A 14' giant with rust-colored skin stands before you, working a huge steel breastplate beside an even larger forge. Soot and sweat streaks the craggy brow above a pair of burnt orange eyes, which hold a look of both determination and detachment.
Slag giants are among the foremost artisans and crafters of giant-kind.
“Ah, the Company of the Fox, Snake and Poodle see reason to grace Valsog’s Armory with their presence.”
The giant speaks evenly and unhurriedly between hammer rings. “I heard what you did for Morak Jadeglow. Without permanently injuring anyone either, they say. Most unusual for humans.”
Valsog levels his gaze at Dusk, but doesn’t stop hammering. “You are quick to come to business, Ser Dusk. Perhaps you would first tell me of your intentions towards the Emira?”
“Before Tygora turned me loose, I demonstrated my value to her. Perhaps you might demonstrate your own to me?”
The smith inspects the party’s arsenal. "I would also hear a tale about your favorite metal weapon. Its origin, its deeds and what it means to you …
“If you can’t be good, be VERY careful.”
“You like tasty treats do you, Master Wembly? Then tell me, can your not-mouse nose sniff out anything unusual about that flyer.”
Valsog points to an Emirian Edict casually tacked to a wall. In beautiful calligraphy is states:
Proclamation the Seventh: The odor and flavor of mint is an abomination to the refined palate. Be not the cretin! Mint use in candies, drinks, and all manner of confections is hereby proscribed.
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Hakime looks at the edict on the wall, and scowls... "That seems a little ... random? It makes mention of candies, drinks and confections, but mint is great on meat... and it makes no edict against using it in other culinary delights. I know places where every chef in the land would be scrambling to find ways to use mint besides candies, drinks and confections. I wonder if this is such a place... This may be the local law, but it seems unreasonable to me. Does your ruler often make such proclamations?"
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Valsog levels his gaze at Dusk, but doesn’t stop hammering. “You are quick to come to business, Ser Dusk. Perhaps you would first tell me of your intentions towards the Emira?”
“Before Tygora turned me loose, I demonstrated my value to her. Perhaps you might demonstrate your own to me?”
The smith inspects the party’s arsenal. "I would also hear a tale about your favorite metal weapon. Its origin, its deeds and what it means to you …
"That is fair. Honestly, I would like to learn more about the Emira before I set my intentions in stone. She seems to not have the best interests of many citizens in mind. If this is so, changes must be made. Perhaps she will listen to reason. Perhaps she has good reasons for her actions. If not, then more drastic measures must be taken."
Dusk draws his adamantine gladius and holds it the palms of his hands.
"This blade was forged from the metal found in a large rock that fell from the sky in the far north. The metal was carefully separated from the rock over several days time. The metal was forged into a blade with the help of beings made of pure fire, as no ordinary forge could shape the metal. The weapon was then enchanted by colleagues of mine, specifically for my hand. Its magic harnesses a warrior's speed and agility, and focuses it into a more powerful attack. This weapon is perfect for my fighting style. I hope to someday find a blade equal in worthiness to wield with this one.
This weapon has served me well against machines that come from beyond our world. They possess weapons of fire and lightning, and are made of strong metal. This blade is capable of penetrating the metal bodies of the machines, so we can defeat them. It is an honor to enter battle with this fine weapon, and I have come to rely upon it when I am faced with a dangerous opponent, as I would rely upon a trusted companion."
“It is an honor to enter battle with this fine weapon.”
“There I must disagree with you, Ser Dusk.”
By now the party is used to the rhythm of Valsog's hammer. So it may be unnerving – or at least surprising – when the next beat in the series doesn’t arrive.
“It is an honor that you would tell me your tale.”
Hakime looks at the edict on the wall, and scowls... “That seems a little ... random?”
“Your observation is more polite than others have called it, Bowhuntress.”
Valsog puts his hammer aside. “But in answer to your question: Yes. The Emira’s proclamations have grown ever more restrictive and unreasonable.”
• There may be no public assemblies of citizens numbering more than one-half score
• In accordance with their heritage and the value of their word, oread citizens may only correspond on tablets made of gold
"Which has effectively silenced the community newsletter."
