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...The mundane aspects of the embalming rituals are perfectly straightforward. Indeed, sufficient archeological evidence exists that shows these rituals have not changed in centuries and are still practiced by a few fringe groups in modern Osirion. The embalmers used razored hooks to siphon the brain out through the nose. Lateral incisions hidden on the sides of the body provided the means to hollow out the lungs and liver. Precisely eleven layers of linen strips cover the skin, glued together and hardened with a resin. The resulting shell protects the body’s exterior to safeguard its soul for the journey to the afterlife.
But while the mundane process remains largely unchanged, what is missing are the subtle and delicate strands of power woven into the cloth. For all our study, our research, and our endless fascination with mummification, the most potent secrets of these ancient embalmers still elude us. The brand of necromancy they practiced in those days has no counterpart in the modern world...
***
He had explained the situation in brief: shifting sands in the Osiriani deserts have uncovered a score of tombs and pyramids, some major and some minor. It's kicked off a dozen treasure hunts by teams both amateur and professional, but the Society did not deem any of the revealed tombs worth a significant exploratory force... at least not until the so-called Mithril Scarab had made a report.
The Society's highest-ranked operative in Osirion, a woman who goes by the moniker of 'the Mithril Scarab' is an accomplished robber of tombs... and other such things. She'd said she had a very important lead, and requested the resources of the Pathfinder Society in the form of a full team of trained, expert cryptbreakers.
"Unfortunately," Valsin had said wryly, "I've got you two.
"Seriously-- we're strapped, at the moment. I've got teams investigating tunnels to the Underdark, and a real mess in Magnimar to get sorted out, and there's this business with a tapestry-- but never mind that. I'm short on qualified agents, is the main thing. So you'll be making contact with some of the Society's... well... additional resources, let's call them. There's a lad, a halfling, goes by the name of Javi... and a--" the Venture-Captain's face slides into a brief, resigned grimace, "--a gnoll named Shaggar. Yeah, I know, but they say he wears clothes, eats his meat semi-cooked and doesn't even have fleas."
"They're not full agents of the Society, but our Katapeshi lodge swears by them as useful bastards, both of 'em. The gnoll knows how to get by in the deserts, and the halfling's supposedly all light fingers and a keen blade. I've already sent instructions for them to travel from Katapesh to Osirion, and to rendezvous with you. Together, you four will meet with the Mithril Scarab, and serve as the team she's requested for whatever this 'really big deal' is... damned secretive woman. You'll report to her primarily.
"Your ship leaves in two hours. Make what purchases you need, and be on your way. Here's your slips for your berths on the ship. Javi and Shaggar are to meet you at an inn called The Dung Beetle-- I couldn't make this horsepuckey up-- at dusk on 12 Desnus, and every day after that until you make contact. I imagine they'll be hard to miss.
"The Scarab said not to flash around that you're Pathfinders... she plans to attend an auction of relics held by some chap called the Kemeserian, a broker and dealer in antiquities. She suggests you attend the auction and place bids on an item in increments of eleven gold pieces--" Valsin's face is fixed in the deadpan expression of a man who considers what he's saying to be ridiculous, but who will indulge someone else's mad whim, "--so that she may recognize you. She'll take it from there, supposedly.
"Do me a personal favor, while you're there-- keep an eye on this Javi and this Shaggar. You'll get the chance to evaluate them in the field-- if you think they can cut it as full agents, I'd like to know. If you think they can't... I'd like to know that, too.
"Any questions?"
That was four days gone. Since then, the fast cutter Undine's Pearl has taken you the hundred miles from Absalom to legendary Sothis. The Black Dome of Sothis shines like obsidian beneath the mid-day sun, dominating the otherwise blank desert horizon from miles away. Up close, the city and its dome are no less overwhelming: Sothis boasts a hundred thousand souls living within its narrow, cramped streets. The shell of a truly titanic scarab beetle forms the dome, and in its shade all the better people of Sothis live-- including the Ruby Prince himself, Khemet III.
Hawkers shout at passers-by in Kelish, Taldane, and Osirion, the languages mingling into a white noise of trader's cant. On every corner, it seems, canny-eyed Osirians are selling maps of the pyramids, or scarab charms to protect from curses. The streets are busy with outlanders such as yourself-- men and women whose heavy backpacks, ropes, picks, and other tools suggest they too may be part of the 'gold rush' for Osirion's buried wealth.
The locals of the infamous Malhitu Bazaar have given you directions to The Dung Beetle...
***
"Ah, lads, I was hoping I'd see you both under my roof tonight. Slip into the back with me, my friends: I've words for your ears..."
The old man had thrown a furtive glance around the taproom of his inn to see it empty of other guests, and beckoned you both down the stairwell that leads to the secret basement: where the inn's true purpose as a Pathfinder Lodge is more apparent. Maps of Garund line the walls, ink circles ringing locations of interest. The aged human had tapped a gnarled finger on the dot marked Sothis.
