|Jon, The Evil DM|
The Starstone Cathedral towers above the rest of the Ascendant Court, its high marble towers gleaming in the light of the midday sun. The God's Market, hiding in the shadow of the Cathedral, bustles with noon activity as worshipers and those passing through browse the wares being pushed by various merchants. With midday services having recently let out, the Court is perhaps at its busiest time of day; the cobbled streets of the Court are covered in people of all shapes and sizes, with elementals and planar beings walking side by side with humanoids. Scattered amongst them all are the Graycloaks, their thin woolen garb the only marker of their station, watching over the proceedings of the Court. Chelish dignitaries move through the crowds followed by all manner of devils and infernal servants, while others still praise the Inheritor only a few feet away. Stranger things still walk the streets--or haunt the skies, perhaps--of Absalom, and it seems no one bats an eye. Through it all, the chorus of voices of worshipers of every faith imaginable fill the area, each shouting their truths and decrying the others in turn, all about the Pit of the Starstone in a religious frenzy.
One such voice belongs to a follower of the Last Disciple, espousing the glory of his prophet. Surrounded by a hearty crowd--consisting of equal parts dutiful believers and vicious naysayers--he chants and raves of the glories of the second coming of Aroden, here to bring prosperity again to Golarion. A group of Graycloaks stand between those preaching and the crowd, pushing them each back in equal measure in an attempt to keep the peace. A few clouds in the otherwise clear sky pass over the sun for a moment, cloaking the Court in shadow. A few people cast apprehensive glances toward the display; shows of violence have become more frequent in the Court as of late.
I'm just setting the scene here, you all can feel free to post in with what you're doing here and why, perhaps you're with some of the other party members. You can engage with anyone you like--the protesters, the worshipers, someone in the Market--or not do so at all, and merely take in the scene or talk amongst yourselves. When I feel the time is appropriate (either because you've all done your introductions or I just feel like it's an appropriate time to set things off) I'll post in again.
Mephiston moves silently through the crowd, absently dodging around the worshipers and gawkers gathered to watch the fanatic preaching Aroden's return. "What a farce. And a heresy against the rightful rulers of Cheliax." But unlike many of his countrymen, Mephiston remains discreet, wearing a simple black tabard over his silvery mail shirt and his simple, though remarkably well made, traveling clothes. A dark cloak covers his form, line with deep blood red, though the hood is pushed down to reveal his sharp golden eyes and his pale face as he watches the gathered onlooker closely. Unlike many of the Chelish dignitaries, no devil follows him, though a keen eye might catch sight of a raven circling the crowd and following closely behind him.
Tosguld finds himself in the market talking with a blacksmith about the hammer he commissioned her to repair the day prior. A tall, intimidating half-orc woman, she'd worked on Tosguld's weapon and armor many times and they had become good friends over the years. Above the general hubbub, he hears shouting nearby. One of those devotees of the new 'Disciple.' I still don't trust that man. In any case, Tosguld knows the ordeal is a matter of the church and not his business.
Speaking of the Church, a member of Pharsma's own is trying his best to blend into the crowd so that he can hear what the Lost Disciple's follower is raving about today. It certainly seems like an interesting story--the rebirth of a god and all that--and the short (for a human) man is taking notes in his journal of the cliff's notes of the man's arguments and points.
The power had to be coming from somewhere, of course, but Aroden is supposed to be dead. Any hint in these ravings as to what that power truly is could be helpful.
Of all the people in the city, let alone the world, I did not suppose I would see you again, Gatewatcher isn't it? How is it after all this time, you are still running your own errands? Is the guard really so hard to recruit new blood these days? Or are you still the same rank as all the other green-greys after some epic faux pas? Pyrrha asks with a manner-of-fact tone rather than with any inquiry, but to anyone that has traded any kind words with her before would know, hides a subtle fondness. The tall, lithe elven woman is standing close enough to touch Tosguld but keeps her hands to herself and her non-verbal expressions paralyzing still. She was never fond of physical contact, and that doesn't seem to have changed. Tell me, did you ever find that Redscar Rogue you were after?
