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Your boots squash with fetid water as you plod through the Puddles. A thick fog hangs in the air, seeming almost to caress the flesh with an unnatural chill. As you stand outside the Soggy Pipper in a foot and a half flooded slum during Absalom’s rainy season. You remember your meeting at the Lodge just a few hours earlier with your Venture-Captain, Adril Hestram.
A bear of a man with only a few teeth remaining in her head, he motioned you into the meeting hall with a casual wave of his grizzled hand. The human captain outweighs most of Absalom’s half-orcs, and though a layer of beefy blubber coats his frame, those of you who have tangles with him in the Lodge sparring ring know that beneath this thin veneer of fat lies nothing but solid, steely sinew. Adril’s wild beard was to the ponderous shake of his massive head as he examines a scrap of ancient parchment on the table before raising his eyes to greet your gaze and speaking: “Come in then, friends, and thank you for answering my summons so swiftly. The Society is in need. An old and quite penniless historian, a bespectacled wag-beard by the name of Yargos Gill has recently made a discovery in an old archive that we have, . . . a great interest in obtaining: an ancient codebook, left behind in the wake of one of Taldor’s many failed attempts at invasion. ”
“This several-hundred-year-old text would prove an excellent addition to our collection, and must be preserved.
Yargos makes his home in “The Puddles”, Absalom’s poorest district, suffering from a well-known reputation as a haven for lowlifes. Those that can afford not to live there, - don’t”.
Also, last chance to make any changes.
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A richly decorated coat decorates the large dwarf. A nicely kept beard nearly sorrel in color covers his chin and much of his chest. Fingers constantly run through it with an air of concern. Whether this is to shape the beard, or to polish the numerous sapphires and emeralds on his fingers is academic. Obviously the care for his appearance rides high on the dwarf's priority list. A fashionable gold belt, with thumbs hooked in (probably to further reveal the stones on his rings,) hold a small but well used axe.
"How can such an old text survive in that ruddy place?" He shivers at the thought of the water. His eagerness to complete missions soon overtakes anything hesitations though. Oh well," he says, eagerness overcoming any hesitations, "Sounds easy enough. How do we find this wag-beard?"
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A large Half-Orc stands calmly, a contented smile on his face. His dark brown hair is neatly combed, his tusks cleanly polished. Although only 16 he already is taller then most humans. He wears an indigo-colored robe, tied at the waist with a belt. Another belt goes across his right shoulder and hooks in the back, from which a crossbow is affixed. He seems lost in thought, only half-hearing what the man is saying.
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Reaching behind to an overcrowded desk, filled with random papers, scrolls, maps, and other clutter, Adril doesn't even bother to look, but rather pulls out a pouch, two scrollcases, and a few letters, and what looks like a package. To each of you, he tosses one, (I'll let you pick which is yours), addressed to you, but no name or agent is noted as to who sent it. You also take notice, perhaps a minor test of your reflexes, that he doesn't really bother to hand them to you, but rather simply tosses them your way, fully risking them falling to the water at your feet, and as you save them from a drownding ruin, a soft smile crosses his lips, for just a second, indicating his approval.
Within you find a letter addressed to yourself in the most cracious and prestine of complements of your homelands many bounties. Written not on paper, but rather on a fine, thin silk, a missive. As you read, the scent of Qadiran incense teases you mind, almost causing you to forget you are away from it by so far a distance. . .
"Servant of the Satrap,
Trade is a fickle thing. It is like the tenacious relations of a man and woman: they touch, caress, and hope to form a lasting bond borne out of a single night drunk on passion. Absalom is the best lover Katheer has known in a long while. Trade with the city keeps the flow of gold onto our Satrap’s coffers strong and steady.
Our agents suspect that the recent appearance of strange undead skulking through the mists of the Puddle District of Absalom bear relation to an “incident” called the Silent Tide, a failed Taldan invasion plan, (if such could be worthy of being called an invasion). Yet, while the Silent Tide is Taldor’s embarrassing debacle, the secret truth is that we made a tidy profit off of the entire episode by our supplying of weapons to an outfit called the Black Echelon, long hidden within the city.
