Ruins of Pathfinder: The Shattered Star (Inactive)

Game Master Crustypeanut

Loot Tracker
Roll20 Campaign Link
Magnimar Map
Heidmarch Manor

Natalya's Map of the Crow


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Welcome to the Ruins of Pathfinder: The Shattered Star Gameplay Thread! Please do not post anything in this thread for now, except a single post to dot it for future visibility. I will let you know when you may post!


Male Human (Varisian) Dirge Bard 1

Dotting


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Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

 

The Exchange

Male Elf Fighter 3

Dotting


Male Human Fighter 2 | HP:22/22 | AC: 21 (FF: 19, Touch: 12) | Fort: +5, Ref: +2, Will: +0 | Per: +2 | Init: +2(+3)

Dot


Half-giant Warpriest | HP 19/19 | Blessings 2/4 | Fervor 1/4
Stats:
AC 17/11/16 | Fort +6 Ref +0 Will +56 | Init. +1 | Perception +3, Low-light vision | CM +5/16

dot


Dotting

Lantern Lodge RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4

Dot, goddamnit. Dot!


Dotting.


A torch flickers in the darkness, bringing light to that which is dark.

Slowly moving her way through a dark, dank corridor, its walls, floor, and ceiling made from carefully fitted masonry that has stood preserved for over 10,000 years, a beautiful, dark-haired, dusky-skinned woman steps lightly amongst the stones, watching carefully for any signs of movement. Her amber eyes reflect the torchlight as she slowly peers around a corner into a large room.

Nothing. Nothing but dust, mold, and pillars. Sighing in frustration for her lack of discovery, the woman continues forward - only to find her torchlight now reflecting off of a set of metal-encased double doors, the tiles of which are marked with ancient runes whose meaning are lost to the wary explorer. Curious, she moves towards the doors, stepping lightly, disturbing nothing as she goes. She reaches out with one hand, gingerly touching the door.

Grunting, suppressing a scream, she reels back, her gloved hand sizzling, for the doors are scorching hot to the touch. Gritting her teeth in pain, she looks over the doors, a frustrated look on her face. Shaking her head, she turns to the other detail she noticed within the room - opposite of this door; a pair of angled walls that lead to a pointed corner - inset within each wall is another door. These doors are made of ordinary stone - the same that has stood in this very same spot for millennia. Holding her burnt hand against her chest, trying to ignore the pain and not having any way of soothing it, she moves towards the doors - opening each one a peek, only to find that each lead to the very same room. A room, oddly enough, shaped like a large ‘X’, with a rectangular pillar in the center.

Continuing to gingerly move about, the woman enters the room and begins searching - the room is abnormally cold compared to the rest of the complex. A breeze can be felt, gently moving her dark hair, causing goose-bumps to rise on her skin. She shivers, but continues her search, taking her time and examining the entirety of the room.

It isn’t long before she finds something of note - a miniscule button on the central pillar, well hidden and almost invisible to see. She takes a moment, deciding if she wants to test it. Her answer is clear.

She pushes the button. The door rumbles to life, then opens. A green glow envelopes her and her torchlight, bringing life and light to that which is dark and cold.

A discovery is made that might change the future of Varisia - a discovery that might free her from her bonds - or forever enslave her people once and for all.

  

  

                                     R U I N S   O F   P A T H F I N D E R
                               T H E   S H A T T E R E D   S T A R
                                               Book I: Shards of Sin
                                        Part 1: A Game Afoot in Magnimar

  

  

      << Magnimar, Empire of Shalast | A few hours before Noon | Snowing, Cold | Oathday, Erastus 5th, 4715 AR >>

  

”ACHOO!”

A handsome man, his medium-length, brown hair now blown in front of his face thanks to the force of his sneeze, sits at a workbench, pieces of clockwork sitting in front of him. Snot covers his short, but well braided beard as he suffers from what appears to be a cold.

”Bah!” He snuffles, trying to clear his congested nose. ”Insufferable cold!” He wipes his nose on his gold-trimmed robe, only to look at his sleeve, disgusted, at what he leaves upon it. Using his other hand, he pushes his hair back to where it was, before muttering a word of incantation in the language of magic. As soon as it had appeared from his congested nose, the snot magically disappears from his robe - and from his beard. ”Impy?” Impy! Where in the name of Thassilon are you?” He calls out, his face contorted in annoyance, for his familiar.

A window opens, letting in the freezing cold from outside. ”Here, master - you do not need to shout.” The creature - a tiny, imp-like creature, at first seem to be just that - an imp. However, it is nothing of the sort. This small, silver being is instead made of metal and wood, with wings made of magically-enhanced canvas. Gears stick out from various points in the creature’s body, rotating with a clicking sound common to clocks. The creature’s head bears no face - instead, a featureless metal plate with a hinge at its base is where the face should be. Its voice sounds musical, as if coming from a wind-up music box. At the end of its long tail lies a wickedly sharp point made of a black metal. Frost from the cold outside encrusts the clockwork familiar’s body, but fails to slow the creature at the slightest.

”Close the - close the -” whatever he planned on saying is interrupted by another sneeze. This time, he is unable to get his arm up in time, and the clockwork contraption he was working on feels the full brunt of his sneeze. He sighs at the sight of his work covered in his snot. ”Close the window, damnit! You’re letting the warmth out!”

”My apologies, master.” With an obedience that the creature was created with, the clockwork follows its master’s commands and closes the window, latching it afterwards. ”Master, you have a guest. A woman by the name of ‘Koriah Azmeren’ seeks your audience. What would you like me to tell her?”

”Kor- Koriah? When did she- Tell her I’ll be right there!” The man flusters, obviously not expecting such company. He cleans himself up with his spell, then attempts his best to clear his nose, sucking inwards. A disgusting, wet sound is heard as he snuffs what he can and swallows it, coughing as he does so. ”Bah, why did she have to come today, of all days? First she has to see me like this, and I’m expecting other guests later to boot. Today’s going to be a busy day indeed!”

The clockwork nods, unaffected by the disgusting sound of its master trying to clear his nose, and flies to the door, opening it with surprising strength, exiting the room to deliver its master’s message.

”Lets just see what she’s dug up this time.. and then deal with the new recruits later.”

        * * * * *

Heidmarch Manor is located in the Alabaster District of Magnimar, not far from the city’s easternmost gate. The manor grounds are surrounded by a stone wall, but the front gate hangs open during the day - visitors are always welcome to the manor, which has recently come to double as Magnimar’s first Cypherlodge - and at one time, nearly became Varisia’s first Pathfinder Lodge under its former owners, Sheila and Canayven Heidmarch. With their disappearance around the time of Karzoug’s conquering of the city, the manor had been abandoned - until an Ardoc Brother-turned-Cyphermage named Taros Ardoc moved in and set up the place as a Cypherlodge, welcoming all members, new and old alike.

Within the manor’s walls sits four smaller cottages surrounding the main building - these cottages, known as the ‘Thassilonian Houses’, each named for a different ancient Thassilonian Kingdom, are used as guest houses. Their well-furnished, two-story abodes serving both visiting Cyphermages and guests alike.

The only expected guests arriving today, however, are a group of new recruits to the Lodge - seven in all, though an eighth was expected. These seven run the gamut of races and skills alike - each hailing from different regions of Shalast or elsewhere, all here for the same purpose.