In his latest, favorite disguise as an older human scholar, Varrren stands quietly near the back of the crowd listening to Last Disciple's follower. His hearing is good enough that if he concentrates, he can just make out the man's words. The ebb and flow of mortal religions is interesting to him, and the rebirth of a dead religion particularly so. He has been following the rumors of the Last Disciple closely of late, and has yet to decide if the Disciple is genuine or a clever fraud.
As Varst, his dark hair is shot through with streaks of grey, and one hand rests casually on top of an exquisite cane. Though he seems to be in late middle age for a human, his posture and dress are those of a scholar that has spent no small amount of time out in the world, and the glint of very fine chain mail can be seen beneath his tunic.
His other hand holds a half-eaten berry tart, what the locals have taken to calling a 'bubbly-pie', and he occasionally nibbles on it as he listens.
Ahto saunters out of the Temple of Callistria with a boyish grin across his scarred face. He waves back at the honey-aired temple attendant dressed in a loosely tied black and gold silk robe that only barely covers her.
"A stirring service, as always. My thanks for once again stiffening my resolve, Holiness," he says, proffering a gentlemanly bow.
He turns toward the crowd, taking a moment to first check that his breeches are buttoned, then a quick once over to make certain all his personal affects were still on his person.
Hearing the sounds of loud proselytizing, Ahto rolls his eyes and sighs.
Why does anyone listen to all that doom and gloom nonsense. There are fun gods out there - Callistria, Desna, Cayden ever-lovin' Caylean! Idiots out here, soaking up this vinegar!
He makes his way through the crowd, looking for anyone who seems lost.
"New to town? Need a guide or bodyguard? Hot-spur! Hot-spur!" he calls out, trying to catch the eyes of the overwhelmed or anxious.
|Variel the Old|
"This has to be the Cathedral." muttered the elf as he observed the impressive building.
Removing the hood he had been wearing as he made his way through the streets and using the cloak to partially cover the firearms he had been purposely showing -it's always better to prevent foolish robberies than having to explain to the guards why there was a bunch of corpses full of holes- he eyed the crowd.
He stood tall, by human or elven standards, with wild hoary hair flowing almost till his shoulders. His sleeveless 'leather' armor covered in as many scars as his arms and hands. The hilt of a long knife sprouted behind his left armpit while a scimitar hanged from his back with the tip of the scabbard pointing to the sky.
"New to town? Need a guide or bodyguard? Hot-spur! Hot-spur!"
The noisy scarred man offering himself as a bodyguard caught his attention He looks kinda like Abel, a distant relative perhaps? Cannot be, he didn't have no family and it's been too long..." but he dismissed those thoughts, delving too long in the past was dangerous, before approaching him.
"I need a guide, or answers whatever takes less time. I'm Variel, arrived yesterday." said the elf, unsure if he should offer his hand or not.
Ahto extends a hand in greeting to the elf. "Well, Mister Variel, welcome to Absalom!"
Whether the handshake is reciprocated or not, Ahto (after a moment) raises his hands as if he were a circus ringmaster warming up the crowd.
"My name's Ahto, and I'll be happy to be your hired guide through the bustling streets of the City at the Center of the World! What district are you trying to get to?" he asks, a friendly smile crossing his weathered and scarred face.
Tosguld chuckles in response to Pyyrha's line of questioning. "I'm more than capable of running my own errands. Besides, what example would I show my men if I sat in my office all day? I need to spend time amongst the people I am sworn to protect. Oh that Redscar fellow? He's rotting in prison as we speak." The large Ulfen man winks. "When I set my sights on a criminal, it's only a matter of time before they meet justice"
Dutiful as always, and no surprise. Pyrrha raises a brow and turns her attention as the clamor of the guards and the crowds clash. I see why you enjou spending time with them. They are always so excitilable.
Dutiful as always, and no surprise. Pyrrha raises a brow and turns her attention as the clamor of the guards and the crowds clash. I see why you enjoy spending time with them. They are always so excitilable.
"Those men work for the church, actually. They operate completely apart from the city guard. In fact, the cathedral and surrounding marketplace are out of my jurisdiction. Tell me, what have you been up to, Pyrrha?"
|Jon, The Evil DM|
Oh, thanks for that clerification. Let's pretend that's what I said.