"What would you two say to a trip north, my lads? Compensated, of course, but there's things brewing up there in all them damned pyramids that the Society could use a hand in. And here's the nice thing about robbin' the dead: they don't call the law on you, eh, Javi?" Roderus had said with a smile missing several of its teeth.
"Here's the dirt: a Society bigwig what calls herself the Mithril Scarab says she's onto something mighty important. Requested some cryptbreakers. I don't know a better sting around than the Wasp, and, since you'll likely have to wade sand to get to whatever she's got, Shaggar, you're a fine guide through the desert. If you're willing, boys, there's gold in it or my beer's sour.
"The Society is sending some others, city-folk from Absalom--" he had rolled his eyes, "--proopppper agents, la-di-da. You'd meet with them at a place called the Dung Beetle-- who names their drinking-house that, I ask you-- and from there, you're to track down the Scarab at an auction, by means of bettin' only in bits of eleven gold, or some such like that." He had waved a hand to dismiss logistical concerns.
"What say you, boys? I sniff a tomb-raiding, and I'm wagering that you're the ones for it. Twenty per-cent goes to the Society, of course, and ten to your friend Roderus thinking of you for the job, but that leaves you both with all the gold you can carry. Plenty of meat-bones for Hatyah! You in?"
That was four days gone. The caravan you've ridden with has made good time, and Sothis is at last on the horizon: promising beds rather than sand, baths, cool water, wine, and all the other pleasures of civilization. An enormous black dome, so vast in scale as to beggar all sense of proportion, looms over the city that has been called Sothis Stormhaven. The latter part of its name has been earned, as generations of desert nomads sought refuge from the fierce desert khamsin under that self-same dome. Eventually, Sothis the city grew in that dome's shadow, and then outgrew it-- but the dome is still a sight to awe even the most jaded traveler, all the more as camels plod closer and one realizes that is is no man-made structure, but the shell of a scarab beetle: a beetle of such size that the mind reels to imagine it.
Dusk is cloaking the streets by the time Javi and Shaggar reach the door of the Dung Beetle, and enter the common room...
The Dung Beetle is doing a brisk business, this Oathday night. Perhaps half of the patrons at the tables are Osiriani natives: the other half all appear to be foreigners, and many are exotic by Sothis's standards. Halflings, gnomes, elves, and stranger races liberally fill out the tables. Even the snatches of conversation that can be casually overheard will quickly reveal that many of the people here are would-be tomb raiders.
The gossip that fills the air is of a score of freshly uncovered tombs, revealed by the shifting sands. It has set off a gold rush, of sorts: the foolish and the wise, the amateurs and the professionals, all rushing to plunder Osirion's past before anyone else can get a chance.
Shaggar shakes the dust from his robes, roughly pats the massive hyena on the shoulder and growls at the beast in the strange language of his people. The hyena immediately rubs its scent gland against the wall then sits down near the door of the tavern, looking vigilant and slightly menacing. In Common, for the halfling's benefit, he adds: "Don't eat anyone."
With a final dog-like shake, the ranger clears the clinging vestiges of sand from the folds of his outerwear and opens the Dung Beetle's door for himself and his companion. The hulking gnoll - seven feet of predator - steps cautiously into the tavern. The brown, ground-sweeping, bisht conceals well-tended lamellar armor, clawed feet, and reverse jointed legs. Shaggar's long black-and-white patterned keffiyeh loops loosely several times about his shoulders before it wraps over his skull, covering his elongated neck and hiding most of his hyena-like head.
He raises his muzzle and chuffs, nosing the room to take in the scents, while letting the room's occupants satisfy their curiosity and quiet any concerns. What they see is a tall and well-muscled gnoll with a rangy build. His ruffed fur is in shades of patchy brown and dirty yellow that darkens to a deep black muzzle. His red eyes shine out in stark contrast. The eyes quickly turn downward to regard his tiny companion who - doubtless - has something to say.
Everyone who turns to watch the towering gnoll are also greeted by the sight of a diminunitive-but-swaggering halfling in a garish mishmash of travel-stained clothes of varying styles and cuts. It's an altogether jarring sight. Contrasted against the nearly seven foot of gnollish muscle, the halfling looks small, but a closer inspection shows that the halfling is barely over two and a half feet tall… short for even one of his kind. He moves with the overly-cock-sure steps of most men who are born short for their race, and over his right shoulder peeks the handle of a scimitar.
In Common, for the halfling's benefit, he adds: "Don't eat anyone."
The dark-skinned halfling gives a brazen grin at the Beetle's interior, giving the huge gnoll a back-handed cuff on the knee as he responds with a series of yips, hyups,and growling sounds (the first time Javi has given any indication he can understand, much less speak, Shaggar's native language).
He looks up at the gnoll briefly, flashing a conspiratorial grin with two quick flips of his nearly-black eyebrows before he saunters into the crowded tavern with the quick, spring-loaded movements the gnoll has grown to know to be the halfling's manner.
He makes his way straight towards the bar, quickly and deftly climb-hopping up on top of one of the vacant stools as he tosses a few coins on the counter. "Two drinks," he calls out in the local tongue , "Big ones so me and my overly-large friend here can choke down some road dust."