To serve the Cyphermages.

As the members of the group arrive, either separately or together, they are led around the back of the manor to one of the guest cottages - the largest of them, known as the ‘Eurythnia House’ - to wait until their host is ready to receive them, as he has been unexpectedly delayed. They are led by a gruff half-elven guard who introduces himself as Ebrylis - he shows them to their quarters while they wait.

Of the seven, one stands out in particular - this massive, seven-foot tall behemoth nearly hits his orange-haired head on the cottage’s entryway as he enters. Dressed in a magnificent suit of four-mirror armor and carrying a blade bigger than his peers, the half-giant is an imposing sight, and bears the symbol of Zursvaater, the father of the Fire Giants, on his person.

Another man, an imposing sight himself but standing a foot shorter than his half-giant compatriot, also wears a suit of four-mirror armor - this shoanti’s armor, however, is branded not with his god’s symbol, but instead with the Sihedron rune, marking him as one of the recently created Sihedron Legion - a group of warriors dedicated to Karzoug, warriors who use the magic tied with their blood to aid them in combat.

Two more men, each roughly the same height as the Shoanti, squeeze themselves into the cottage whose room is quickly filling with so many imposing figures entering it. One, a scarred shoanti, sits dressed in a breastplate and is fitted with a pair of axes at his side - a former gladiator at the Serpent’s Run. The other, a hulking Orc wearing an outfit that identifies him as a former Sczarni, nearly breaks one of the cottage’s chairs as he sits his 350-lb weight onto the poor furniture.

Compared to these four brutes, the remaining three men look positively dainty in comparison - like children standing next to fully grown adults. One, a short and scrawny half-elf, still appears to look down at the others, despite physically looking up most of the time. The man’s sharp and handsome features, though bearing a clear elven heritage, betray an Ustalavan descent as well. Sitting next to him is his personal assistant - a squeamish looking man who looks thoroughly out of place.

The second one is a native to the area - one of the Versade family, a line of decadent nobles known for their outrageous and expensive parties. This man, dressed in a simple haramaki, sits quietly at the cottage’s table. His three personal guards, a trio consisting of a half-orc, a half-elf, and a human, wait outside.

The seventh and last recruit is an enigma - a man clad in a metal and leather helm with a fearsome, skeletal visage he hides his identity behind that rune-etched facade. Wearing floor-length robes of black cotton and silk trimmed with golden runes, his fashions are centuries old, that of Thassilonian aristocracy trimmed with a black fur mantle and worn over the garb of a traveler from distant lands. At his side, a towering polearm with an axe-like blade and a crescent hook on the back is his badge of office in service to his Runelord master Karzoug.

The seven, plus the various assistants and hirelings, are kept occupied with food while they wait - sadly nothing more than bread, water, and salted, dried fish caught locally.

Though they arrived relatively early, the time of their meeting, one hour before noon, arrived and passed minutes ago. Hopefully, this ‘unexpected delay’ won’t test their patience too much, lest Taros Ardoc end up with more than he can handle.
_____________________________________

Welcome to Ruins of Pathfinder: Shattered Star! You are free to RP amongst each other in the small, two-storied cottage until we are ready to proceed. Hopefully, this won't be any later than Friday/Saturday. The cottage is small, but cozy, built with masoned stone and a slate-shingled roof and stained glass windows depicting various Thassilonian designs - the Sihedron and the symbol of Lust being the most prominent. The ground floor consists of a
den centered around a wide stone hearth, a small kitchen with a side dining area, and an exterior sun porch. (Kept free of snow) The second-story loft contains private sleeping quarters for up to eight people. With the windows half-frozen over, the room is lit by both the hearth and magical light-fixtures to the wall that glow with a warm, yellow light.


Male Human Fighter 2 | HP:22/22 | AC: 21 (FF: 19, Touch: 12) | Fort: +5, Ref: +2, Will: +0 | Per: +2 | Init: +2(+3)

As the entourage walks through the grounds of the Lodge, Radyx pulls the furs tighter around his shoulders and watches the clouds of moisture mingle with the falling snow around him.

"Snow. In Erastus. Gozreh must have hit the tavern with Cayden Cailean this year."

He stamps his feet as the troop enters the house they are guided to. The situation he found himself in wasn't what he had envisioned upon his return to Magnimar, but lots of things had changed in the last few years, and Radyx was attempting to change with them, lest he end up stuck in the Shadow and begging for work, or worse, turning up missing and being made a slave again.

He quickly spotted the fire, and made his way through to stand beside it, seemingly not to care to jostle anyone standing in his path to do so. He held his hands out in front of him and quickly felt the cold leave his knuckles. He then took the time to size up the people his new employers had hired him to protect.

"Whatever it is these mages have planned, they sure did gather plenty of muscle. Guess they wanted to make sure Elfie and Fancy Pants didn't get their manicures trussed up."

Once he was warm, his focus moved to food, and he walks over and grabs himself a plate of the offered food, then moved to a chair to sit and eat. He obviously cares little for manners and etiquette, tearing into the bread and fish much like a beast.


Half-giant Warpriest | HP 19/19 | Blessings 2/4 | Fervor 1/4
Stats:
AC 17/11/16 | Fort +6 Ref +0 Will +56 | Init. +1 | Perception +3, Low-light vision | CM +5/16

Charbonardent had lost track of the days it had taken to walk from Xin-Shalast to Magnimar. He crossed the Storval Plateau down the Storval Stairs, followed the Lampblack River and the western side of the Ember Lake to the Yondabakari River, and entered the city of Magnimar. He stayed away from civilization, and civilization stayed away from him. When it didn’t, he carried the mark of the runelord.

The destination of his scroll was Heidmarch Manor, located in the Alabaster District of Magnimar. It took him several hours to work his giant way through the clogged streets of a city immensely larger than he had ever imagined. Fortunately, locals gave him wide berth to travel unbothered and trembled when he asked for directions.

Arriving at the manor, he delivered the scroll to a gruff half-elven guard who introduces himself as Ebrylis who read the scroll to him. ”… to enter the service of the Cyphermages at the Cypherlodge of Magnimar…” The guard assured him that he was in the right place and showed him to his quarters. The half-elf let Charbonardent keep the Sihedron-marked scroll box.

The cottage turned out to have others preparing for service to the Cyphermages, too. Whoever they were, he wondered. Lesser races, he remarked of his companions as he pulled lunch from his backpack. He then burns a haunch of meat that he had killed yesterday over the fire in the hearth. While cooking, he appraises the furniture in the den and dining room as fragile. With the blackened meat ready, he moves to the sun porch expecting everyone to move from his path. Stepping outside, his companions notice that he does not wear any cold weather gear or furs and appears unaffected by the cold temperature. He stands outside gnawing on his burnt offering to Zursvaater surveying the manor and skyline above the exterior wall. His breath is a regular white plume in freezing temperature.

Charbonardent stands well over seven feet tall with a powerful build, which makes him tremendously visible and remarkable. He has a shock of bright orange, shoulder length hair that glitters when clean. Four mirror armor with an obvious armored kilt peeks out from under a motley, voluminous explorer’s outfit, which is clearly too thin for cold weather. He shoulders a full backpack, large greatsword, and large greatclub. A large spiked gauntlet is strapped menacingly to his left hand.