"Same story as last time, still looking for the right person to settle down with but I keep looking in all the wrong places." Pyrrha's tone gives the subtle tell that she is more curious towards the commotion than she was a moment ago, though the sarcasm is still quite there. Do you smell that? Like wind before a storm, except animalistic, almost primal. This is unusual, even for this part of Absalom. Pyrrha's hand reaches out from beneath her cloak as if to take hold of Tosguld, but her feet amd attention drift toward the growing commotion of the crowd. As she begins to fade into the crowd she calls behind her, Do not wander, we must catch up.
|Azulth the Slayer|
Also among the gathered crowd, a little ways from the Last Disciple's street speaker, yet one more religious stand is set. Here, though, is an entirely different sort of preaching: rather than words, it works through action. A man in distinctive black robes and hat is standing next to a simple wooden table, upon which is a small gray statuette, a handful of candles, a basin of water, and a healer's kit. The man is also wearing the long-nosed mask of a doctor, and he quietly works on any who come close enough, the silver symbol of Pharasma reflecting the light as he offers aid to those who need. As always, basic services are free of charge, although donations are welcome.
Beneath the mask, though, Azulth keeps an open ear for the ravings of the Disciple's follower, and when not examining a fever or cleaning a wound, his eyes scan the crowd through purple lenses that do nothing to obscure his view. He recognized Edward when the priest arrived, but made no motion to draw his attention, nor does he now. He's here today primarily to heal and serve, and to watch. Making any sort of scene would only bring trouble.
|Jon, The Evil DM|
"Heretics!" comes a shout above the others, from the crowd surrounding the followers of the Last Disciple. A tall man in plate mail points a metal-clad hand toward the group, his face flush with anger. "Heretics, the lot of you! Espousing false worship of a dead god in front of the church of The Inheritor! You ought to be put in your place!" The man pushes through until he's at the front of the crowd, with two Graycloaks putting up a hand to keep him from getting closer. Both guards have their swords partially drawn, and the man scowls. "Now you've sided with the heretics? You're not impartial! They're speaking blasphemy!" He tries to move forward again and a Graycloak shoves him back, his sword now free of his sheath.
"You should open your heart to our Disciple's teachings," one of the preachers says, his body wrapped in a thin cloak. "Aroden has returned to us, and his magic is proof! How can you doubt the miracles before our very eyes?" The cloaked man steps forward from the rest, until nearly eye-to-eye with the naysayer. "We should all rejoice for Aroden's return!" He reaches out a hand to touch the doubter's face, which is promptly slapped away by one of the Graycloaks. The motion, however, gives the armored man the clearance to break the Graycloak's line; he brings one mailed fist forward and slams it into the preacher's nose, roaring with anger.
"Stop preaching for your false Disciple, or I'll put you down like the blasphemer you are!" he shouts, and a Graycloak grabs him by the arm. He muscles his way free and throws another punch, but the preacher steps away. He draws a long knife from a sheath at his thigh, holding it awkwardly in defense of his person. The armored man draws a blade and comes up at the preacher, all the while with Graycloaks fighting to pull them apart. The fighting continues for only a few moments before the Ascendant Court is filled with the sound of screams; they echo from the pit of the Starstone Cathedral, full of pain and terror, before they finally fade away. The scene, what little you can see of it, looks dreadfully gory; viscera is splattered across the cobblestones, and the bodies of two of the Disciple's followers lie face down in a pool of their own blood. The armored man lies moaning in pain, his arm severed at the elbow, and two Graycloaks clutch at stomach wounds. The preacher who was first attacked is nowhere to be found, a disturbing proposition considering the screaming that was heard.
Mephiston stays back and watches as the armored man confronts the guards and the fanatics. He observes with almost detached fascination as the seemingly Iomedean man screams and raves and things quickly dissolve into violence. "Hardly the way that I would handle it. Too much chance to create martyrs. And I hardly expected one of the Inheritor's people to throw the first punch. That seems a bit... unusual. Normally they're the Godclaw followers who are trying to speak against beating people who defy you to death. Still, maybe putting a little fear into these Disciples will cool their preaching a bit. I'm getting sick of listening to their heresies every day." He snorts, trying to keep himself from chuckling. "I suppose I should try to figure out what that man was thinking. He may turn out to just be an overzealous knight, but maybe I'll get lucky and he'll know something useful." He whistles and the circling raven turns into a dive, swooping down and landing on his shoulder. Then he begins to weave his way through the crowd toward the bodies on the pavement.