Even atop the stool, his head barely reaches the towering gnoll's chest, but at least it gives him a better view of the rest of the place's patrons. From his perch, he watches and listens to the conversations around him as he keeps an eye out for their Society contacts.
Shaggar snorts and shakes his head, clearly surprised and amused. He follows Javi to the bar and gladly accepts a drink.
"Joke is on whoever crosses her path... Hatyah doesn't know Common." He gives Javi a broad snarl showing a stack of uneven and yellowed, canines and fangs - the closest thing to a smile the gnoll can manage.
"HA!" the halfling barks as he tries to wipe his shock of sand-coated hair from his face, creating a small sand fall, "I'll consider myself warned, then."
As he waits for his drink, he digs a small scrap of parchment from his pocket, taking the opportunity to refresh his memory to the details old Roderus gave them of their Society contacts.
Desert shouldn't be this restless, this time of year. You've heard stories... stories that in Osirion, at least, there is more than mere nature at work-- that in Osirion, the very spirits of air and earth are engaged in a constant war, and pity the poor mortal who strays too close to these stupendous battles between hordes of shaitans and djinn.
Perhaps you always took it for mere legend, perhaps not-- but it seems true enough having seen those storms. Though you must have been a mile off from the eye of the worst of the two sandstorms, you could swear you saw titanic forms struggling within it. Not normal storms for the season, no.
All the more reason to savor a drink that doesn't have sand in it, though.
The difficulties of mapping a land ravaged by such forces occur to you, as you sip. Landmarks can get swallowed by the dunes in a few hours, in one of those sandstorms.
The pay for this had better be good...
Two pale-skinned elves sit in a corner, prim and straight, their long robes and delicate features leaving their gender slightly up for debate. They appear to be identical twins-- silver-haired and grey-robed, they hold themselves apart from the hubbub and conversation of the crowd, sipping from chalices of wine and occasionally whispering to each other.
A fellow halfling with a head shaved save for a black topknot catches your glance and offers a wink and a grin in return, baring several golden teeth. He seems vaguely familiar-- perhaps you've seen his face in Katapesh, though you can't recall.
A tall human warrior, Ulfen by the look of him, is being ribbed by his table-mates over his bad case of sunburn-- the skin peeling off his nose and cheeks and bare shoulders is red as a rose, and far less pretty. The big man bears it with grumbles, and drowns his itching misery in his beer.
Yes-- many people in the Dung Beetle tonight... but no sign yet of any who jump out at you as Pathfinders.
For whispers of the Mithral Scarab, though-- well. You keep your ears peeled, and you hear whispers, yes...
"...The Scarab to be at the Kemeserian's next auction... in the guise of an old crone..."
"--nonsense, I've heard she's been hanging around the south side of the Malhitu, harassing some blind beggar--"
"--don't know why everyone wants to pretend the Scarab is a woman. Finest cat burglar in the city wouldn't be no girl! It's clearly a man-- an elf, probably-- but a man, to do a man's job--"
"Come over here and say that to my face, you chauvinistic swine..."
And so it goes. Nobody seems to know exactly who the Mithral Scarab is, but many people have opinions.
Heldar smiles at the sight of the Black Dome - he had read about its magnificence, but seeing it up close and personal was something else entirely different.
Stepping from the boat on to the crowded streets is an even more welcome feeling - the cramped, crowded streets are a wonder all on its own, completely different from Absolom or Andoran - the exotic wares and smells completely invade Heldar's senses, and he does his best to take it all in as they navigate the area towards the Dung Beetle.
Even though he understands they are on a mission for the Pathfinder Society, he still insists with Rosalie for them to stop at multiple stands along the way, tasting and sampling some of the surprises the city has to offer.
While they are on the move, he asks for directions to the appointed location where their meeting will take place.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
As Heldar pushes the door open, the sunlight from outside reflects on spots of the well made armor the half-elf is wearing underneath his simple travel garment - wearing plain clothing and no adornments whatsoever, this one seems well prepared for whatever may be thrown their way - a large reinforced wooden shield rests at his back, crossed by an equally large and long spear. At his belt, to one side dangles a solidly built mace, while on the other a simple sling is tied.
As he walks in, and in spite of the dust from outside, his eyes spark clear blue, in contrast with an almost fully white half length hair, well groomed, as well as his short beard. His skin is slightly tanned, and his ears ever so slightly pointed, hinting at a non human ancestry.
In spite of the armor, he moves casually into the common space, his well built frame seemingly able to handle all the implements about him without much effort - easily spotting the enormous gnoll across the room, he confidently strides up to him witout a scond guess - "Greetings, I am Heldar, from Absolom"
The Dung Beetle is a well-known inn, to both locals and the ever-present foreigners; Heldar and Rosalia have no trouble in finding it when they ask around.
Ah, Osirion...! Land of a thousand legends, and a history stretching back thousands of years...