• Two or more Tribunes of the Pebbles are required to hear grievances or judge village issues, else all such decisions escalate to the Emira
• In times of war, the Crown may require all citizens of fighting age to join an Emirian militia dedicated to safeguarding the Realm
“Maybe this fine smithy could make you a match?”
“Mayhaps, Lady Sifvery.”
Valsog gestures at the scores of unfinished weapons and armor scattered about his workshop.
“But first, what would you have me do with this order for Tygora’s army?”
“I am not positive but this is definitely not mint I smell...but lemony I think..”
“Good nose, Master Wembly. I understand Tygora’s kitchens hold citrus fruit. The juice of which has been used for centuries to send private messages.”
The giant tears the minty edict from the wall and holds it perhaps three feet from the forge.
The lemon juice on the parchment begins oxidizing, gradually revealing a hidden message in brown stains:
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“There I must disagree with you, Ser Dusk.”
"Why do you disagree?
Thank you for providing us with more information on the Emira. The more we learn, the more unjust she becomes. We would have you not send this shipment of weapons to the Emira. Maybe if they were distributed among oread warriors, this town could fight back. Since oreads are only permitted to communicate with gold, might I suggest attaching a single gold coin to each weapon? Sometimes words fail, as I well know, and weapons must be used to deliver the intended message."
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Finishing his pickle, he carefully locks each finger in turn.
"Facinating," he observes standing on his tippy-toes and reading the edict. "What an abomination to outlaw mint, but certainly clever way to draw our attention. They knew Pathfinders travel on their bellies. I wonder if there is more code here with the message and missing letters." "
"You may prefer a less violent solution, Master Valslog. Ser Swish Swish and I are very different in our outlook," drawing a sharpened wooden stake he carries in his belt and presenting it on his palms, " We do not ask that you pervert your task if you do not wish, we ask that you give us time to inject reason into her thinking. Your people need not fight. We seek an audience."
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"I am not suggesting violence as our first plan. Sometimes words and negotiations work well. When they fail, however, it is good to be prepared in case others decide to bring violence to us. My hope is that when the Emira realizes she can no longer bully these people, she will change her ways and become a better ruler. Perhaps she just needs to understand the situation more fully."
"I am not suggesting violence as our first plan ... My hope is that when the Emira realizes she can no longer bully these people, she will change her ways and become a better ruler.”
Valsog ejects a sound like a mastodon grunting. “Ser Dusk … Master Rhonabwy, the Late Tribune of the Pebbs Eddarda Wűlf-Koriath thought much the same as you.”
“Tygora took her head last Summer. Though some folks choose not to believe it.”
The smith picks up his hammer. “Your Company is playing the Game of Thrones. Do you know what happens to that game’s losers?”
“I would suggest you check on your supporters at their Fifth Facet HQ – afore the Emira does.”
Wembly might recall VC Hugo passed Sifvery the Wanted Poster.
"Are you willing to give these weapons to the citizens? If not, will you at least delay their shipment to the Emira?"
Valsog wipes the sweat from his chin. “I haven’t been finishing one weapon and then moving onto the next one.”
“I’ve been doing all the grips first, and haven’t started any blades yet. The first serviceable armament won’t be ready for days.”
The giant *shrugs* his massive shoulders. “Ain’t it unfortunate for the Emira that I’ve done them that way?”
"By all means take it, Ser Dusk. And come morning, I would hear new tales of your gladius' deeds."
Valsog holds a beefy hand aloft in farewell, before glancing outside at the twilit streets.
"Time for you Pathfinders to shout yourselves a drink. I'd say you've earned it."
The Fifth Facet turns out to be a squat stone tavern that sits on the main roadway of Crystalcrag. The smell of a warm fire and cooked food wafting gently out of multiple windows proves too much for the party’s animal companions to resist.
Ilwynog, Squeeze and Whiskers sidewind/charge ahead through the open doorway, to a rapturous from those inside.
Once the two-legged Pathfinders enter the establishment (if it’s possible), the applause gets louder!
A burly, middle-aged oread behind the bar yells over the din.