It would be best if our part in the “invasion”, stays buried, given Qadira’s renewed economic interests in Absalom. With your dutiful help, make sure that this secret remains soley on Taldor’s shoulders. Cover up the evidence of our envolvement. If these secret specters still carry our weapons, be sure to destroy as many as you can. Do not draw attention to yourself by ridding the world of these relic arms, but rather through obfuscation.
As always, my friend, you will be compensated: the Satrap showers the loyal with gold. . .
Kind Regards,
Pasah Muhlia Al-Jakri"
Within is a rich parchment, a letter to you. When you open it, soft and pleasant smells hit you, reminding you of both the glory of your homeland, (in the fragrence of rose and orange that the letter was obviously dipped in, and also the almost imaginary salt of the ocean, unlike the filthy lands you now inhabit whose waters are more like a rot that assualt you from all directions. . .
"Proud Agent of The Empire,
Your rarified services are once more required. I shall not bore you with obfuscation and frivolity. We have acted against Absalom on myriad occasions and failed with each passing stroke. Or rather the knaves have failed to see the honor we would offer them under Taldor’s mighty and glories banner.
Apparently, a new terror of the undead in that ever so deplorable Puddles District is a remnant of one of The Empire’s more infamous disappointments. For their unique arms and armor mark them as long lost agents known as the Black Echelon. Warrior of The Empire awaiting their time for glory several centuries past, now returned, for even in death, they know The Empires cause was just!
As such, it troubles me to say that even so, we can not allow things to happen as they aught. Times are different now, I suppose. With the return of our mighty fallen, we must keep watch that certain things are never known to the imbeciles from without Taldor’s wisdoms and right. The Black Echelon held the secret location of a hidden cache of wands and other items. Seek out clues on your journey, and report back to us immediately with any news about said cache, so that we might send out a second team for recovery. It is believed that there is a map to the cache hidden within the final pages of the Codebook, which contained the secret signals to direct the Silent Tide. Find the book, and steal or copy the last page, and have it brought to me.
Succeed for your Empire, and you shall be suitably rewarded.
My Sincere Gratitude,
Baron Jacquo Dalsine"
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Ausk (3), Half-Orc Barbarian - Grand Lodge
Ausk is of average size for a half-orc, but with much larger tusks than most. His build is very muscular, with massive arms through the sleeveless hollows of his kikko armor vest, some unusual armor he bought from a foreign merchant that he felt suited him quite well. On the back of his waist, hanging strapped to his belt is a very oversized cleaver in a leather sheath (which functions as a greataxe), as well as a back pack with a lantern hanging from one side which seems relatively full. This belt, thick and sturdy has a large buckle and also holds on a pair of ragged, ripped hemp pants. Other than this, Ausk's only other piece of visible attire is an unusual headband with a studded metal plate which holds back his wild, black hair. His bare feet are currently covered in mud for obvious reasons and he seems to stare at the man briefing him in a slightly confused manner, muttering "Ausk get book..."
Picture of Ausk without backpack and with breastplate rather than kikko
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Maximo casts his gaze upon his companions like a commander inspecting the troops, and although his expression is plain, his inner eyebrow is quite raised by those chosen for this mission. Not one, but two orc-blooded, plus two dwarfs. A genuine smile crosses his lips. Should make for a grand night at the tavern when this is done. Somewhere there is a fine Alkenstar ale with his name on it, and he doesn't want to keep it waiting.
"Has the Society sent more to meet us, gentlemen? Or is this to be our party?" He inquires.
Slightly bored, Borador scratches his bulbous nose and pulls his finger away to note some mysterious yellow film on it. He tastes it absently, noting that his tongue has suddenly begun to tingle in an unpleasant manner. Probably toxic, whatever it was. He catches the package thrown at him in an off-hand manner, then appears genuinely surprised that he caught it. He reads the letter attached, sniffs, and stuffs it into a pocket.