As for the gods of Osirion... it is almost impossible to untangle the nature of the gods from the nature of the pharaohs, as more than one of them has claimed divinity, or demi-godhood at the least. The pharaohs have long believed that on their death, they go to the hall of Pharaz-Mat-- the Osiriani name for Pharasma-- where their souls are weighed by the goddess against a single feather... and those whose sins are lighter than that feather ascend to their reward, to be god-kings in the next world.
Accordingly, many in Osirion worship the pharaohs themselves, most prominently Azghaad the All-Seeing, the first pharaoh.
But Pharasma is also strongly revered by many Osiriani, and there is a High Temple of the Grave Goddess in the city, overlooking a truly extensive funereal complex called the Necropolis of the Faithful: a massive cemetery said to outnumber the living, in terms of population, although the dead of the Necropolis rest quietly and do not haunt the living.
Nethys and Saranrae also have extensive followings in Osirion. Nethys's temple also boasts Azghaad's Spire, but this temple-within-a-temple is open only to priests of Nethys.
Saranrae's worship is a slightly trickier thing. Worship of the Dawnflower was imported to Osirion by Kelish conquerors, a thousand years ago, and for centuries the Sarenites suppressed the worship of the Pharaohs and mandated the worship of the Everlight. The Osiriani took their country back three generations ago, and the clergy of Saranrae have adjusted-- no longer is their faith mandated (or especially protected) by the state, so they must compete for worshipers, and have undergone something of an image makeover. Many Osiriani devoutly worship Saranrae, but many others consider her to be, still, a foreign import, and one that no true, proud Osiriani would deign to kneel to.
"Hey, Heldar from Absolom," the small halfling says from atop a stool next to the gnoll, "Javi... from here-abouts. This is Shaggar from only-he-knows."
Javi takes a pull from his overly-large mug, eyeing the newcomer out of his periphery. Finally, he sets down the mug, "You're shorter than I expected." He punctuates the last remark with a wide, friendly grin.
Shaggar considers the man, mulls over the greeting, and tries to determine an appropriate response. The social mores of the muzzle-less races were subtle, complex, and often confounding. Among gnolls things were more... direct.
"Greetings, Sayyid. I am Shaggar, once of the Bonecrack Tribe, from the Brazen Peaks."
The Dung Beetle is a well-known inn, to both locals and the ever-present foreigners; Heldar and Rosalia have no trouble in finding it when they ask around.
Ah, Osirion...! Land of a thousand legends, and a history stretching back thousands of years...
** spoiler omitted **...
Heldar smiles at Javi's comment - "A pleasure to meet you Javi Fromherabouts" - Heldar jests - "Actually, I am considered somewhat tall in my neck of the woods, but then again, I am from a small village"
Turning to Shaggar, the half-elf offers a short bow - "Geography has never been my forte but... The Brazen Peaks... Those are due South from Osirion, correct? A pleasure to meet you Shaggar"
Why is he calling me Sayyid, should I correct him?
"Do you mind if we join you for a drink? We travelled mostly by boat, but I have to say between the salt water, and the dust, my throat is parched"
Shaggar chuffs, the gnoll equivalent of a nod, "The Brazen Peaks sit the border of Osirion and Katapesh, surrounded by the sands and steppes." The gnoll snaps his jaws, getting the pub-tender's attention in an alarming way. He points a sharp claw at the two new comers and softens his voice. "Drinks please, sayyid. Shukra."
Ambrus' mention of 'heat' had left a sour taste in Rosalia's mouth even before he had briefed them on what was to come. Truth be told, she'd never been much further south than Absalom, and already its muggy summers were too much for her to bear. Osirion, rumour had it, was a land of ancient monuments, scorching sands, and little else. The Brevoyan blood in her almost evaporated at the very thought.
Not to mention the gnoll. A gnoll! Her experience thus far with the Society had very much suggested that they would do anything for the sake of getting their grubby hands on a mud-smeared bit of treasure, but this just confirmed it even more. Her knowledge of gnolls (sourced, admittedly, from books alone) was that they were cruel slavers with some rather disturbing cultural traditions stemming from their worship of Lamashtu. This seemed to her like a step too far.
And yet there was her paycheck to consider. Sigh. Rosalia wisely took the venture-captain's most generous leeway to make a quick beeline around the stores of the Foreign Quarter, outfitting herself for the unknown journey ahead. Not least of all because the powers that be had forgotten to do so previously.
------
Rosalia spends only a perfunctorily amount of time socialising with Heldar and the other crew-members on their ship to Sothis. She starts and finishes a book borrowed from the Forae Logos about ancient Osiriani tombs during the trip, and also spends quite a bit of time practicing her sword-art on the deck whenever possible. Rook enjoys the trip much more than the dark-haired magus does, his belly perpetually filled by friendly sailors slipping him fish guts and scraps of food and taking up a watch-post on a sunny section of the upper deck.
Matters only get worse when they arrive in the hot, noisy, crowded, and stinking centre of the city, and Rosalia is in a foul mood as she obediently albeit bitterly follows Heldar along to a few dozen stalls. She does, however, deign to taste the local food at least once, discovering in short order that she possessed a cat's tongue for spicy food; thereafter she's much more careful about what she eats, not wanting to experience the burn of spice again.