Stats:
AC 16, T 12, FF 14; Fort +3, Ref +5, Will -1; CMD 17
HP:3/19

Outside, on the way to the cottage

Gods damned long mosey from the Shadow up here, they better make this worth my bloody time, Ferit thinks as he's ushered into a group with the other hired muscle, the costumed freak and the two rich looking weaklings. He clears his throat noisily and hacks a large gobbet of green goo into the snow lining their path. Ruddy twice romped winter won' give it a bloody rest. Feel fancy I been sick forever. He continues to stride forward, his shoulders slumped forward and arms hanging, like an upright gorilla. His ape-like posture takes a few inches off his six foot frame, but does nothing to diminish his solidity. The orc is a brick.

The bone spike piercing his septum has several snotsickles hanging frozen from it. At the ends of the peircing, his nose excretion has dripped onto the top of his tusks, forming a sort of frozen together mucus mustache. The orc's massive barrel chest is covered in a chain shirt, with a furry animal hide tabard over it. He's wearing leather pants, and knee-high fur lined boots. Over it all he wears a thick but mangy fur-lined cloak. His eyes are milky white, almost to point where one would assume him blind. His hair is also white and brittle, likely from malnutrition as a child. The skin around his eyes is tattooed solid black, as are his lower lip and several angled stripes across his forehead. When he reaches up to adjust the black ushanka protecting his balding pate from the cold wind, more solid black tribal style tattoos can be seen on his biceps peeking out from under his armor. Blooming thingamijig is always crushing me lugholes.

He sizes up the other larger members of the little group, taking in their fancy weapons and armor. The two Shoanti draw particular interest from him. Wonder which Quah they are...or were, by the looks of 'em. The orc's only visible weapon is a cestus strapped tightly over his meaty left paw.

Upon arriving in the cottage

When it becomes clear that they will be required to wait even more, Ferit rudely says to the servants, "Tell yer master to jiffy the fak up. I dinnae come here to wait." He trundles over to the fire first, and leans in close, allowing the heat to thaw his face. Once all his nasal expulsions start to become liquid again, he begins the disgusting process of scraping them off his tusks and piercing with a long jagged fingernail. He flicks the mucus into the flames, chuckling as it crackles and pops. Once that's done, he doffs the ushanka and goes to take a seat near the food. When he sits down, there is an alarming creak of protest from the chair, and one of the legs cracks. He gives the piece of furniture a threatening look, before loosening his boots and giving his manhood a good scratching. "Leather trousers," he says by way of excuse to no one in particular. With a wary dog-like glance at the Shoanti also digging into the fare, Ferit begins to shovel food and drink into his mouth, one tankard sized fistful at a time. At least the had the ruddy good grace ta feed us.


Male Human Arcanist 1

It was odd to see how much--and yet how little--Magnimar had changed since the return of Karzoug. The Runelord's awakening had been but the first event in a long downward spiral for Golarion, and not even the greatest of them. That honor went to the second coming of earthfall; though truthfully it did not warrant comparison to that ancient catastrophe. It seemed odd that only now, years later, did the climate seem to be changing from the earth-shattering meteor strike, but wide as his studies had been in the near 8 years Wilhem had spent in Kaer Maga's greatest library they had not included any significant research on weather patterns.

Wilhem was surprised how deeply his emotions ran at seeing the city again. He thought he had left it behind long ago, but he should have realized that such bonds were not so easily severed; as much as he had learned, he was yet young and inexperienced still.

His gaze turned from the estates of Heidmarch Manor, to the north where his family manor still stood. He had viewed it these days past--from afar--and though it still stood it was begging to show the signs of the families' dwindling fortunes.

It had not taken much to learn of their fall from grace; with minions of Karzoug milking every drop they could from the city the parties of the Versades had gone from extravagant displays to ruinous. Not even his step-father's wealth and connections had stood up under the strain of keeping appearances under Karzoug's rule it seemed.

The whole thing put him in a rather cheerful mood. His prospects looked good; he was finally being given an opportunity to prove himself and advance his station, his horrible shrew of a mother was ruined, and though his sister's fate yet eluded him he was sure he would be able to find out what had become of her; he'd only been in the city a couple days after all.

Now however he had more pressing matters to attend to, or at least so he had thought. After presenting himself at the Manor he had found himself guided here to await a presentation to the leader of the new Magnimarian Cypherlodge. It had been quite a surprise to discover that said leader was none other than one of the famous Ardoc brothers, and he wondered absently if he would have the opportunity to discover what had caused Taros' own defection.

Even knowing who his new employer was he had not expected quite the reception he had received. Being left with this strange mix of brutes and strangers as the time for the meeting came and passed. Even having studied ancient Thassilon he was still often surprised by the strange new kingdom Varisia had metamorphosed into; the Shoanti Legionnaire and who--or indeed what--ever the rune-masked figure was were prime examples. Even had he not possessed other reasons motivating him to join the Cyphermages he likely would have been drawn to them out of pure fascination.

He waits as the muscular half of the group make themselves comfortable and procure food--such people could be testy when others dared to get in their way--before doing so himself, taking a seat beside the burly orc, seeming unconcerned by his lack of manners or indeed the occasional piece of bread or flake of fish that came flying his way. He eats more calmly, but no less eagerly; even such meager fare is still more palatable than the trail rations Gralk had procured for them prior to leaving Riddleport, and it had been a long journey...

Wilhem while still quite young appears somehow older. Wearing simple, well-worn clothes padded against the cold and a thick belly-warmer his prematurely grey hair only enhances the feel of age surrounding him. His slim frame, uncalloused hands, and often detached bearing suggest a scholar or an official, but he seems relaxed and unconcerned by the hulking figures in the room around him, He carries with him a stout walking stick, and bore a crossbow hanging from his back which he seemed comfortable with prior to divesting it into the care of his guards who remained outside the grounds.


Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

Having risen this morning in the squalor of an inn of no particular note—an affront of a pigsty called Ferundo's Flophouse—the trip from the reek of the city's lower reaches and up to Naos by way of The Arvensoar finds the Ustlavian man's spirits rising with each step that propels him forward. While Valko is grateful to his ever absent father for the opportunities afforded him in Magnimar, being forced to constantly rub elbows with commoners no doubt bound for inevitable slavery proves a constant tax on his focus and stamina. When each suck of air threatens to bring with it the reek of the sick and destitute, merely maintaining his own health in the face of such overwhelming adversity proves to be more of a chore than he had accounted for before relocating to the City of Monuments. Nevertheless, he had persevered—and with an exceptional display of loyalty and acumen, naturally. His genius fully demonstrated, his rise to a place of esteem among Xin-Shalast's upper crust was all but cemented. His first step behind him, the second led him to the newly minted Cypherlodge of Magnimar. The loom of the structure and its several guesthouses over the surrounding walls are a promising sight to the young wolf*. Pausing his approach, he soaks in the prestigious accommodations before him; indeed, this would mark the beginning of his ascent to his own prestige.

* young wolf is going to be a frequently demonstrated nickname.