"Better be worth the trouble," he grumbles, then without opening the package, returns his gaze to Adril, waiting further instructions.
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Aram catches the two scrollcases, quickly reaching out to grab them before they hit the wet floor.
"T-thank you sir," said Aram, bowing slightly. Aram had looked away shyly when Maximo had glanced his way. He was not used to working with people, sheltered the last few years as he was. Maximo was a paladin though, and could be trusted, at least that was what he had heard. He had only met a few dwarves on the journey here, and he thought they were kind of funny. It was good that another half-ore like himself had joined them, at least he wouldn't be the only outcast.
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I trust this correspondence finds you well. As always, you have the gratitude of the Society and the ten for your continued
service to knowledge. Dark times are upon this city, and undead walk the streets in the misty hours of the night. Worse, spectres
from the past also rears their head.
Centuries ago, Osirion’s food supply was plagued by a horrible poison called Gut Wither, a war-manufactured toxin brought over
from Qadira to further weaken Osiron’s delicate agricultural base. To protect the populace, the then ruling sultans waged a lengthy
campaign to ensure that Gut Wither was stamped out and the secrets of its creation were destroyed. Our seers have advised that
whoever these undead, mist-walking assassins within Absalom are, they somehow have obtained a chest containing a small supply
of Gut Wither, perhaps left over from a forgotten age. I’m asking ask you to track down their supply and bring us a vial of this terrible
concoction. Despite what the Society usually holds as true, some things are better left lost to the past. Should this poison become known, potentially thousands in Absalom, if not the world, would suffer.
In All Sincerity,
The Ten
Fellow Free Citizen,
Warm greetings on this cold Desnu morn. This city’s chill and squalor does not agree with me, and each day I see the Council bow
to slavers and oppressors, my heart sickens. We must do better, we can do better. It all begins with you, my friend.
We have become interested in a man named Yargos Gill. Although he’s not much to look at, Yargos is an important voice
of the common man in Absalom’s underclass. He is well educated, but he prefers to live among the downtrodden in that
wasteland called the Puddles District. He’s also more virtuous than most give him credit for. The Eagle Knights of Andoran
have identified Yargos as important to Absalom’s future destiny as a free and independent state of the people. If you find Yargos,
above all, make sure you keep him alive. Please do your best to aid him thereafter, and secretly pass along the message that the
Eagle Knights will be there for him when he needs them. Purport yourself well and do nothing to besmirch our reputation as
beacons of freedom. One day Yargos will be vitally important to the future of Absalom. We wish you to gain his trust so as best
to aid him in his cause.
Many thanks for your assistance in this matter. As always, I am in your debt.
Sincerely,
Captain Colson Maldris
“The district is the stomping ground of pimps, harlots,
addicts, knifers, and hoards of unseemly derelicts. It’s never
been a kind place, but recent reports reveal some new nameless
terror on her waterlogged streets. Several persons claim to
have seen cloaked, skeletal-like figures marching through an
unnatural fog. Ill tidings indeed. Tracking down Yargos is now
a priority—--lest some yellow-toothed thug cut him down, or
one of these strange wraiths carry him beyond the pale. Find
him, fellow Pathfinders, and find the codebook. Your exploits
will be recorded in the Chronicles if you succeed.”
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Ausk took the scroll that was passed to him, listening to what the Venture-Captain had to say before opening the scroll to read its contents. Being a bit of a slow reader, it would take him a while to understand what it said and, ultimately, he couldn't full comprehend what it had to say. But after staring at it for a while with his lips parted in a dumb-founded expression, he began to grin, nodding and folding up the piece of parchment before slipping it into his backpack. "Hm... Ausk need go to store," he muttered, looking around among the others before noticing the dwarf whose backpack was nearly overflowing with vials. His eyes widening, he would take a step toward him and point at the backpack. "You have any empty ones?"