------
Following Heldar into the Dung Beetle (By the Gods, what terrible naming sense! Does the owner have even half a brain?!) is a tall and lithe human woman, her already slightly pink nose and cheeks a stark contrast to her pale skin. It's very clear that she's far from home around these parts. Her straight black hair is cropped short and neatly not far below her ears, while her steel blue eyes glare at any who dare to look into her high-cheekboned face. Idly shaking the dust from her baggy white-and-brown traveller's clothes, she is much less talkative as the half-elf locates their assigned compatriots, instead taking the opportunity to size the pair up while she had the chance. A short-length sword is strapped openly to her waist, hidden away in a brown-and-gold sheathe.
The gnoll seems... reasonably civilised, she notes with an arched brow. That is certainly a surprise. Rosalia almost rescinds that thought moments after thinking it when Shaggar snaps his jaws to get the barkeep's attention, but decides that 'remarkably civilised' nonetheless applied to a gnoll who was not running at them with fangs bared and scimitar raised.
"My name is Rosalia, once of Brevoy, now of wherever happens to suit," she introduces herself with the barest of nods. "A drink would be marvellous. My mouth still burns with whatever god-awful red flakes were in that last dish I made the mistake of eating."
Rosalia glances at Javi as she takes a seat at a table. And the halfling... she pauses in consideration, ...seems like a halfling. That seemed about right.
Shifting her pack onto the ground, it rustles a moment as a black-furred head pokes out, the cat inside wriggling out from his constraints and enjoying the chance to stretch his legs. This, however, ceases almost immediately when Rook spots Hatyah, and he immediately hisses and skitters back behind his master's chair.
"Actually, I am considered somewhat tall in my neck of the woods, but then again, I am from a small village"
Javi shrugs off-handedly, "You all look the same size to me."
He grins at the woman's introduction, "Your think your mouth's hot? Give it a few hours…" He catches the movement from her pack, "And you might want to keep a close eye on your friend there… some of these stalls'll bake nearly any kind of meat with those peppers."
He gives the place a quick look, "So, looks like the gang's all here. Seeing as we're not the only dog sniffing out this particular quarry, it might be smart to find a quiet place to get caught up."
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Shaggar pushes fresh drinks along the bar to Heldar and the pale and dark woman, responding to her introduction, "Honored, sayyidah."
He considers what he knows of Brevoy and its position near the top of the world ...the sunlight is weak, the lands are green, and the weather is... ridiculous. Snow - solid water? Bizarre. Nevertheless, it is intriguing to meet someone from so distant a land. Shaggar resists the impulse to smell the woman. He's learned through hard experience that many races found it... off-putting. Studying the magus, he notes the reddish tinge on her nose and considers how much redder it might get before he is distracted by the movement in her pack.
It takes a moment for Shaggar to place a common name on the emerging tiny bundle of fur: cat. The gnoll's red eyes shift between Rosalia, the cat, and back again. His head cocks to the side, canine-like and curious.
Never heard of any humans that bring live game to their table. Perhaps it is a Northerner way? Shaggar watches Rosalia closely, wondering if she will eat the cat raw or prepare it first. The mystery grows when the small beast shelters behind its captor.
Hard on Javi's comment about exotic meats, Shaggar finishes his thoughts out loud: "Your dinner, it trusts you?"
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Rosalia spends some time frowning, unsure of what Javi was getting at and a little concerned by the way Shaggar was eyeing her up. Hungrily? And then, with one simple word, it hits her like a tonne of bricks.
"D-Dinner?!" she spits, her composure evaporating in an instant. The Brevic girl hurriedly leans over and grabs Rook, protectively shielding the poor cat in her arms; her face flushes further with a strange mixture of embarrassment and anger and fear. Oh Gods! What on earth has Ambrus got me into this time?! "No! Rook is my familiar!" Rosalia protests firmly. "A pet, a friend, an aid with my magic! He is not for eating!"
Rook never leaves her arms or lap after that, Rosalia wary of anyone who comes near her friend. Truth be told, she feels sick to the stomach that anyone could eat a cat! A cat of all creatures! The very thought almost causes tears to well in her eyes... almost. She had more pride than to allow that.
Heldar cannot help but laugh out loud at the exchange - "I am already enjoying your company, my friends - Rosalia, I believe this is called a clash of cultures" - he smiles -"I am sure Shaggar does not intend to consume Rook, as costumary as it may be in the Brazen Peaks"
Turning to Javi, he continues - "I agree, let us find a more private space to continue our conversation. I am not yet familiar with the establishment... Would you arrange it for us Master Javi?"
"Sure," Javi responds, leaning in close (which,even on the stool requires the short halfling to go up on the tips of his toes), "I'll even try to have them furnish the room with some foods less likely to upset our poor northerners delicate constitution."