Ebrylis is not something Valko expects. Though a half-elf like himself, Valko observes little in the way of common threads between the two. The man likely chaffs under the oppression of acting as little more than hired muscle for those few of stifling intellect under whom he serves. The guard's demeanor does little to dissuade the thought, gruff and callous to a fault, as he leads on to Eurythnia House with little care given and even less hospitality offered. Such treatment does little to dampen Valko's mood, however, and he prescribes Ebrylis with as little regard as he himself is afforded. Turning to the beady-eyed rat of a human accompanying him, coat thick with the stains of myriad experiments and concoctions long passed, Valko quips at his lab assistant and hired help with an aloof look to match.

"Come now, Renfeld; do not dawdle! I'll not have my reputation besmirched by idle meanderings of a dullard. And do wipe your feet, simpleton. We are no longer among the gypsy laden throngs of the Lowcleft, and must comport ourselves accordingly, yes?" Nodding in obedience, Renfeld scuttles more than walks forward to keep in step with Valko. Ascending the stoop into the building, the half-elf inwardly beams at the thought of what impressive array of scholars are to be found within.

His disappointment is as abject as it is profound. As the day wears on and the rest of what is to be his fellow recruits file into Eurythnia House, the sinking feeling that continues to clutch at his stomach does not abate. Archaeologists, professors, scientists, historians, and masters of the arcane. Perhaps the Cyphermages have fallen on difficult times indeed that they are forced to acquire the services of so disparate and crude an array of help. Lissala take them, I wonder if half of them have ever seen the inside of a tome. Valko reclines in his seat, nibbling absentmindedly on an overly salted chunk of what he is forced to deduce is some horrible attempt at salmon jerky. Perhaps what confronts me now is an issue of financial calamity. Is it cheaper to recruit help than hire help now? Has the winter affected things thusly? Curious. Apart from the fellow beside the gluttonous orc, they look more suited to butchery than pursuing the lost secrets of Thassilon. I would very much like to hear what Taros Ardoc has to say, I think; perhaps there is yet explanation to accompany this parade of cultures he has gathered.

"A motley assembly, indeed," Valko remarks to everyone and no one, "though I cannot help but profess a curiosity as to our patron's selection methods. Capable slayers and pit-fighters, no doubt, but those are hardly accolades to which the Cyphermages are often accredited. I think I would very much like to hear of what qualifications each of you offer to what I had presumed—though find myself second-guessing now—would be a long career of excavation and reclamation. That would not be too bold of me, would it?" The question arrives over the rim of his cup, at which point Valko sips the water slowly and noisily. His eyes survey the room with an almost hungry gleam as he does so.


Male Human Arcanist 1

Wilhem looks up from the piece of bread he is chewing as the only other 'normal' looking person in the room speaks up. He hides a smile behind the heel of the loaf, leaning back in his chair as he swallows, wondering what sort of response such a remark would elicit. He surprises himself a little by being the first to speak up.

"I do find myself caught off guard by those assembled here, but appearances often mislead. I'm a scholar and magician, I know some useful spells and have an interest in history; a warrior I am not. It will be good to have people we can rely on; this can be a dangerous profession. What of yourself? What skills do you bring to the group?" Gralk had taught Wilhem the wisdom of having diverse friends. Their relationship had matured over the years of their acquaintance and despite very different experiences, ideals and outlooks they had remained good friends. He was especially grateful for the Half-Orc's continued friendship, as the funds provided to him by the librarians had long ago been exhausted; without Gralk he expected that he would now be facing his task on his own.


Stats:
AC 16, T 12, FF 14; Fort +3, Ref +5, Will -1; CMD 17
HP:3/19

Ferit stops eating for a second when Valko begins talking, a smoked fish hanging partially out of his mouth and the piece of bread which was going to serve as a ramrod to shove it down his gullet hovering in midair. Ferit's eyes visibly glaze over at the cavalcade of advanced vocabulary. As he finishes his inquiry Ferit leans slightly to one side, and passes a large amount of gas. What the bonk did he just say?

He watches as the little prematurely aged man next to him answers the query, some measure of comprehension dawning on his features. He completes the bread ramming maneuver, and replies while chewing "I punch things, and scare lads what need scaring. Yeh're going to hae to say what yeh mean if yeh want me to understand yeh without this little fellow to translate." He gives Wilhelm a light prod with his elbow to indicate which little fellow. An elbow which was already hanging over into the human's personal bubble anyway, due to the breadth of the orc's shoulders, and his general inability to contain himself in the too-small chair.


Male Human Fighter 2 | HP:22/22 | AC: 21 (FF: 19, Touch: 12) | Fort: +5, Ref: +2, Will: +0 | Per: +2 | Init: +2(+3)

"I'm more than capable, Elfie. You must not be from 'round here. Name's Radyx, and I was the best gladiator Serpent's Run ever had the privilege of having."

He then tears his hunk of bread in half as Fancy Pants and the orc talks, then replies, "What Fancy Pants and Elfie mean, is what good are we to them." Radyx was smart enough to catch the disdain in the elf bloods words. As such he directed his next words at him, "And what is it that you bring to the table, bub? Aside from a puffed up ego and a silver spoon between your haunches to match your silver tongue?"


Half-giant Warpriest | HP 19/19 | Blessings 2/4 | Fervor 1/4
Stats:
AC 17/11/16 | Fort +6 Ref +0 Will +56 | Init. +1 | Perception +3, Low-light vision | CM +5/16

Charbonardent finishes gnawing the bone of his lunch. His face bears a collection of juice-covered black flavor crystal remnants. The bone bounces off the wall where he tosses it while wondering if there are any dogs living here. He steps inside the den when the conversation starts. Listening to the group of lesser races measure their male members, he grabs a tankard from the kitchen and fills it with pure water with a snap of his fingers. Tankard in hand, he returns to the den and leans against a wall not trusting the furniture.

In the uncomfortable silence of the gladiator’s retort, Charbonardent wonders if someone really has a silver spoon or silver tongue. After a few seconds of the distraction, he remembers his question that he had while eating. He clears his throat to get attention and then asks, ”What’s a Cyphermage?”


Male Human Arcanist 1

It seems even Wilhem's apparent acceptance of bad manners and rudeness is tested when Ferit relieves himself so, the Arcanist forced to pinch his nose as he gags on the stench.

When Charbonardent returns and voices his question Wilhem stares at him for a few moments, slowly lowering his hand. "Oh dear... The Cyphermages are who we are here to see in hopes of joining them. They study the great and ancient empire of Thassilon, and try to uncover it's ancient secrets, ruins, and items of power, for their own benefit and the glory of Karzoug." he doesn't quite manage to keep an amused tone out of his voice at the last.


Half-giant Warpriest | HP 19/19 | Blessings 2/4 | Fervor 1/4
Stats:
AC 17/11/16 | Fort +6 Ref +0 Will +56 | Init. +1 | Perception +3, Low-light vision | CM +5/16

Charbonardent genuinely listens to the self-proclaimed 'scholar and magician' who hopes to join the Cyphermages. Not that he had a choice, which was alright by him. Then, the little man had an amused tone about Karzoug, which causes him to furrow his brow.

"What's so funny about Karzoug?" he asks pointing at Wilhem with his tankard slopping water on the floor.


Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

Rolling his eyes at the accusatory tone being leveled at him, Valko begins flicking his wrist before his face as if were possible to simply wave away the wounded pride of those with thicker skulls. Ultimately, he reinforces a previous assumption on his part regarding Radyx.