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Borador grunts and cocks his head at Ausk, glaring suspiciously at him for a moment. "Empty what?" He says with a narrow gaze. "What is this habba-jabba yer speakin, orc?" He squints so hard his eyes are, for all intensive purposes, closed, then they shoot open in shock. "Torag's stony corset! Ya mean a vessel. Why in the Hells didn'tcha say so, boy?" He pulls out a dusty vial, sniffs it, scrunches his nose in distaste, corks it, and hands it to Ausk. "Had some beetle juice in there at some point. Might wanna rinse it out afore ya put sommat in there. Just sayin'."
Borador resumes scratching his nose, scraping off another layer of yellowish crust. Really, what the Devil did he stick his nose into to get this way?
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Religion: from what you've gathered and heard so far, the undead seem like run of the mill skeletons, probably some sort of superstition relavent to the mists, or someones cruel prank disguizing them in cloacks and other garb.
Nobility: <with a bonus for being from the Taldor Faction> The Black Echelon, and in fact the entire Silent Tide was a briliant coup that should have braught Absalom to it's knees some 800 years ago, similar to the Trojan Horse. No one really knows what happened, but the spies within and without the city where loyal to the cause, even taking sacred oaths not unlike legendary knights of old.
Local: <common knowledge> The Puddles is pretty much Absaloms garbage dump, the closest thing to a legit authority is almost a ganster, and it is known for being a poor, unkept district.
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"It sounds like someone's playing a mean prank by dressing up a few undead corpses." Maximo states with calm authority. "I'm sure it's nothing a good solid hammer can't handle." He taps the warhammer at his side.
"Regardless, we shouldn't let a few old bones stand in the way of obtaining this codebook. I'm sure whatever knowledge they contain will be highly valuable in revealing mysteries of the past." Especially Taldor's past. He thinks to himself. Perhaps they can shed light on why The Black Echelon failed. Everyone knows that they were well organized, and fought with honor.
Being cautious, he unslings his shield and straps it to his arm. "Shall we proceed?"
Being cautious, he unslings his shield and straps it to his arm. "Shall we proceed?"
"Yes, let's go," agreed Aram, wrinkling his nose in disgust at Borador.
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Ausk would smile, baring his sharp teeth and large tusks with a bit of glee as he took the empty vial in hand. "This is good. Ausk can use this." Slipping the vial into his backpack, he would nod to the dwarf. "Ausk owe you one." The half-orc's smile is almost a bit too cheerful and with such a beast-like visage, it mostly just looks scary. Despite this, the big, green oaf still seems quite genuine and it's possible that he's too dense not to be.
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"Yargos lives within the Puddles District", pulling out a rough map of the city and points out a location rather quickly. "He often travels, . . . here, giving speechs and galivanting utopian ideas in the public square, offering a small measure of hope, I supposse." "Otherwise, I'm told he frequents a tavern eatery, . . . somewhere around here this time circling a small area on the map, "called The Soggy Piper".
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Ausk, not quite able to grasp the whole situation, began muttering to himself. "Yargos... book?" Listening in to what some of the others had to say, he looked to the adventure-captain. "Yeah, we go to Piper, like dwarf say." His expression was one of determination as he took Borador's right shoulder with his left hand, as if to express that he was supporting the dwarf. Truth was, Ausk was never able to succeed in an expedition without being heavily dependent on someone he could count on to be the brains of the operation. Not only did this dwarf seem to know what he was talking about, but he also seemed rather trustworthy and dependable (or so Ausk assumed from the dwarf's simple act of giving Ausk a free vial), so Ausk was quite willing to support his opinion. He would then turn to look over to Barong and Maximo. "You... proceed to Piper?"
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Aram smiled at Ausk, displaying his own rather prominent tusks.
"Hah hah! I guess not!" he laughed, gently patting Ausk on the shoulder. He turned to the door, following Galdur and looked out into the pouring rain.