Tosguld hears the arguing, but chooses to keep his distance during the exchange. He doesn't want to muddy up any legal issues by intervening. When he hears fighting, however, the guardsman leaps to action. By the time he reaches the scene, the damage has already been done. He kneels next to a Graycloak and tries to reassure him. "I'm Tosguld Gatewatcher, captain of the Absalom city guard." He then turns to face the crowd. "I need healers for these men!" Being in the God's Market, Tosguld expects there to be a fair number of divine casters around to assist.
Ahto watches the scuffle unfold from the outer edges of the crowd. "Can't be helped in a city like this. Folks from all over. Different traditions, different beliefs, bumping up against one another. Sooner or later, somebody runs their mouth a bit too loud and long and somebody else decides to shut it for 'em."
He turns to his elf lord patron. "No worries. You're with me. I'm a likeable fella around town, and those that've tried steppin' on my feet've regretted it."
Standing amoung the jostling crowd, Pyrrha curses the the fear and confusion. Upon hearing Tosguld call for aid, Pyrrha sets to finding any, and if necessary all, the priests, healers, and clerics she can find and presses them toward Tosguld in hopes to motivate them to help saying, Lend your healing, never mind the cost, the watch will compemsate you for your selfless act. Among the people Pyrrha crosses are Azulth and Edward.
Ed stands and makes his way over to the people who'd been cut down.
Interfering in philosophical debates was never really his thing, but people being cut down over them seemed like a good point to step in--particularly when the price of compensation was added to the mix.
Hurrying over, he casts deathwatch to see quickly which of them are still able to be healed.
If anyone can, then he'll drop spells to cast Cure Light Wounds to stabilize them. If not, he'll simply make sure their eyes are shut and give a silent prayer.
|Azulth the Slayer|
When the shouting turns to violence and screams, Azulth is quick to begin moving over, pushing through the growing crowd to get to the aftermath. He's supposed to remain uninvolved in the Last Disciple's work for now, just watching and gathering information, but he's also a healer.
Soon enough he's crouched beside Edward, reaching out to see if any of the wounded are well enough to be saved. He glances sidelong at the other priest, but doesn't say anything to him just yet.
Varrren pops the last of the bubbly pie in his mouth and pushes his way through the crowd. Surprisingly strong for an older human, he easily reaches the edge of the onlookers. Seeing the two healers already tending the wounded, he simply observes. He does attune his eyes to the magical spectrum with a few short arcane words, looking over the scene for any lingering magical auras.
Casting detect magic and studying the scene.
|Variel the Old|
Variel clumsily shakes the man's hand. "Not a district... I'm looking for someone. A distant relative, really distant." starts the elf when the commotion erupts.
With trained reflexes, he moved his hands to his guns and... and stopped. The full plated man should be stopped, but he was a newcomer... a newcomer that didn't knew the rules and codes reigning the city.
As the fight dies down, Variel turns to Ahto again with a smile "I'm not worried abouy my security, Ahto, but I know gobshite about this city and its people... and the only thing I have to find the person I look for is a sword's description." says the elf as he scratches the back of hia head once again "Figured you, a guide and streetsmarts fella, might know where should I start asking. Or who should I start asking. And I wouldn't ahy away from honest to God work, this "hunt" drains money like a heartbroken dwarf in an ale brewery."
Ahto eyes the pistol that almost left its holster. "An easy mark, I can see you're not. That's good; makes this job easier. Let's see if we can pick up the trail of this sword and its master, then."
He scans the crowd, looking for familiar faces, and sees his pal, Pyrrha, talking to one of the city guards. Good start. She might've seen this swordsman and she'll also have the skinny on what just happened.
"This way, then, if you please," as he begins shouldering is way through the crowd.
"Hey, Pyrrha!" he calls out as they get closer. "What happened this time? Was it started by one of those Last Whatever fellas?"