As you get acquainted with the raucous atmosphere, a few items of interest catch your eye
• Whiskers has already been served cream – in a green bowl bearing his name
• Squeeze has taken up residence in an empty ale cask on the bar. The name 'Lhug-mor' has been painted through, and replaced with 'Squeeze'
• A lovingly hand-crafted black dragon plushy has been nailed to the top of the snake's new crib
• Three punnets of red, blue-black and white-green table grapes lie on the counter as bar snacks
Delgur points to each tub in turn. “Black Muscat, Alkenstar Seedless and this variety is called Delaware, though some folk call them ‘Fox grapes.’”
“Now what shall we drink to? I hope you folks like alcoholic or regular lemonade.”
Suspicious of the welcome, Illwynog sniffs the air and the pillow suspiciously.
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Hakime finds the foreknowledge shown here to be suspicious, she does her best to overcome these thoughts and dwell on the positive. She nods in greeting to all and smiles at Delgur. "Greetings, Delgur... you seem to know much about us already, but I am Hakime and I would love some lemonade, though I think I will take mine sans alcohol. This is a wonderful establishment you have here... so warm and welcoming. You seem to have been expecting us. Was our arrival foretold?"
Ilwynog’s nose smells nothing suspicious.
Dusk’s keen senses perceive only the best of intentions. It’s a party mood, and the Pathfinders are the guests of honor.
“None o’ that fancy Galtan stuff in Crystalcrag no more, Général Fool.”
Delgur’s tone is deeply apologetic. “Tygora’s seen to that.”
“But mead I can oblige you with. It was the Dragon’s favorite – ‘long with everythin’ else!”
Delgur *THUMPS* a stein of hard lemonade in front of Wembly that’s the size of Whiskers’ head. Its twin slides along the bar, stopping right in front of Dusk.
A third, a mite softer this time, is pushed into the hands of Old Deadeye's Champion. “If any of you are orators, now might be time for a rousing speech. General Hakime, I understand you’re something of a storyteller.”
“You seem to have been expecting us. Was our arrival foretold?”
The monkadin’s question immediately hushes the crowd.
The drinking game Toro enjoys with three locals (at Fool’s instigation??) ends as quickly as it began. Conversations cease. Laughter stops mid-guffaw.
“Well, Ma’am. You could say that …”
All eyes are on the Paladin Archer … when Delgur’s returns the tavern to its raucous celebrations. “TELL HER, FOLKS!”
The crowd erupts with laughter.
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Hakime chuckles... "I guess not."
"We are here to find our missing friends... but I'm guessing you all know that already, as our mission is assuredly as well-known as our presence. And if achieving our goal ends up benefiting the folk of a certain unnamed town under the thumb of a tyrant, so be it. But it might take the assistance of said folk... what say you?"
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Before speaking Dusk takes a long drink from his mug.
"We have witnessed how the citizens of Crystalcrag are treated unfairly. It sounds like you have all heard the stories already. This does not have to continue! Shops do not need to be destroyed. People do not need to be told when and how to sell their goods! People can use whatever they want to flavor their foods. People should be able to drink what they choose! If you are tired of having your lives run for you, now is the time for action! You know your home best. How can we send a message to the Emira to let her know that changes are coming to Crystalcrag?"
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Upon seeing the welcoming sights, Toro is overjoyed. Elf, you are too suspicious. Finally a real party! Pushing others out of his way he grabs the largest of the steins and downs the mead in one big swallow. Belch! is his only reply.
Pausing only to refill his stein and gather some new friends, Toro peaks in at Squeeze. Well mate, looks like this Dragon fella' left you with a nice place to take a nap!
Turning his attention back to his new drinking friends, First one tap out is a water elemental!
. Its a bit harsh of a challenge and Toro feels like the mood may have darkened only to realize it was Hakime's claim that soured the room.
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“But mead I can oblige you with.
Fool ferries mugs of lemonade and jacks of mead to all his companions.
Beginning a chant of "Bad Lady, Bad!" slamming his mead on the table in rhythm. Rousing the townsfolk to follow his rhythmic phrase.
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
He stops not for man, nor beast.
...
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
"Bad Lady, Bad!"
“YEAH, RIP ‘ER GUTS OUT!”
“BAD LADY, BAD!”
“BAD LADY, BAD!”
“BAD LADY, BAD!”
“BAD LADY, BAD!”
