ways are fading away with the times, I thought I'd go into the world and remind people what Torag forged us for in the first place. So before I could talk myself out of it, I took to the road with a caravan I thought would have a fair chance of making it to its destination fairly intact. Been here ever since.”

”Well, I’m glad ole Darby sent you my way. I’ve been looking for a change...maybe a reason to get back on the road.” Agidor shrugs his shoulders, the feeling of being watched a bit too strong for comfort. ”I’ve been working with a guy in Dog’s Teeth who might have my ticket. A chance to leave Cass behind and go to Absalom.” He pauses, not wanting to presume anything of the dwarf sitting across from him even though Darby had given him his kudos. ”You stayin' in Taldor long? Darby led me to believe you'd be interested in my man in Dog's Teeth, fellow named Marcum.”

☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨☨

Drogan: Hope you don't mind I used some of your write up here. The dialogue was just too perfect! Thought we’d flash back a month to the time when arrive on the river Sellen in Cassomir. Upon the recommendation of your friend Darby, you’ve sought out Agidor Lim'eh. He’s a human bard who works the taverns along the docks during the month of Rova but makes most of his money in Admiral’s Fen. If you read through Karl Marsh’s post above, I’ve got you and Agidor in the Scarlet Knuckle, but I wanted to get a good introduction for you and Agidor first.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

For All:

You'll all eventually be in the Scarlet Knuckle. So feel free to read the first part of Karl Marsh's intro post to get a feel for the joint. You won't have a grapple on the rumormill as much as Karl, or maybe Drogan for that matter. But it gets you an idea of the place.

   - Your Humble DM


Male Human Rog1/Rgr2 HP 31/31| AC:18, T:13, F:15 | CMD:15 CMB:+2 | Save (F+4, R+8, W+1) | Init:+3 | Perc: +7 | (+1 trap sense)

Marsh's face darkens at the mention of bringing an outsider in at the last minute.

What the f&!* are they thinking. An unknown and untested party brought in on the plan this late in the game! And a zealot of the Damnflower no less!"

Too late to back out now though, temperance and patience in all things, right. Figures these half pints would turn to one of her followers. It's a boon and flaw of their kindly nature. Heh, you knew this might be a one way trip anyway.

"Has it really been 5 years already? . . . You'd better stow the florist talk. Investing in that type of business can be risky. They aren't very popular around here and flowers planted in the muck tend to die rather quickly. Flowers may be nice to look at, but are better suited to sitting in glass vases in the merchants quarter or planted in some lords back yard where they can be tended and groomed while they bask in the sun."

"The new skin beating string plucker is a nice change. He complements the one we've already got and adds a little variety. I was getting tired of hearing the same songs that each new load of sailors seem to request. Yep, its good to have a little fresh blood in here, especially when it isn't dispensed from the bruiser behind the bar."

"You'd better tell me about this guy you mentioned. What did you tell him? As in . . . Exactly what? This partnership is dangerous enough as it is. I am not the man I was. . . It's now or never guys. I don't have to tell you how this shit is going to go down if its not pulled off perfect."

"Its good to see you by the way. I felt like it would be soon. I've been watching the door. Order yourself something, just keep it reasonable. I am not made of money, but I've got a few gold to spend on you and your kin."

Soon. . .


Male Human Rog1/Rgr2 HP 31/31| AC:18, T:13, F:15 | CMD:15 CMB:+2 | Save (F+4, R+8, W+1) | Init:+3 | Perc: +7 | (+1 trap sense)

A group of drunks call for another round. Marsh glances up. The song starts anew.

”Don't alter my altar
don't desecrate my shrine
My church is the water
and my home is underneath the empty sky
Don't underestimate the spine in a poor man's back
when it's against the wall and his future's black...