Hearing the tone of Ahto's voice more-so than his actual words she stops rallying healers to the scene and turns her head sideways to pinpoint the direction and the question's end. Pyrrha's awkward smile cracks her serious face as she turns toward Ahto and waves meekly before making her way over to him. Despite her height, she is jostled rudely by strangers moving about in the chaotic aftermath.
Suilad Ahto, I can not say for sure, but I think I saw the tall man in the plate armor throw the first punch. It cost him a hand though. Pyrrha's eyes suddenly dart over to the man standing with Ahto, and a look that seems to have married blushing and contempt flashes for a moment before her eyes return to Ahto and she asks, Who's this? Have you known him long? You should introduce us.
"This is Master Variel," Ahto replies. "He has only just requested my services to assist in finding someone. Having spotted your lovely face above this rabble, I took it upon myself to pick your brain for anything familiar in your recent swings about town to match his story."
He turns to Variel. "This tall beauty, Master Variel, is Pyrrha. Her paths and mine cross more often then she's likely to admit. She does the same sort of work as me, just with a good bit more polish on her armor and a bit more acid on her tongue."
He gives Pyrrha a friendly wink with his last comment.
|Variel the Old|
Variel shuffles his feet as Ahto introduces him "Please don't call me Master, Ahto, only Variel..." awkwardly says the elf as he turns to Pyrrha with a smile and a extended hand.
"It's always noise to fling new friends where the roads meat." Mistakes intended
"Sorry, my elven is a tad rusty, I'm not used to meet kin. Least talk with them." says the elf before introfucing the hands inside his cloak's pockets "I told Ahto already, but I'm looking for a distant relative. I've heard he carries a sword I can describe, and I know he has elven blood. Well, he or she... I'm not sure" Variel seems distressed as he explains the few details he know.
"Thing is, I know jackshite about this huge city. I heard the Gatewatch might know, perhaps the local Society. Truth is I have no idea where to start and no friends in town." the bout of honesty seems to improve his humour as he taps his coin purse "Hell, judging by the weight of this I might as well look for a job and a place to stay first!"
Looking sideways at Ahto, as she turns toward Variel Pyrrha adds, Do not lend this Spur an idle ear or he will full it with mischevious chatter. Only half of it may be true, and none of it technically.
Pyrrha glares down at Variel's outstretched hand and nearly leaves it there too long before meeting it with her own scar crossed hand. It speaks volumes to either your intellect or your good character that you call me kin.
You should practice more.
But I appreciate the gesture. She smiles meekly, and takes a moment to appraise the situation with the healers before looking back to Variel and Ahto. So, as to this sword, what does it look like?
Variel's voice and name and terrible elven vocabulary finally snag Varrren's attention, bringing forward memories nearly seven decades old. Looking aside from the events unfolding in the open space in front of him, he spots Variel, Ahto, and Pyrrha. Now, if only I could remember who I was when last I saw Variel. Does he know my true form?
Though he is eager to renew an old friendship, Varrren approaches cautiously, drifting closer but not yet addressing the group.
|Jon, The Evil DM|
Not long after the scene unfolds, several priests other than Azulth and Edward make their way to the group, the first of them healing the wounded Graycloaks. Edward's eyes are awash with magic as he looks over the others; both Graycloaks appear to be fine now that they've been attended to, and the man who's had his arm severed could easily be saved without much trouble. Of the dead followers of the Last Disciple, only one of them is still alive, and his breathing is quite shallow. When Edward bends over to place a hand upon his wounds, he feels the man's breathing settle. While still unconscious, he doesn't appear in danger of dying. Varrren looks over the scene with his magical sight, but doesn't find anything unusual; the Graycloaks are awash in magic as are the Pharasman priests tending to the wounded. When Tosguld speaks up, one of the wounded Graycloaks moves to speak with him.
"You said you're with the regular city guard?" he asks, grunting a bit from the pain of his injury. "I've called for Captain Varris, he should arrive soon. If you could keep the crowds somewhat at bay until he arrives, it would be appreciated." The wounded man with Tosguld is tended to by one of the priests not long afterward, and he seems relieved to have backup, even if only from the city guard.
When Mephiston starts to push his way through the crowd, he's stopped by another of the Graycloaks. "Stay back, unless you've business with the crime scene, or you're capable of helping the wounded."