"A pit-fighter, then? No doubt your exploits and heroics in the Serpent's Run were without rival, though I fail to note any relevance accompanying such a skill set as it pertains to a career of scholarly pursuits and the cataloging of ancient relics borne of ancient Thassilon. I am then forced to assume that you are to be the brawn that serves as dissuasive intermediary between the less savory denizens of these dungeons and ruins—a necessary role, of course, when plumbing the depths of said environs. The question that remains, simply due to being a departure from the norm, is why the Cypherlodge is recruiting the crude and brutish directly into their ranks rather than hiring on bodyguards and the like as they have up until now? Is there some development that makes such arrangements too complicated; some unforeseen complication that can be bypassed by opening their ranks to an altogether different flavor of membership?" Valko props his elbows on the table, allowing his right thumb to rest firmly against his lips in a decidedly pensive look. He is brought out of his reverie rather quickly by the assault of smacking and snarfing coming from the beady eyed man in a stained lab coat seated beside him.

"But you ask of my own qualifications?" A self-important smirk worms its way onto Valko's face as he makes an official introduction. "I am Valko. Valko van Richten." He allows the statement to hang about the room for dramatic effect, though the clueless look on the faces of most elicits yet another groan of disbelief from the Ustlavian half-elf. "The wealth of knowledge at my command is stifling by any one's standards—doubly so in present company. Simply put, I'm the person who can inform those of more violent inclinations how to put down the nasties that lurk in the forgotten depths of Thassilon. I'm the person who stops these forgotten depths from claiming an entire expedition that lacks the wherewithal to survive the failsafes and defenses put in place centuries ago by the most paranoid and genius trapsmiths and dweomercrafters the world has ever known. And perhaps most importantly, I'm the person capable of gaining access to the treasures hidden within these treacherous vaults. I am the keen eye and cunning that enables such expeditions as the Cyphermages are infamous for in the first place."

I am the terror that flaps in the night!


Male Human Fighter 2 | HP:22/22 | AC: 21 (FF: 19, Touch: 12) | Fort: +5, Ref: +2, Will: +0 | Per: +2 | Init: +2(+3)
Charbonardent wrote:

”What’s a Cyphermage?”

Radyx rolls his eyes at the giant's idiocy. "Yup, all brawn, no brains. D%#&ed lout doesn't even know who is handing out the pay."

Valko van Richten wrote:
"Is there some development that makes such arrangements too complicated; some unforeseen complication that can be bypassed by opening their ranks to an altogether different flavor of membership?"

"Probably some way 'round the tax collectors someway somehow," Radyx reaches for another hunk of bread, caring little that others haven't eaten yet.

Valko van Richten wrote:
"The wealth...first place."

Radyx couldn't help but feel an incredible amount of disdain for this elf blood that stands testament to the very thing he had grown to detest in society. The same thing that he desperately wanted yet eluded his reach.

Power.

Prestige.

Wealth.

Valko had clearly come from a line of such comforts, though obviously not from around here. He hadn't earned it. He hadn't bled for it. He had it all handed to him, and that caused a fire to burn in Radyx that could have melted the cursed snow falling beyond the walls of the guest house. He kept his temper in check, however.

"Easy Radyx, this little twit is likely the very bugger they are paying you to keep safe. Don't do anything brash."

Yet, even so, his own ego could not be so easily sated.

He rose from his chair, feigning recognition, "OH, Yer Highness!" he delivered an overdone bow, holding his arms out to his side as he does so. As he returns to his seated position, the sarcasm can clearly be seen in the smirk on his scarred face.

"Look, Elfie, unlike Big Boy over there, some of us are smart enough to know what we're here for. Me, I figure they hired me to keep you and Fancy Pants safe from the baddies of these 'ruins', like you said. And I figure I'll do a fine enough job of that, especially if the rest of these buggers can fight halfway decent. But don't be talking down to the ones who are supposed to be keeping yer sorry hides safe, it's not smart business, catch my drift?"

At this point, Radyx decided continuing to bicker with the elf blood was also probably bad business, so he leaned back and ate some more, and began scheming up nicknames for the rest of the group.

Which will be revealed as necessary...mwahahahaha.


Male Human Arcanist 1

"Oh nothing in particular; I actually quite admire him, all that marvelous knowledge and power. His obsession with wealth is a bit onerous however." He allows the conversation to drop unless Charbonardent seeks to make an issue out of it, focusing more on the half-elf and the gladiator. Even if the Half-Elf had a point he was making a mess of putting it forward, a nice way to alienate everyone in the room that...

The gladiator was making a much better impression however; though he could do without the derisive nickname. Radyx... he tried to recall if Gralk had ever mentioned the fellow, but it had been a long time since he'd told the young nobleman stories of his fighting days. Radyx looked old enough that he might remember his companion however. "Tell me Radyx. Did you ever face a Half-Orc named Gralk in the run? He was well ranked back about 15 years back. Or are you a more recent participant?"


Male Human Fighter 2 | HP:22/22 | AC: 21 (FF: 19, Touch: 12) | Fort: +5, Ref: +2, Will: +0 | Per: +2 | Init: +2(+3)
Wilhem Versade wrote:
"Tell me Radyx. Did you ever face a Half-Orc named Gralk in the run? He was well ranked back about 15 years back. Or are you a more recent participant?"

Radyx begins to ponder the name, until he hears mention of the timeframe of Gralk's existence there. Turning to Wilhelm, he states bluntly, "Naw, that was before my time. I didn't come to the Run until they started having bloodsport, real bloodsport. None of the showboat crap that he must've done. Before Karzoug took it over, all that the city would allow was fake blades and the like. Now, it's becoming more an' more the real thing. Live or die. So, only the best get to come out to tell the tale."

He sits up as if to go into a big tale of his gladiatorial exploits, but stops himself and leans back into his seat. "No need to get any of these other bodyguards thinking they need to prove something at my expense. Good way to become a target is to give others a reason to see you as one..."


Half-giant Warpriest | HP 19/19 | Blessings 2/4 | Fervor 1/4
Stats:
AC 17/11/16 | Fort +6 Ref +0 Will +56 | Init. +1 | Perception +3, Low-light vision | CM +5/16

Charbonardent allows the conversation of Karzoug to drop. The human's answer is satisfactory.

Now this gladiator, did he just call me Big Boy and insinuate that I am not smart? No, he must be referring to the orc over there who broke his chair. In his years in the runelord's army, Charbonardent has never been disrespected by lesser races unless of course they represent the runelord, so he struggles to accept that disrespect is intended.

He continues to drink his water and stare at the fire in the hearth. After of minute of meditation, he concludes the fire is too low and adds more fuel. His hands staying a little longer in the fire than a human could tolerate. When his temple of fuel is complete, he lights several places with snaps of his fingers.


Stats:
AC 16, T 12, FF 14; Fort +3, Ref +5, Will -1; CMD 17
HP:3/19

Turning to Radyx, on his right side, Ferit says, "I reckon me cock's let more blood than F*cko Van Richten over 'ere. Perhaps our new bosses pulled head from fanny long enough to realize that the world's a violent bloody gaff."

Between he and Radyx, the food at their end of the table is pretty much gone. "Speakin' of the boss, where is this blooming bloke? I dinnae freeze my goolies orf walking across town for a tad of salted river fish!" Ferit slams his fists down onto the table to enunciate his point, almost capsizing it in his direction and cracking one of the planks. He looks even more annoyed. Furniture's fer bleedin' halflings in this gaff.