One man's story is another man's shame
I’m bound for a gallows twirl, I ain’t bound for fame
Take to the swamp boy, and cover up your tracks
Go away child, go away child and don't look back

Sad is the lullaby from a mother's heart and soul
when she knows her child has strayed from the fold
The clean coats will perish
by death's cruel hand i
and finish the job that fate began

All that static in the attic,
that's just an old drunk ghost
His chains are rattlin' but his end is close
There’s no storm of sun just the empty sky
I came for the drinks but I stayed for the lie.

How I hate this song. Yet how I listen to it each time. Every word . . . each and every word . . . Heh, wished I could have heard and understood it 25 years ago. Coulda---No. Don't go there. Keep your head.

Marsh looked back to Linkah waiting for his response, but was actually watching the woman taking drinks to the ferriers table in his periphery. She was just past prime, but he felt well past his. She was beautiful, but tarnished by the life she lived here, hells, everyone here was tarnished.

None more than me. . .

She would have him he guessed. She'd like a chance to take care of him proper. She'd be a good woman to him. If she was born in different circumstances she'd have made a wonderful nobleman's wife. Her hands, though rough from water and toil, would have made fine mother's hands.

She's always so gentle . . .

Marsh pictured them running through through a child's unruly mop. Wiping tears away while she stilled his fears with a smile. Holding a little girls hand as they walked giggling together through clover.

They took that possibility from her long ago.

Drunken leecherous peddlers of flesh. They never see a human being, only the money they can make off their backs. . . what a piece of crap I am. Why have I allowed her to fester in this place for so long. . . and, who am I kidding. What do you fancy yourself as being able to offer her?

If it wasn't for you maybe some merchant or old nobleman would have taken her as a favored mistress. Pay the man upstairs for her proper. Give her a gilded cage to live in. Take her from this place where you have failed to do so.

Just add it to the list. One more failure . . . She's wasted too much time on me already. Besides, she is safe here. The man upstairs won't tolerate unwilling trespass upon any of his property. He doesn't abuse her. Actually, this may be the best time in her life. The most stable. Maybe even the happiest, as sad as that may sound.

You've been drinking too much. Heh, she probably knows that too.

A wry smile touches Marsh's lips as he continues to watch the halfling.

Clever girl and you are far from defenseless.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

DM Screen:

W: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (11) + 5 = 16
RR: 1d4 ⇒ 3
W: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 = 19
RR: 1d4 ⇒ 3
W: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17
RR: 1d4 ⇒ 4
W: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7
RR: 1d4 ⇒ 3
W: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (10) + 5 = 15
RR: 1d4 ⇒ 1
W: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (18) + 5 = 23
RR: 1d4 ⇒ 1

For Lavios Daleborn
 
 

             ❊ Northeast of Cassomir ❊
❊ Somewhere along the Blackswamp Causeway ❊
       ❊ 7:00 pm, 2 Lamashan, 4714 (Fall) ❊
            ❊ Heavy Fog and Rain, 10 °C ❊

The rain continues to fall on the three men standing the causeway. All around them the Blackwood Swamp grows ever more oppressive the darker it gets. Ahead of them, the horses begin their stamping and braying again as the momentary excitement recedes and the realization of where they’d stopped sets. Abner calls at them and yanks on the reins, then sets about planting the hooded lanterns in their sconces to either side of the driver’s seat. But even as the lanterns are lit, it’s like a child throwing rocks at an advancing line of cataphracts; a feeble attempt at best.

Behind the hard lines of Gorin’s face and the rain running rivulets, relief is apparent. ”Thanks, lad.” He nods to the cart. ”Look, when we get into town, I’ve a cousin what works in the Constabulary. I could get ya a word with him before I shove off on the trawler.”

”C’mon ya tom-idiots!” Abner calls back from the wagon. He’s holding the reins tight as the horses are tossing their heads and rolling their eyes. ”I’ll leave ya lot here, see if I don’t!”

As though answering the horses’ nervous mood, a strange howling sounds from either side of the causeway. Lavios had experience with wolves...but these didn’t… The Inquisitor gives a shudder as a chill claws its way up and down his spine, icicle fingers tracing lines along his skull.