He steps back with a disarming smile to Rosalia as he pats her arm in a comically-consoling manner. "Just kidding. I can't imagine what kind of gastrointestinal assault I'm in for if I ever make it north of the sands."
Without waiting for the dour girl to respond, he hops down from his perch, finding his way to the tavern-keep to secure a room.
If you're a player and have peaked anyway (i get it, they're so tempting), please respect this as hidden knowledge... my plan is not to be a thief, but to demonstrate Javi's skills. :)
All gear will be returned to their proper owner.
Shaggar's head cocks almost sideways in curious confusion. He raises an appeasing claw, "I wasn't going to eat your dinn... er, pet. I don't know Brevoy ways and thought maybe cat was a delicacy for a Northerner. Chickens and other feed animals are carried from the bazaar in bags or packs sometimes. Fresh meat rots quickly under our sun. Simpler to bag an animal until meal-time."
He looks to Heldar, pleased to discuss his culture. "I've never seen a cat on the Peaks and never ate one." His gaze slides back to the clearly offended magus. Shaggar tries to smooth things over with an assurance about Rook's safety which comes out less than comforting, "Cats are too small and skinny to eat."
Oddly enough, the assurance is surprisingly comforting to Rosalia, although she still bars her cat from wandering off too far (much to Rook's displeasure, although he does appreciate the ear scritches he gets as a result).
After all, that probably meant that she, too, was too small and skinny to eat.
"Culture shock indeed," she murmurs, shaking her head to herself. So far from home--and so far from the life she had not all too long ago left behind. Rosalia also tries not to dwell too much on the idea of a 'gastrointestinal assault', not wanting yet another thing to add to the list of reasons why she was going to give Ambrus a thorough yelling at when she made it back from the sands to faire Absalom.
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While they wait for the tavern-keep, Shaggar slugs down a gulp of the thick drink. He attempts to lean casually against the bar emulating a couple humans at the far end. It looks awkward. Irritation crosses his face briefly, manifesting as a bared fang. He slides away from the bar and slaps the large head of a black iron flail away from where it was pinching his side beneath his voluminous desert cloak. He looks to Rosalia and Heldar. "You are both new to the desert?" It is half a statement and half a question.
The innkeep and Javi engage in the bickering, good-natured argument over prices so common in the desert lands. There's an art to the barter, that fortunately the little thief knows well. He haggles the weathered man behind the bar down to five gold pieces for the room-- a sum that is more than the room is worth, to be sure, but it is less than the fifteen the man quoted at first, and the innkeep only shrugs and gestures around at the crowded taproom. "Prices go up whenever new tombs are found," he says, as if describing a seasonal storm. Five gold it is.
Shaggar digs grudgingly into his well-worn bandolier and pulls out two gold coins. He eyes them for a long moment clicking a sharpened nail against the top one. He slowly presses them with emphasis, coin by coin, into the tavern-keep's sweaty palm. His baleful eyes regard the man. "This had better be a very good room."
The gnoll lets out a sharp, high, bark and the man-sized, stoop-backed hyena shoves through the crowd, parting those that don't see her coming with a throaty growl. She brushes against Shaggar and receives a bone-cracking neck rub in return. By way of introduction he says, "This is my kitten. She is called Hatyah."
Formalities done, he heads in the direction of the private room with the hyena as his shadow.
Hatyah sniffs the two new pack-members but only eyes the cat, whuffling its air from a distance.
Javi hands over the remaining gold, turning back to the group with the strange mix of pride and regret every haggler has when they complete a hard-fought transaction. "I hope it is, Shaggar. Sometimes the water's cool; sometimes it's not." he says as he falls into line with the group headed towards their room.
As they walk up the stairs, Javi shares a knowing look with Heldar. He makes sure his face is away from the potential eavesdropper before quickly whispering…
He gives Shaggar a swat from behind, his tone boisterous but with a hint of an edge, "Hatyah's common seems great, only a few people seemed alarmed when he ran through."
The first time he breaks line of sight from those below, he quickly dives for the nearest cover.
Javi, you scurry behind a door to a closet with barely a second to spare. From behind the crack, you watch the other halfling ease himself up the stairs, glancing around with bright, alert eyes-- but not quite alert enough. His gaze sweeps over you in your hiding place, then passes on; he pads down the hall after your colleagues-- moving past the door they stopped at, and going to the door next to it, at which he knocks, and waits a few seconds for an answer.
**
The room the others go into is, well, not worth five gold, but you knew that already. It's suitable for the purposes of talking, though-- a window open to the warm Osiriani air, a table, several chairs, and a water jug.
Shaggar looks down at the halfling for a moment then grunts, "Hatyah knows her job... in any language." He gives a slight nod, and continues on towards the room, speaking quietly to the hyena in gnollish.
Javi stands perfectly still for a slow count to ten, then slips from his hiding spot, padding down the hallway and being careful of any squeaky spots on the wood floors. He stops outside the door through which the bright-eyed halfling disappeared. He leans back against the wall next to the door, taking out a small cup and pretending to prop drunkenly against the wall as he listens for voices from within.