"Does anyone hae a smoke? After eating this shite I think I feel my first ever spell coming on...a stinking cloud!" he continues, laughing uproariously at his own joke. "Prolly bessy fer me to cast it outwith or we might not make it to the first job," he chuckles pointing to the small porch in front of the cottage. He levers himself out of his chair, causing the cracked leg to break the rest of the way and nearly tumbling Ferit onto the floor as it collapses. "Great orc mother's furry cunny!" he curses, kicking the pile of wood with a hobnailed boot. "They think they were hirin' a bunch o' childs?"

Grumbling he starts to make his way for the door, squeezing his bulk through the crowded room. He stops to rest one grimy paw on Valko's shoudler, and leaning down close enough for the bouquet of sour sweat, flatulence, salted fish and spicy pepper breath to really waft over the nobleman he asks, "How about it F*cko, fancy a smoke?"


Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

"My assessments seem to be meeting their mark with resounding clarity. That any find reason to be offended by simple observations is unwarranted—if any here are indeed muscle-for-hire, chaffing under such a label is as counterproductive as it is frivolous. Much as it would be for one such as I to take offense at the orc's misguided appraisal of my own flagging ability for swordsmanship, thuggery, or what have you. I know my place, and I know it well. I believe it would be mutually beneficial if we all dispensed with the egos and owned up to our crafts—our specialties—that we might know what to expect and depend on from one another should we all indeed be conscripted towards similar tasks and ends under the auspices of Magnimar's new Cypherlodge." Sipping his water once more to force down the vestiges of sodium laden seafood, Valko offers a response to Ferit. "As to the volume of blood on my own hands? I am no slayer, admittedly. I am no stranger to unsavory work, however. I have done much in the service of Karzoug's influence here in Magnimar, by any means available to me. It is not always the strong who emerge as victors."

Shaking his head briefly, and abandoning any semblance of eating the ragged bit of leather being passed off as fish in the guesthouse, Valko turns his attention directly to Radyx, a hint of annoyance in his features.

"If you insist on navigating the path of bigotry, I would suggest that you deign to at least to direct your insults to their actual mark. I am not an elf. I am not a human. Much like the questionable banquet to which we have been treated, I suppose. Though comprised of fish and salt, it is clearly anything but at this point. Half-elves have existed in this world for generations beyond reckoning. Certainly such beings are far beyond the realm of enigma, yes? " Hoping such a plea does not fall on deaf ears while inwardly admitting such a thought is about as likely to occur as the scarred dullard spontaneously developing an appreciation for third era Gastashi sculpture reliefs, the young wolf distracts himself by turning his eyes to the fire-capped mountain that dominates the area directly before the hearth.

"And what of you, behemoth? Pardon my bluntness, but your own ancestry eludes me. I profess to never having encountered your like in my travels or studies abroad."

At the orc's invitation, Valko visibly balks, though not without a moment of consideration.

"I have no desire to partake of any such vice, though if you catch sight of our would-be employer or servants thereof approaching, do announce their arrival, would you? I begin to wonder if they even remember our appointment."


Male Human Fighter 2 | HP:22/22 | AC: 21 (FF: 19, Touch: 12) | Fort: +5, Ref: +2, Will: +0 | Per: +2 | Init: +2(+3)
Valko van Richten wrote:
"...I believe it would be mutually beneficial if we all dispensed with the egos and owned up to our crafts—our specialties—that we might know what to expect and depend on from one another should we all indeed be conscripted towards similar tasks and ends under the auspices of Magnimar's new Cypherlodge."

Radyx tries not to show it, but the fact that he is obviously under Valko's skin entertains him to no end. He points his chunk of fish leather at Valko and says, "I agree, and I've just been sayin' what I'm good at! I ain't chaffin' about it, Elfie."

Valko van Richten wrote:
"If you insist on navigating the path of bigotry, I would suggest that you deign to at least to direct your insults to their actual mark. I am not an elf. I am not a human. Much like the questionable banquet to which we have been treated, I suppose. Though comprised of fish and salt, it is clearly anything but at this point. Half-elves have existed in this world for generations beyond reckoning. Certainly such beings are far beyond the realm of enigma, yes? "

He raises his arms as if to imply he hasn't done anything wrong and says, "Who said it was an insult, you've got elf blood in ya don't-cha? Didn't realize you types were so sensitive about your bloodline. Besides, Elfie rolls off the tongue easier than 'Humanie' or 'Mr. van Richten, sir!'" adding a mock salute to the end of his sentence.

Radyx watches as the orc gets up close and personal with Valko, and delist in the discomfort it places on the elf-blood. Once Valko refuses, he continues...

"You're being a bit touchy, Elfie. Fancy Pants and Big Boy ain't complaining, and it's leaps and bounds better than what Snotsickle's call in' ya."

Before anyone can actually complain, he leans over and calls out to the orc as he heads to smoke, he says, "Make sure to close that door if you go out, Snotsickle. It's cold as all Hell out there." He then picks up a couple pieces of the broken chair and says, "Heads up Big Boy, more wood fer the fire. And Elfie's talking to ya," then tosses them the giant's direction.


Human (Runeslaved Shoanti) Bloodrager (Arcane) 1 AC 18/12/16 / HP 13/13 / F +4 R +2 W +0 (+2 vs arcane spells / +9 vs cold weather) / Init. +2/ Perc. +4 / Sense Motive +0

::Snow swept along the streets of The City of Monuments as Al'cazar pushed his way down another street given over to the impending winter. Thanks to the might of his master, Runelord Karzoug, whose name drowns out all others, the travel between the Capital and Magnimar had gone quickly. For those rich enough... or privileged enough to afford it, teleportation gates, carefully protected and guarded linked the two city's. So it was that the Legionnaire of the Sihedron Legion had, under the orders of the lord of the Shahlaria made his way towards his first mission.

Trudging along through the Irespan District, Al'cazar turned his sight towards the black granite building that was known as Pediment Building. The Hells had been busy since his Lord had come to power. Vagrancy was a crime. Sedition was a crime. Casting of magic without the proper permit was a crime. Al'cazar cared little either way for such things, though he didn't mind seeing the occasional unsanctioned mage taking a short drop from a long rope. Magic was dangerous and should be controlled, and who better to dictate what was dangerous then the most powerful wizard the world had? No, he had his own law and his own rules. To protect. To serve. And to kill if necessary should those he protected be found unworthy of the mantle bestowed upon them by his lord.

Reaching the large marble wall that marked the entrance to the Alabaster District, Al'cazar was met by a pair of towering stone giants that stood mute, like statues before the carefully guarded gates. Inclining his neck so the giants could see the branded rune, the legionnaire bowed. I have business at the Cypherlodge on behalf of the Commandant of Shahlaria. One slowly craned his neck towards the man, skin rippling like stone breaking. Silently the giants stepped aside and allowed the man to pass into the heart of the city's powerful and wealthy. Nodding to himself, Al'cazar stepped though. There were many crimes in the Kingdom of Shalast, but no one would be stupid enough to bear the mark of the Sihedron upon their skin without the authority to do so. To wear the brand marked one as Tor'val, private property of the Runelord himself; a slave in truth... but a slave with the ability to rise to a position of great power and open authority, including authority over those who are free.