*SOB* I can’t feed my family…
As Fool whips the crowd into a Mead-fuelled Frenzy, the sound of marching boots – MANY MARCHING BOOTS – is heard bearing down on the tavern from outside.
One-Two: *Tramp, Tramp*
ONE-TWO: *TRAMP-TRAMP*
Finally, there is silence inside and out, as someone *KNOCKS* insistently on the tavern portal with an iron-shod cudgel. The door is thrown open revealing...
“We thought we might take a stroll to yon Fury’s Hold. See if aught can be done about freeing your friends and our Councillor Ghaleris.”
Eurdann grins. “Oh, and we’re takin’ a few of our closest mates along wit’ us …”
Behind the old Oread stands the entire population of Crystalcrag, bearing torches, pitchforks and other hand-made weapons. Banners made of bedsheets bearing crude sigils of Foxes, Snakes and Poodles are raised proudly among them.
Some folk bear water-color portraits of the Pathfinders, Eurdann Stonemantle and presumably the missing Tribunes Ghaleris and Koriath. Many of the townsfolk have dyed their hair blue or green (or both). Some wear cat masks, many have silver-painted wooden gladii hanging from their necks. Others are dressed as black knights or dragons.
A tiny purple-haired oread chef rushes about wielding a colossal wooden spoon. “To SMACK Tygora’s butt!”
☀ ☀ ☀
The ifrit gate guards, Left and Right are there. One is dressed as a duck. The other as a bunch of grapes.
“Quack! Quack! Waddle, Lady Sif!” They lead the crowd, who erupt:
❄ ❄ ❄
“Crystalcrag!! How do we say ‘Wotcha’ to General Toro?”
“And to General Wembly?”
“WOOF! WOOF!”
⛲ ⛲ ⛲
Red and White, the Ifrit Fire Marshalls step forward to address Hakime. They *slosh* a pair of water-filled pails at their sides.
“To honor you for sparing our lives General Hakime, tonight we are Water Marshalls.”
At the back, tossing a boulder half the size of the Fith Facet casually from hand to hand stands Valsog.
The giant nods to the Elven Slayer. “By dusk you owe me another story, General.”
♨ ♨ ♨
“Coming?” Stonemantle grins at the party, as the marching crowd takes up a new chant:
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Dusk nods back to Valsog.
"You will certainly have your story. I am looking forward to hearing the tale of your contributions as well."
Dusk looks around at the gathered army, then back at his companions.
"It sounds to me that the people of Crystalcrag have made their decision, and are ready to take their concerns to the Emira. To Fury's Hold!"
"I didn't expect that to work..."
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Toro raises a sloshy stein of mead air and screams, For freedom! and even Squeeze offers his support but only sticks his tongue out.
Toro marches out to the crowd and takes one of the snake banners and thrusts it into the air.
Turning back to his Pathfinder partners, Well, if I die I don't owe a copper to those Sczarni bastards. If somehow this works, well imagine the stories we can share.
As one, the crowd stick out their tongues.
Stonemantle fills the party in on recent developments in and about the village.
“All oreads are on our side. Many ifrit have joined us, but unfortunately some had to be subdued.”
He sighs. “They put up a pretty good fight, but luckily no one on either side was seriously injured. The prisoners will remain under guard in the Council Hall until this is over.”
The Tribune looks each of you in the eye. “Any ifrit you find inside will be hardened fanatics. They will die for Tygora before they surrender.”
“We will start a diversion on the castle’s blindside. Good luck, my friends.”
A 500-foot road extends up from Crystalcrag to Fury’s Hold, giving the castle a commanding view of the whole town. The curtain wall around the palace’s courtyard is 20 feet high and sealed with an immense, barred bronze door.
Two vaguely humanoid mobile bonfires guard its entrance.
They call out angrily in Ignan: شما نقض مقررات منع آمد و. بازگشت به خانه های خود ر
Before switching to Taldane: “You are breaching the Emira's curfew! Return to your homes!”
Pink spits molten chips at Sifvery’s words. “It would be best if you obeyed the Emira’s Law!”
Green *snaps* and *crackles* at Fool. “I’ll hold your mead.”
“Then I’ll hold your fool head!”