"(sigh)It looks like I'll have to tolerate being wet a while longer," he said as he stepped into the rain after Galdur.
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"Yargos is an elder gent, human, though he has features indicating a bit of Gnomish blood somewhere in hsi family tree, if ya ask me.", he says with a chuckle. "He is well known, and generally liked amongst the people of the Puddles, often giving speeches in the middle of the street to bolster them against their harsh lives. Scholarly fellow, white midlength hair, typically unshaven for a few days at a time, but most notably would be the specticles he is known for. Soddin' beamers, those things."
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Heading outside, you see that the weather has improved slightly. Some of the water from the recent rain has receeded, though you must still trod through it in some areas. , it doesn't take too terribly long to reach the Puddles district.
However, when crossing that invisible boundry, the desparity of the Puddles is obvious. Trash and clutter are prevailent. The houses and shops are distinctly older and rundown, the people have a certain roguishness to them. It doesn't take long for the districts namesake to earn it's title, as entire streets are covered in a dirty, stagnate water, with makeshift bridges barely above the water level, (sometimes), allowing some travel without falling in.
The Puddles seem less occupied than others you may have seen on the way through. The wirky water being a constant here, along with the recent cold weather and rain leaves a combined mist and humid heat to the area, somewhat unpleasant.
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Nodding to Aram, Ausk looked to Galdur and then back at Borador with a smile. This seemed to be a pretty good lot so far. Perhaps he could truly depend on this team. With that in mind and after taking in what the venture-captain had to say about the middle-aged gnomish human with white hair, he would begin out toward the Puddles District... but once he arrived, he found that it was certainly not any positive change in scenery from the previously wet and muddy streets. With a sigh, he dejectedly muttered "Puddles..." as he continued to trudge along, following the rest of the group.
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Borador pulls out his waterskin and sniffs it suspiciously before deciding it is, in fact, water, and taking a long pull.
"Mayhap we aughter start at the Piper. Couldn'a hurt to ask around, find out when he was last seen."
After turning from one puddled alley into another muddy street and back again to even more watery ways with no sign of the Piper in question, Taldur finally asks, Borador? Do you know where this Piper is? Do any of you?" I certainly have no idea where I am going anymore. The sooner we find this place the sooner we can get back to dry land.
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From glimpse at the map earlier, you all know basically where you are heading. If memory serves, it should be about a five minute walk from here, just down the way, take two Rights, to the end of the street, Left, and you come to a small bizarre. Somewhere within, is the Soggy Piper, inn and tavern.
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Borador grumbles a string of incoherencies under his breath, something about two rights and a left leading to a pie vendor in Old Korvosa. After shuffling through a vague recollection of the directions, he peers at the shop signs in the bazaar, looking for the Soggy Piper.
"Terrible name for an inn. Went to a place once called the Spittin' Llama. Now that was an inn. Even had a llama greet ye at th'door an' spit in yer face when ya walked in. That's service, right there." His oddly wide, flat belly grumbles impatiently. He wonders if there will be time to grab some food at the inn--provided the food is edible.
"Course, I've eaten Old Korvosan tavern fare," he grumbles to no one in particular. "If'n I can stomach that, I can stomach anything."
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As Aram walks along with his companions, he thinks to himself.
"I'm not used to working in groups. But these people are depending on me. I need to be more bold! Dynamic! Father always said I needed more self-confidence. Well, I'm going to start right now!"
Aram accosts a man in the street that had walked near them.
"I say, my good man, might you know where The Soggy Piper tavern is?" he said in a bass, booming voice.
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"Course, I've eaten Old Korvosan tavern fare," he grumbles to no one in particular. "If'n I can stomach that, I can stomach anything."
Hearing what the dwarf had to say and keeping his eyes open for anything that said "soggy Piper," he chuckled slightly and looked to Borador, if only for a moment in between his searching, to comment by saying "If cheap and not rot, Ausk eat." He was also considering grabbing a bite if they had time for it, though he would be more than happy to just eat anything they kill along the journey, too, so long as it wasn't poisonous, rotting, or humanoid.