Finally after the long trip through the heart of the city, Al'cazar reached his destination; the Cipherlodge of Taros Ardoc.::

Until now, Al'cazar had remained silent as he stood next to the warming fire of the Eurythnia House. For the first time in years he had been away from the city-fortress that had been his training ground, home and prison. It seemed odd, almost surreal to the man. Internally he knew he was not free. He could never be free. In fact some small part of Al'cazar knew that was not what he wanted anymore. The trials, tests and experiments by the Runelord had changed him. The memories of his people were long gone. All that was left was hatred as cold as the winter outside and below that anger. Anger at the mages that destroyed his family, anger at his people for being too weak to stand up and anger at himself for his helplessness as a child. But hatred could be a useful tool if carefully molded, and Al'cazar's hatred had been born into his blood. Casually, Al'cazar looked up from the fire where he had been deep in thought... he should have announced himself the magister sooner, but something inside of him enjoyed the idea of defiance. Regardless, the large, brooding man turned towards the slight half-elf.

You wish to know my ability? What I do? Al'cazar shrugged. I am Tor'val. I kill and bleed for my master Runelord Karzoug, whose name drowns out all others... and you talk too much, outsider. Al'cazar rumbled at Valko, stretching his neck to the left with an audible pop. The branded Sihedron stood out sharply on his neck, livid red against the man's pale white skin. You bark like a dog wanting to hear the sound of its own voice. Pushing past the man who clearly loved his own intelligence far too much, the Legionnaire made his way towards the shrouded and masked form who thus far has remained silent but his position remains all too clear. Drawing a single mailed hand up and forming it into a fist, Al'cazar clanged it across his armored chest while bowing slightly at the waist and producing a wax sealed scroll in offering to the man. You must be Magister Isroth, whom the Commandant of the Shahlaria instructed me to deliver this message to.

Note to Magister Isroth:

Magister Istroth,

As you may be aware, our master, Runelord Karzoug, whose name drowns out all others, has recently formed the Legion of the Sihedron. Each Legionnaire was hand picked from the finest of his lords slave-stock and carefully screened for magical aptitude tied to their blood. It is by our Lords command that Al'cazar has been selected to serve as your Deathwatch Guard. He will protect and watch over you, so long as you continue to follow the authority of our lord. Be warned however, that the Legionnaire is no simple slave, but a Tor'val and of private property to our master and not you. Istroth, this is a great honor for one such as yourself, as only a handful of Legionnaires have trained to date. Do not disappoint us in this decision.

Master of the Fourth Gate,
General of our Lord Armies,
Commandant of the Shahlaria Fortress,

-Viskex the Ember-Lord


Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

Valko begins wiping feverishly away at the shoulder of his high collared coat where the orc's hand had made contact. As yet another of the musclebound brutes in the room seek to deride the half-elf, his eyes begin to nearly glaze over. Slowly he turns back to glance towards Wilhem, now finished scrubbing the stain on his duster.

"Yet another burly automaton for our endeavor. How quaint! I suppose I should be thankful there exists at least one among our number for whom verbosity is not an ineffable affront to their sensitivities. To have bested foes both brave and unnatural in war and sport, only to be wounded thus by mere conversation and pedantics? It beggars disbelief and beds irony. And here I thought trusty Renfeld would lay claim to crowns both malodorous and dim; the day is full of surprises. Perhaps I shall prostrate myself before Lissala's clergymen, beseeching and entreating in the hopes that Taros Ardoc's own inclinations are not reflected in the majority of his chosen agents, else the tasks assigned us shall be a wretched affair, indeed."

Resigning himself to an overwhelming mix of boredom and disdain, the young wolf fetches a thick codex from a pack hanging from Renfeld's chair and busies himself reading through the complex scrawls and equations held therein.


Male Human Arcanist 1

"Yes, I had heard rumors of such changes to the entertainment. Gralk is getting on a bit now, especially for one of his blood, but I think he would enjoy the chance to spar with someone he has not trained with before. I would appreciate you keeping it friendly though, I'd rather not have my friend maimed..." he offers to Radyx, before turning back to the greater conversation, simply sighing.

He was beginning to think that Ferit was a little too crude, and regretting his choice of seat but was relieved to see the orc part before he released another odorous emission. Alas he was not spared Valko's attention. "Yes, keep insulting them, that is bound to work." he replied dryly, leaving Valko to his book as the Legionnaire finally spoke up. He watched the exchange with interest; he hadn't been able to learn much of the goings on in Xin-Shalast, at least not with the funds that remained to him anyway. Everything had a price these days, at least almost everything...


Stats:
AC 16, T 12, FF 14; Fort +3, Ref +5, Will -1; CMD 17
HP:3/19

Ferit raises one eyebrow in puzzlement at Valko's response to his offer. He pats the mans shoulder a few more times in between his efforts as scrubbing it while saying, "I've got no ruddy idea what yeh're yakking about, but I'll take that as a no. It's just as well, listening to yeh is giving me a damned headache."

As he turns to stomp out onto the porch, he casts a wicked look back in Radyx's direction, giving him a wink. He takes a single step towards the door before a feigned look of surprise appears on his face and he rips a wind worthy of the Eye of Abendego. The gale force is directed squarely at Valko. "Whoops! Guess I couldn't hold it after all," he says innocently.

Ferit heads out onto the porch, grinning evilly the whole way. He leaves his stench behind for everyone to enjoy. For Valko the experience is particularly taxing. So bad is the scent that he wonders for a second if the orc was telling the truth. If he somehow had a sorcerous bloodline and was indeed manifesting a spontaneous casting of the stinking cloud spell. Then his gag reflex kicks in.

Outside, Eurythnia House Porch

Ferit leans against the front of the house, chuckling to himself for a few moments. Then he cups his hands around his mouth and begins shouting at the top of his lungs, "ARDOC! ARDOC! ARDOC!..." over, and over, and over.


Half-giant Warpriest | HP 19/19 | Blessings 2/4 | Fervor 1/4
Stats:
AC 17/11/16 | Fort +6 Ref +0 Will +56 | Init. +1 | Perception +3, Low-light vision | CM +5/16

By the time Charbonardent turns his attention from his altar to answer Valko's question, the half-elf buries his nose in a book and does not appear to want an answer. Charbonardent then gazes at the wooden pieces of chair on the stone floor that the gladiator had tossed toward the hearth. He looks at the gladiator and after a pause says with a wave of his hands providing somatic components of Spark, "My lord accepts your offer to his gift." He then slowly collects the flaming pieces and reverently feeds them into the blaze.


Male Human Fighter 2 | HP:22/22 | AC: 21 (FF: 19, Touch: 12) | Fort: +5, Ref: +2, Will: +0 | Per: +2 | Init: +2(+3)
Charbonardent wrote:
"My lord accepts your offer to his gift."

"Good for him," Radyx says, the words as dry as the fish they had been gnawing on.

In response to Wilhelm's offer to spar with this Gralk individual, Radyx replies, "I've done my fair share of sparring, don't get me wrong. But, hopefully this Ardoc fella can keep us busy and well paid enough that I won't have time for that sort of thing. And if he can't, I don't fancy risking busting knuckles and ribs, mine or anyone else's, just for kicks. When I spar, I do it to learn something, and I doubt some showboat old timer has any tricks worth anything when it comes to real fighting. All the hot shots who tried to move into the real thing ended up getting themselves killed," he takes a swig of water, washing out the salt and crumbs in his mouth, then swallows it down before continuing, "Granted, some of 'em did die real fancy like, but they all died, none the less..."