Once Tosguld sees the wounded are being cared for, he stands and nods to the Graycloak. "Please stand back!" The gruff looking man shouts to the growing crowd. "The Graycloaks are working to control the situation and help is on its way. We need this area clear so healers can get to the wounded!"
Mephiston digs into his pouch and pulls out the letter authorizing him as an ambassador of the Chelish throne. "I've been duly authorized as an ambassador to your fine city on behalf of House Thrune. I believe an attempted murder happening on the doorstep of our embassy makes this incident my concern." He sighs. "I am also capable of rendering first aid if the priests are incapable of doing so, but it seems that they have the situation well under control."
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (19) + 15 = 34
Four wounded in total, and the whole lot of them seem stable enough to survive. Still, if something's worth doing it's worth overdoing, or so Edward tells himself as he presents his holy symbol and fires off a channel energy to help them all recover.
Channel Energy (heal): 5d6 ⇒ (3, 1, 2, 3, 2) = 11
It felt halfhearted but, it'd have to do--his real interest here was in making sure nobody else died today. Pharasma'd take them in time, but part of the purpose of life was to fight to avoid their inevitable fate.
"A-Azulth," he finally speaks to the inquisitor he'd noticed next to him while checking the bodies, voice as soft as you'd expect from a person who'd never leave the library if given a choice. "I d-didn't think I'd see you here. Always a pleasure to have another skilled hand at healing."
|Azulth the Slayer|
Azulth can't help smiling under his mask. He'd forgotten that Edward knew about this common disguise, since Azulth used it a prior time when they'd met. He checks over the wounded once more, although he knows they're probably fine after that burst of divine power from Edward a moment before. "The priest on this role today fell ill. He's fine, but needed rest. I took the chance to get a little air." The irony that his nose and mouth are hidden behind mask and scarf are apparently lost on him.
|Jon, The Evil DM|
"My apologies, Ambassador Thrune." The Graycloak steps aside, but holds out an arm to tell him to wait. "Still, I must ask that you don't interfere with the scene until our captain arrives. This is, as I'm sure someone of your position understands, a very delicate situation. Plenty of harsh words have been thrown about in the past few weeks, even punches... but this is the first killing." He looks over at the pit of the Starstone Cathedral, and shakes his head. "No attempted about it, this time. Captain Varris will be here soon, speak with him if you wish, but please keep out of our way." He narrows his eyes at the raven, and spits. "And keep that thing out of trouble."
As Tosguld gives his decree the crowds move back but make no motion to disperse, and already he can hear the whispering and speculation from the crowds; he's heard it a thousand times before out in the wider city, but it feels different here in the Court. Something about the violence in a holy place seems to have set the crowd off even more than he expected they might have. Still, they keep their distance and allow passage for the healers to tend to the wounded.
Another of the Graycloaks claps Edward on one shoulder, leaning down between Azulth and Edward. "Are they stable?" he asks, looking at not only the others of his number but the wounded from the fight. "We'll need to take them into custody as soon as possible, once the captain arrives."
"Of course I understand," Mephiston says with a smile. "Aroden was once my people's patron after all. This talk of his return has sent everyone back home into as much of a tizzy as they are here." He looks at the men bleeding on the ground. "Well, almost as much. But yes, that will be acceptable. Please inform me as soon as he arrives. I would hate to be left our of the loop when my people could be in danger as well." He scowls as the guard spits. "Do you treat all familiars this way? Blackwing is a good boy." He tickles the raven's beak. "Aren't you?"
The raven gives him a far too intelligent look that is probably the closest a raven can get to a scowl. "Noli temptare fortunam," it squawks the raspy cry of a trained bird.
|Jon, The Evil DM|
"Not all of 'em, no. Don't try and fool me, Thrune; you and I both know it's not a bird. I don't much care, but having it flitting about is the last thing I need right now. The captain should be here soon, you won't be waiting long."
"They're stable, alongside everyone else within about thirty feet of me." he responds simply, adjusting his glasses as he turns back towards Azulth. "Questioning them... that was always more your thing than mine. Clearly Pharasma weaved this into the day--y-you should go with them. It's a good chance to learn about this Disciple, I think." he's mercifully lacking in jokes at the expense of the mask/scarf combo, but if Azulth were to suspect Ed of having an ulterior motive, he'd be right.