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"I say, my good man, might you know where The Soggy Piper tavern is?".
The man gives you barely a look as he keeps walking. It seems neighborly conduct is not the norm here. However, a young girl, dresses in tan wrags and bare foot steps forward to you, obviously a little scarred. "I know the place. I can show you." As she starts to walk that way, curiosity gets the better of here, "Why are you so furry? And whats wrong with your teeth? They are so big."
She walks a little further, then points to a building, not much different from the rest around you, though it appears sturdy and not like it may colapse at any time. "There it is. I don't think there is a law mah inside though." It doesn't take long for you (all) to follow her gaze to the building. People seem to be wandering in and out. As you step forward, you notice a brutish looking human exit, pushing a fow commoners aside on his way. He didn't seem to pleased with his serve, you think.
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Borador grumbles under his breath again, something to do with receiving a wheel of cheese for completing a mission, and heads toward the Soggy Piper's less-than-inviting doorway.
"I hope the service here's better'n the last tavern I was at," he scowls. "Two nights' stay, four meals, and one assassination attempt, all fer tha low price o' six silver." He grunts and shuffles into the tavern.
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As you enter the establishment, it seems like some sort of altercation has just happened. A few broken dishes are on the ground near the front, and everyone seems a little on edge.
The place itself is fairly small. In total you see only 8 tables, and most of them are only designed to seat 4 people at most. Half are full with customers, eating a variaty of things, the scents overcomming the moldy water outside very well, even if not particularly appitizing.
Before you, stands a shorter human, probably the owner. As you enter, his eyes jump towards you, sizing you up and counting your numbers.
Hesitently, the man wipes his hands on his appron and askes "Wha, . . . <hum hum> what can I do for you, si, . . . sirs"?
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Lagging slightly behind, Maximo takes a few moments to speak to the little girl, attempting to get the lay of the land from a local and also spread a little hope by letting her know about the Silver Crusade and slipping a silver piece into her grubby little hand.
"Look for our symbol, little one." He says, patting her head. "We are here to help."
Approaching the tavern, he overhears Borador's statement and chuckles. "Sounds like Chelaxian Theatre. Let's see what's playing tonight."
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"Look for our symbol, little one." He says, patting her head. "We are here to help."
The young girl listens attentively, a large smile on her face at the idea of making a friend. "What is your symal? Where is it, I don't see it?" After recieving a silver piece, her face absolutely beams, and she rushes at you and begins to hug your leg.
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... she rushes at you and begins to hug your leg.
Galdur flinches as she gets closer and sidesteps the paladin. Better you than me! he thinks. And you paid a silver for that privilege! He notes the direction of the surly human, careful to avoid contact with such a brute, then follows the others inside.
...Hesitantly, the man wipes his hands on his apron and asks "Wha, . . . <hum hum> what can I do for you, si, . . . sirs"?
After seeing the mess by the door Galdur looks at the proprieter. He points a thumb at the door, indicating the man who left. A jeweled finger incidentally flashes as he gestures. "What sort or problem was that sorry grumption going on about?" trying to get in good with the host.
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"Prob'ly lost at cards, or summat," Borador interrupts. He's not entirely sure he wants to get wrapped up in whatever the man's altercation was. Too many times he's seen an adventurer ask "what happened here?" only to find himself swept up on a damn fool quest. He turns to the barkeep. "Ale, not watered down. An' some potatoes, crisped if ya don't mind. And no sulfur!" he adds vehemently, squinting his eyes narrowly at the man and jabbing an accusatory finger. He swears he's got enough sulfur caked on him to light a dozen fireplaces. He doesn't even remember working with sulfur recently...
He pauses, quite certain he's forgetting something. What was it...? "Oh," he adds a moment later. "An' do ye know a man named Yargos?"