”Let’s get moving.” Kinjin’s eyes narrow as he searches the area around them, the same thing seems to be happening to him, his nerves tightening like strings on a bard’s harp. ”Never should have stopped, but there’s nothing for it now.”

The three make their way back to the cart, Kinjin going last as he casts his eyes through the rain and into the growing shadows cast by the dying light of day. He unslings his crossbow and waits until both Gorin and Lavios are loaded up before hopping up next to Abner. The old man barely waits for him to grab a seat before he whips the reins and sends them lurching forward. Whickers and whinnies from the horses as though glad to get back in motion.

They hear them again. Soul piercing howls from all directions and washing over those in the wagon in waves of dread. The little boy covers his ears, immediately falling into a tremor. ”Make ‘em stop, father!” Andre sobs. His mother wraps her arms around him but it’s clear she’s succumbing to the same fears.

Gorin grabs up a long parcel wrapped in oiled leather. Inside is the well-hewed long bow. The man sets about stringing it, unwinding the twine and pinning it quickly to the ends. From the same parcel, he pulls a pair of goose-fletched arrows and knocks one while the other goes in his mouth.

Both Lavios and Gorin scan the causeway behind them. ”Gods be merciful…” he manages.

The cart lumbers and gains speed, but despite the tossing and the dark and the falling rain, both men can see shapes moving in the darkness back where they’d been standing only moments before. Like men they were, but moving like animals. Arms too long to be natural, two of them stopping and sending out another howl of dread calling.

Another wave of chills crashes into them, Andre and his mother both cry out in fear then bite down on their shouts and huddle close. One of the horses kicks outward and strikes the wagon behind him but Abner curses and gets them under control...but his normally cantankerous tone is now one of barely hinged terror.

Behind the cart, where the shadows dance with too long arms and howl to the falling sky, Lavios can just make out one of them ripping into the dead bandit’s body. The crunch of the cart’s wheels on the causeway intwine with the crunching of flesh and bone. Then another of the inhuman creatures stops its howling and turns in the direction of the cart, beginning to lope after it with incredible speed.

”Here!” Kinjin calls from the driver’s seat. ”Take my crossbow and a few bolts! I’ve gotta help Abner control the team!”

His crossbow quiver of bolts lands in the back of the wagon next to Lavios.

”Gods be merciful!” Gorin shouts, then draws his bow string to his cheek and lets fly. The arrow pins into the mud and wood of the causeway but missing the creature.

But the creature is closing on the wagon, clamoring on all fours, arms longer than anything a human had a right to possess, and as it came into the barest light of the hooded lanterns on the wagon, they can see its skin is stretched taut over a skull with a jaw too elongated for its face. Cold black eyes glare with hatred at the two. The jaw begins to open and unhinge as it brings in a deep breath, its torso engorging on the dank swamp air, skin stretching over its rib cage.

☨☨☨

Lavios: Okay, we’re in a semblance of initiative, just bouncing between the wagon and the creature giving chase. You’ve got a +1 Medium Crossbow in your hands with damage of 1d8. Action is over to you.


Group Treasure ☨  Current Map

DM Screen:

BP: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (15) + 8 = 23
RR: 1d6 ⇒ 5
BP: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (12) + 8 = 20
RR: 1d6 ⇒ 4
BP: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (1) + 8 = 9
RR: 1d6 ⇒ 2

For Beckett Foxglove
 

                    ❊ Cassomir, Taldor ❊
                   ❊ (Admiral’s Fen) ❊
❊ Between noon and 9:00 pm, 9 Lamashan, 4714 ❊
                  ❊ Heavy Rain, 15 °C ❊

”If it is your fate, my friend. You know I will.” Bromathan says formally. But the aspect of the man that is ever a reminder of how close Beckett is to the man surfaces in the way he smiles once again. ”Remember, you are never a disappointment in my eyes. I possess the utmost faith in you and know you will continue the journey from East to West and never falter.” He makes the gesture of the dawn across his heart, a half-circle with his first two fingers. ”Until the Sun Fades, We Stand.” He intones formally, careful to not allow others to hear their exchange.