As he waits, he spends a few seconds to see if there's a gap below the door. If there is, he fishes his small mirror from his pack and places it on the floor, using his toe to prop it in a position to try to see how many people are inside.
Javi, nobody opens the door for the halfling, as you stealthily observe. After he waits a few seconds, he reaches up to unlock the door, having a little trouble with the sticky handle, then disappears inside.
He's a quick hand with it, but Javi, you're fairly sure he's using a skeleton key rather than one of the ones that come with the rooms.
Once he disappears inside, you sidle closer in your skulky, fake-drunk fashion and settle down outside the door.
You hear nothing.
When you set your bit of mirror down, you get a mirror-skewed glimpse of the room (similar in layout to the one your comrades are in), but see nobody inside it.
Javi replaces the mirror and takes out a bite of trail rations, chewing it as he re-checks the hallway and—if no one is coming—he slips his thieve's tools from his shoe. He goes to work on the lock as quietly as he can, doing his best to see if the other halfling set any nasty surprises for him.
Rosalia spends much of the awkward time down at the bar in silence, shooting numerous worried glances at the heavily armed gnoll to the extent that her drink is barely touched by the time a room is organised for them. "We arrived maybe an hour or two ago," she confirms, as if it wasn't painfully obvious in their attire and mannerisms. Hers in particular; she's woefully dressed for the desert heat, instead opting for very typical traveller's gear - although to her credit she's long ditched the overcoat, leaving her arms bare below the shoulders.
The appearance of Hatyah causes Rosalia to frown (what didn't cause that reaction, really?). Hyenas she'd heard of from stories, but seeing one in the flesh...? Her loping gait was incredibly peculiar, like her front legs were just a little too long. Hatyah reminded her of a wolf in some ways, and yet... not. Like the child of a gnoll and a wolf. Ergh. Not a mental image I want.
"A kitten?" Rosalia blinks at the hyena. "Is she not full grown?" Amazing! How large do these things grow? After some further serious consideration, Rosalia decides that Hatyah is indeed cute enough for her tastes, and cautiously reaches out to let the hyena sniff her hand. She's sorely tempted to pet her, and yet... those teeth steer her away from it for now.
She offers a gold coin as part of paying for the room, not particularly fussed about the cost, just happy to be getting things moving. Rosalia brings her barely-touched drink with her upstairs, although she's not particularly sure if she'll finish it or not. Rook rides calmly on her shoulder, eyeing Hatyah suspiciously.
Javi's silent and subtle departure is not lost on Rosalia, although she chooses not to mention it verbally, realising there must be some reason for it. Instead, she silently takes a seat at one of the chairs and sips at her drink, waiting for him to return.
Javi, you veeerry carefully and quietly set to work on the door, throwing glances left and right ever so often, tensing at every foot on the stairs. But in a relatively short amount of time, you have the door open-- it creaks as you do so, but not very loudly, and nothing jumps you from the shadows, lands on your face, or otherwise gives any intimation that you have been heard.
You are looking into a simply furnished room: a rough-hewn table, several chairs against the wall, the window open for what breeze may stir in the hot air, a clay jug of water and cups resting on the table. It appears unoccupied.
Rosalia will keep up the idle small talk if anyone starts it, but she will not mention anything more serious than things like the weather, their trip here, or Hatyah.
Shaggar frees his ears from his keffiyeh, signals to the hyena, and they both stalk the room independently staying alert for anything amiss after receiving Javi's cryptic warning.
Despite his obvious vigilance, the gnoll speaks casually. "I was joking. Hatyah is full grown and larger than any wild hyena." The last he says with considerable pride. He holds his hand about a foot and a half lower than Hatyah's shoulder and explains, "Hyenas taller than this are rare. Hatyah is exceptional. But we are not here to discuss her, much as she is worthy of praise. No. The rest of the team won't arrive for days yet, but we have much to do. Our trip will be taking us to the deep deserts in the South - within the hunting range of my people near the Peaks. We will need to be cautious. But I found the ziggurat once and avoided them... and I can do so again. We will need to make special preparations and I have made a list of things you will need to buy..."
Shaggar moves to the open window and cranes his neck outside observing the street, other buildings, and even the wall of this building, looking for any signs of trouble or eavesdroppers.
Hatyah stalks the room in the reverse direction, sniffing the air and warily eyeing the door.
As they wait for Javi in the room, Heldar stares out the window.
How far from Absolom I am today, there IS a whole wide world just out there indeed - he ponders.
His senses are still sharp though, not having forgot the halfling's warning. Turning to the others he comments - "My knowledge of the desert is very sparse, I would welcome your suggestion regarding the necessary supriments, to ensure our survivability"
"This is an amazing city" - he continues again turning towards the window, and the Sun outside - "As if the gods and history were all still alive here. It is fascinating for me, and I feel fortunate that the fates have brought me here today - I am eager to follow the path ahead of us. Allow me a question Shaggar - you will answer it only if you wish of course but... Why did you refer to yourself as once of the Bonecrack Tribe? You have left them?"