He'd heard something speaking infernal, and in this city that meant either an extraplanar being, a Chelish bigwig, or both.
He cranes his neck towards the source, looking for anything obviously demonic.
The spy waves off the guard's concern. "Yes, yes, just tell me when your commander is here." He turns away from the guard and gives the raven a look. "You know, the whole raven ruse would work far better if you played along."
The raven just stares at him again. "Habemus ad consensum. Quod facio, non intelliguntur fallaciae."
Mephiston, the pedantic scraggly-looking nerd in priest robes and armor that channeled energy a minute ago is talking to your raven with a journal open in one hand and a pen in the other.
The Thrune Agent raises an eyebrow as one of the priests approaches him. Maybe he can be of some use. "Faust just likes to be disagreeable." he says. The raven actually rolls its eyes and does a flip, feathers molting off and revealing a small red-skinned imp.
"And you like to be a smart*ss," the little devil grumbles. "If I knew I was going to have to put up with your mouth, I would have let one of those wizards up in Varisia summon me. At least they're buried in their books enough not to bother me."
"You'd be bored out of your mind and you know it," Mephiston says. Then he offers a hand to the skinny cleric. "Mephiston Thrune, attached to the Chelish embassy in response to this whole mess starting up. And this is my partner Faust. A pleasure to meet you."
Overhearing the conversation between the two, Ahto mutters to Pyrrha. "Looks like a religious war might be brewing. At least, it looks like somebody's trying to start one. If that happens, Absalom'll go up like a barge-full of alchemist's fire."
He turns to Variel. "If we're going to have any chance of finding your swordsman, we'll need to do it soon. If he's got half a brain, he'll be out of town before the blood starts flooding the gutters."
Just another day then now, isn't it. Pyrrha replies to Ahto in a melancholy hushed tone. What does it matter to a Hotspur? Mind the task at hand and be wary to stay clear of religious struggles that fuel the largest of fires. The torch here is likely carried by charlatans and con men. Pyrrha pauses suddenly and leans in to stare closer to Ahto, before she reaches out and picks a long hair from his shoulder, one that is clearly a different color and length than Ahto's. She rolls the strand from her fingertips, frowns ever so slightly though she says nothing, and solemnly turns to watch over Tosguld, the healers, and a few more people that catch her attention with their infernal tongue.
Varrren finally drifts closer to Ahto, Pyrrha, and Varien. The elderly human speaks in slightly accented elven; an odd accent that will be somewhat familiar to Varien, "Pardon the intrusion, but I wanted a moment to say hello to an old friend. How are you doing Varien? I did not expect to see you here in Absalom. The last time I saw you was after pulling your feet out of the black's fire, so to speak."
|Azulth the Slayer|
Azulth shrugs at Edward's suggestion. "I'm no great shakes at interrogations. My path leans closer to what's already happened here. If one of the other inquisitors could speak with them, perhaps." He lets the idea hang for the time being. "We'll ask the captain when they arrive."
As Edward goes over to speak with one of the other arrivals, Azulth looks about and recognizes a pair of familiar faces himself--Ahto and Pyrrha, hotspurs he's spoken with on occasion in the past. As usual, their job seems to have brought them into the thick of things. He doesn't approach them--they wouldn't recognize him in the doctor's garb--but he keeps an eye on things, curious as to their motives.
|Jon, The Evil DM|
The crowd parts as another man clad in a plain gray cloak strides toward the crime scene. While his garb seems to differ little from the others, his stature and commanding presence make it seem that this must be Captain Varris. "What's going on here?" he asked. "You all," he said, looking to the gathered individuals "Did you see what happened here? Did you two help my men?" He looks at Azulth and Edward at this point, hand resting on his sword. "You have my thanks. Good soldiers are hard to find."
Tosguld's face softens with relief when the captain arrives. "Captain Varris? I'm Tosguld Gatewatcher, a captain of the Absalom city guard." He motions to the wounded Graycloaks. "A follower of the Last Disciple was preaching here. Some fool didn't take to kindly to that and started throwing punches."