With that, he gathers up Beckett’s belongings himself instead of calling for a porter and enters the 7 Doves.

As if on queue, the heavens above begin sending down the first, fat droplets of a promised deluge. A few passing in the streets and the finely crafted (and raised) walkways quicken the paces in anticipation of the rain coming. Beckett smooths his outer clothing and brings the brim of his hat down as the growing storm begins to tug at it. Putting his shoulder to the wind he moves off into the streets of Threegates, leaving the use of a carriage to those with less to repay.

Weaving his way through the people and merchant stalls and guardsmen, Beckett soon finds his boots carry him out of Threegates. The docks and shipyards have lost none of their hustle and bustle with the advent of rain. In fact, it seems the swarms of longshoremen are more active than when he’d left. Huge winches and cranes strain against the downpour as their operators - a goodly percentage gnomish - brought ship cargo between boat and dock.

The sudden crash of one such parcel brings the Inquisitor’s eyes around to a low-slung raker in her berth. A horse-sized crate lay in flinders and the menagerie of its contents on the dock, the crane that was holding it aloft having snapped its support line. As if materializing out of a fog, a band of five constables with halberds and other weaponry to hand, surround the debris field and keep order while the crew of the raker sets about getting things collected and loaded into a nearby wagon.

Along with others among the people in the streets, Beckett eyes the event with veiled interest, taking into consideration the quickness with which the constables are on the scene. A rather portly figure garbed in bright greens and yellows and reds crosses directly in front of him, the man’s plumed hat obstructing his view. Even more so the tall servant holding a leather-skin umbrella over the noblemen’s head. The nobleman thwacks his servant on the shoulders when he notes him staring at the goings on at the raker. ”Mind your way, Je’toh, you mongrel of a fool!”

”Yes, master,” the servant answers, his accent thickly foreign to Beckett’s ears.

The two continue through the crowded streets, the tall servant acting as a bulwark before the ranging locals even as he maintains the noble’s dry condition with the umbrella.

Back at the dock in the distance, Beckett sees a pair of gnomes clamoring up the crane and dragging with them new lengths of rope to repair the one that’d snapped earlier. A quick resolution by the dockworkers, but shouting can be heard in the distance as probably the owner of the material vents his frustration. A heavy wagon drawn by dark colored horses makes its way towards the scene. Over a short period of time a new crate is fabricated by a group of halflings and gnomes and the contents of the smashed crate are loaded into the new one. The downpour does little to slow their pace in an impressive demonstration of skill and efficiency.

Things change as he continues onwards. The areas of Cassomir are given their own beat, their own feel, like the artists in Magnimar given a canvas and the same task will paint different things. As he moves through the crowd Beckett can sense the stares of those in the lower castes giving him a wider berth but their hidden hatred is equal to the space they give him. An absent hand to his jaw reminds him that those eyeing him thusly have not the facial hair he possesses. It’s a reminder of what he left behind in Threegates as he makes his way closer and closer to the Fen.

He raises the collar of his coat and keeps his face in the shadows of his hat brim. Fewer and fewer displays of clean clothes give way to the soiled and poorer folk. More halflings mix among the crowds trying to sell this or that, even to barter. A few half-orcs stamping through the rain and mud bearing the recognizable scars of pit fighters, their slow movement like banners advertising their prowess to prospective wagers once the light went out on the day.

A human wearing clothes that had once been bright and festive plucks at a lute and sings as he paces out front of an establishment with a sign proclaiming it the Bog’s Rest. At first, Beckett gives the slightest wrinkle of his nose at the stench of the man, but then he realizes the smell comes from all around him.

”He had 3 whole coppers
A worn out horse
And a wife who was
Leaving for good
LIfe's made of trouble
Worry pain and struggle
She wrote good bye in
The dust on the mantle
They found a map of the Teeth
Lipstick on the mug
They must of left
In the middle of the night”

”And I want to know
The same thing
Everyone wants to know
How’s it going to end?”