; +2 vs Traps
Javi jams the now-chewed wad of trail rations into the locking mechanism, hoping that the door will remain unlatched in case a quick exit becomes necessary. With one last look around the hallway, he dodges quietly into the room, trying to see all angles at once.
If nothing is in the room, then he'll check the window after doing a quick search for any other secret exits the halfling might have taken.
"My knowledge of the desert is very sparse, I would welcome your suggestion regarding the necessary supriments, to ensure our survivability."
Shaggar was weaving a fiction into his previous words for any stray ears, but now his answer is weighty with sobering truth. "In most deserts, water and shelter from the sun are most important for... people. Food is also good. But the Osirion deserts are different - even than those in Katapesh. The sands are strange. The desert shifts and will try to make us lost. If it succeeds, then water is very important as we try to find our way..." The gnoll listens for a moment before continuing. "Also, there are the storms of sand - the haboob - we must shelter from them. And here, the storms are not natural, not like in Katapesh. We must avoid their hearts. The sand is restless now, not as it should be. We must be wary."
"Allow me a question Shaggar - you will answer it only if you wish of course but... Why did you refer to yourself as once of the Bonecrack Tribe? You have left them?"
The gnoll blinks at the question, a gesture for which you can place no human analog yet.
"Your ears are sharp, Heldar." He replies with respect. "I am Blackmaw - heretic of Rovagug, cursed by the Hag-Seers, and cast out of the tribe. If my path crosses the trails of the Bonecrack, there will be slaying. That is the way of it." There seems little emotion in his answer, as if it were merely an annoying fact.
Javi, besides the door you came in through, it seems as though the room has only one exit: the open window. Which a human could squeeze through if they had to, and which for a halfling, such as yourself, is no great impediment at all.
After a thorough search to verify there's nowhere else he might have gone, you stick your head out the window in order to see...
....Shaggar, sticking his head out the next window over.
Shaggar, you do see a sneaky halfling! It's your friend Javi.
Though you both look up and down, there's nothing particularly out of place: the street below is still busy with passersby, tourists and locals. The wall of the inn is mortared mud-brick, as are most common buildings in Osirion, and could have provided an easy climbing surface to the halfling that you saw.
Besides a truly impressive view of the Black Dome, there's nothing of interest out the window. Hatyah sniffs at a stain in the corner of the room that, on closer inspection, is probably old, dried beer.
Javi looks over at Shaggar after a few seconds of looking up and across at the nearby rooftops... the old thieve's highway. He gives the gnoll a quick shrug before disappearing back inside the window, shutting them, and making his way back into the group's room.
After closing the door, he turns to look at the assembled team with a mixed expression, "Well, that was unhelpful."
He turns his back to the window and begins whispering. "I have no idea who that halfling was, and he slipped me. I don't think this room is all that secure, but as long as we're careful with our words, it shouldn't be an issue." He shrugs tiny shoulders, "Though we can always go get another room somewhere else, if you'd prefer."
Shaggar closes the window, just to be sure. "Let's talk here, quietly." He yips at the hyena who takes a position by the door. "Hatyah will listen for trouble."
Once everyone is settled, with a shrug Shaggar says, "The man who gave us this job was short on details about what happens after we meet. He was probably drunk... I hope you know more than us about what comes next."
When everyone is huddled together around the table, Heldar begins - "I was not aware that our actions here were drawing this much attention. In any case, what we know is that a high ranked operative for the Pathfinders in Osirion - going by the alias of 'the Mithril Scarab' reported an important lead, regarding a score of recently uncovered tombs and pyramids in Osirion, and requested additional Pathfinder resources" - he smiles - "That is us"
"There are no exact details of why exactly our assistance is needed, we were only informed that we are not supposed to advertise our position as Pathfinders, and that to make contact we should attend an auction of relics held by someone named the Kemeserian, a broker and dealer in antiquities. We were instructed to be at the auction and place bids on an item in increments of eleven gold pieces" - he shrugs - "We believe that will allow her to recognize, and make contact with us"
Stepping back up away from the table, he finishes - "That's it"
The gnoll's eyes swing to the halfling. "Javi, you can find this broker, yes?"
Despite herself, Rosalia is beginning to appreciate the incredibly straightforward nature of the gnoll, a trait that is remarkably lacking in many of her own race. She idly wonders if extended time spent amongst humankind would cause the unfortunate trait to rub off on Shaggar. The scant tidbits of gnollish culture being brought to light are--shockingly--surprisingly fascinating, although Rosalia would rather die than admit that openly.
When Javi returns and it all seems clear, Rosalia will actually participate in the conversation, although she wisely keeps her voice low. Heldar seems to have said the most of it, though.
"Considering this is Osirion, and this is the Pathfinder Society we're talking about, I suspect our contact will lead us into a crypt or pyramid of some sort rather than spending too much time out in the godsforsaken heat. Thankfully." She grimaces. "Although I suppose we had best not get too far ahead of ourselves with preparations until we find this elusive 'the Mithril Scarab' and get our actual briefing."