Beckett passes him by as the decrepit continues his mournful tune. Would that he had a song as cheerful as his clothing had been many years prior, perhaps more would have answered his siren call. As it is, most give him his space and move on with their lives. The Inquisitor wars within himself at the need for Sarenrae’s light to purge the area and the cautionary words of his mentor preaching the need for all to see the goddess’ healing light. What level of mercy would be required to ferret out the last vestiges of good in this place?

He didn’t know. Maybe time and wisdom would unfurl before him like a crisp and clean banner. Maybe.

No few than two women approach Beckett, one boldly, the other much later emerging from the shadows of an alley with a broken parasol that was clearly worthless against the sloshing rain from above. The first girl sent offers of amusement and unmentionable activities. Beckett never even looks in her direction, but his wits are sharp enough to snake out and grip her hand before it comes near his belt pouch.

”Can’t blame a girl, eh guv?” She twists her wrist back and forth until Beckett willingly releases it, then slinks away with a sneer upon her face for the young Inquisitor.

The second girl, much more alluring wise in her conduct eyes him up and down and smiles. If not for the discolored stains upon her teeth and the obvious bruising of her cheek beneath badly maintained face cream, she would have been beautiful. But for Beckett, the offer in her eyes held the promise of something darker than she was admitting to him now. ”Have a bit of shade and roof from tha rain, milord.” Her voice is velvet along a knife’s edge. ”Tis but the act of a moment, n’ a smile for ya troubles at the end…”

Deep in his belly Beckett feels the danger behind her eyes more than seeing it. Whether it be Sarenrae’s gift of sight or his own developing instincts, he glares at her and moves off into the crowd as it continues its flow down the street. After several steps, he casts an eye over his shoulder and sees a man of 6 feet or more step from the alley and grip the woman by the throat and give her a shake in obvious punishment. She’s lifted by her feet for a moment then cast aside to the muddy ground. The tall man looks down the street and though he never matches eyes with Beckett, the face is one the young Inquisitor will never forget. A mash of flesh that must have been riddled by pox years before and one eye of deepest black and the other of a milky white. The fiendish man wipes at his brow and the back of the neck then settles his gaze back on the woman he’d just cast to the ground. A gob of spit hits her in the face as he turns back into the alley.

And so it continues as Beckett makes his way into the heart of Admiral’s Fen. He takes his time, getting a lay of the land and memorizing the pathways marked by Lord Ricton on the map when he’s out of sight of others. The cascade of rain helps with anonymity. In all, he finds 3 possible pathways that could lead him back to the docks, then 2 that would take him in a round-a-bout to the 7 Doves Inn. But he makes careful mental note of the constabulary at the docks knowing that he’s seen very few in the muddy stink of Admiral’s Fen.

Night falls and finds the rain not letting up. Merchants and tavern keepers bring out long wooden planks that bear the markings of service aboard ships. The planks go down as makeshift walkways from one store front to the other. It’s a strange effort in such an overly dirty area of town, but an effort nonetheless. In the light cast by hooded lamp posts and the flickering fires coming from musty windows, Beckett spots a familiar band of Halflings entering the object of his observation for the past hour, the Scarlet Knuckle.

He waits outside as they enter the establishment, sheltered within an alley created by a rundown leather worker’s shop and a curious purveyor of scrap. After a few minutes Beckett readies himself to enter the tavern and rendezvous with Linkah and his brethren.

☨☨☨

Master Beckett: Feel free to read through the beginning of Karl’s post earlier to get a picture of what awaits you inside. Then let me know how you want to approach the situation. I’m going to knock out a post or two between Karl and the Halflings, but I think heading to their table is an option.

Also, feel free to retcon some of my stuff above as you make your approach. If there’s things you would have done differently, things you would have said or tried to investigate more, I’m leaving an open door for you to do so.

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