Radyx sits quietly as the other Shoanti speaks up. And walks over to Skully, presenting him with some scroll. "Now that one there, he has something about him. If nothing else, he don't like Elfie either, so that's a mark in his favor far as I'm concerned!"

Just then, he catches wind of the foulness Snotsickle had left behind him as he walked out. While he hoped Elfie got the bulk of it, the power of its odor nearly made him vomit up the paltry meal he had just eaten. He gags, then fans his hand in front of his nose, trying to clear the air. "By the Gods, Snotsickle!" he calls out, "What in the blazes did you eat, cause that sure ain't from the fish!" Radyx chuckles heartily, continuing to fan the air in front of him.


Male Gnome Orace 1

A pale, gaunt gnome comes bustling into the lodge, muttering to himself. ”Had to walk clear across Magnimar, if I’d known they wouldn’t let me ride Nessa I would’ve arrived earlier. You'd think in Shalast of all places, they'd be more reasonable about such matters. Now where am I going to replace her?” He’s wearing a black felted tricorner hat with dried lavender and delicate bones poking out of it.

Brushing the snow off of his long brown leather coat, he looks around at the others. “Criminy, it’s nippy out there! The snow is beautiful though.” Climbing up onto a bench, he asks, ”Have you ever noticed that snowflakes are like zombies? No two are exactly the same. And if you look closely, they're nearly as beautiful.”

Looking Hoosible over, one might think his pale skin indicated the Bleaching, but his icy blue eyes and dark plum beard belie that idea. Rather he looks young yet...unwell. He has a stale odor about him that the lavender in his hat fails to conceal. Adding more to the oddity, when Hoosible sets down his mug of water it rattles about on the table as though it were in it’s own private earthquake, vibrating toward the edge of the table before he stops it with a glare.


Stats:
AC 16, T 12, FF 14; Fort +3, Ref +5, Will -1; CMD 17
HP:3/19

Ferit's shouting is momentarily interrupted by the arrival of the hurried gnome. He sniffs as the pale little fellow makes his entrance, completely ignoring the hulking, shouting orc virtually in his path. Maybe he's mutt'n?


Male Human Arcanist 1

Wilhem gags, standing up and putting some distance between himself and the Orc's odor. He'd known corpses that smelled fresher than that man's bowels. He shuffles closer to the fire, letting the clean smell of smoke overpower the stench, at least until the door opened again and an odd looking gnome walked in. By his behavior he didn't seem to be a servant.

"You've never bought a zombie from Achmed then." Wilhem observes, amusement at his own private joke peeking through. A fellow necromancer? It had been a while since Wilhem had worked with the dead, but he could hardly mistake that smell now that Ferit's had cleared somewhat. "I guess that's all of us. We're still waiting on Ardoc however." he informs the new arrival, who must be the eighth member Ebrylis had mentioned.


”ARDOC! ARDOC! ARDOC! ARDO-”

”Sir Orc, I would ask that you keep the level of your voice down!” A small, mechanical being comes into view, interrupting Ferit’s monotonous yelling with its own bell-like yelling. Landing next to Ferit, stirring up snow from the railing on the sun porch, the little imp-like creature startles the orc, who had not seen it coming. The little creature clutches the railing with its two clawed mechanical feet, then hunches over and grabs onto the railing further with its two tiny hands, while folding its canvas wings behind its back. Made of wood and various types of metals - at least some of which is mithral - the familiar turns its head, the sound of clockwork clicking with its every movement, and ‘looks’ directly at Ferit. Despite not having any sort of facial features on its blank, metal face, the orc knows that it directs its attention at him nevertheless.

”There is no need to shout, Sir Orc. The master has not forgotten about you. His attention has been focused elsewhere, and he apologies for the delay. An individual of great importance had arrived shortly prior to yourselves, and has kept his attention since. However, not wishing to make you wait further, the Master will see you now. Please follow me.” With a gust of wind, the clockwork imp unfurls his canvas wings - the Sihedron plainly stitched into the canvas - and takes off, flying slowly as it waits for its charges to follow.

Once they have all left the house, the familiar leads them to the front of the manor, past a large glass dome, its windows all frozen over and their view obscured. In front of the manor, at the gate, has appeared a horse-drawn wagon loaded with various crates - a trio of hired men work to unload the goods, the crates each marked with the Sihedron, as well as Thassilonian runes that read хрупкий.

Leading the group up a short flight of steps as they interrupt the men unloading goods, the familiar opens the double set of doors, beckoning the group into the much warmer manor. Closing the doors after the motley assembly is inside, it then leads them through a second set of double doors, before taking a right and leading the group into a relatively small study. Th room’s walls are lined with bookshelves, and in the middle of the room is a small table heaped with scroll and books - and an ornate cubical stone coffer covered with Thassilonian runes. There are two people standing in the room, talking.

One, a handsome man with medium-length brown hair and a short, braided beard, stands wearing a gold-trimmed red robe. At his waist, securing the robe, is an ornate toolbelt with numerous tools and gadgets for use on clockwork - also hanging from the belt is a rather ornate, masterwork chisel marked with numerous runes that glow with a soft blue light. Though doing his best to hide it, he appears to be suffering from a cold.

Standing next to him is a rather attractive red-headed half-elven woman with numerous piercings along her eyebrows and one in her nose. She is dressed in leather armor and is armed with both a distinctive-looking mithral-and-redwood Aklys and a bastard sword, both of which are currently sheathed or hanging from her belt.

Upon seeing the group, the man speaks up. ”Ah, Приветствия! Greetings! You must be the new recruits! I apologize for the delay! Alas, I am not quite finished meeting with Cyphermage Azmeren here, though I have a small task I must ask of you while I conclude the meeting. Two tasks, actually, as I doubt all eight of you can fit around this small table. The first involves this stone coffer sitting at the table beside me. Koriah here has just recently returned from an expedition to the Darklands below Thassilon, having successfully scouted a new, though relatively minor, route down to Nar-Voth from the Mindspin Mountains, where she uncovered a surprising number of Thassilonian artifacts, this coffer included. This stone coffer is an ancient Thassilonian puzzle, a cunning feat of magical engineering known as a paradox box. As you’ll see from even a casual investigation, what appears tobe seams on the sides are only shallow grooves - there is no obvious way to open the thing. Each paradox box has its own secret method of being opened. Essentially, a paradox box substitutes hidden catches and magical triggers for a lock. Given time, anyone clefer enough could figure out how to open a paradox box, just as given time, a locksmith can open any lock. This particular box was among those items recovered by Koriah here - the scrolls next to the box are here preliminary notes on possible triggers or methods for opening it, but she’s not yet had a chance to sit down and properly investigate the thing. So… why don’t a few of you put your heads together and see if you can’t do just that for me? Even if the box is empty - as I suspect it probably is, knowing the method of opening it makes it a valuable find anyway.” He pauses, a sneeze attempting to force itself upon him. He quickly clamps his nose with his fingers and suppresses it painfully, taking a moment to readjust himself. ”The second task is arguably much more mundane, and admittedly beneath each of you - however, it is an important task that requires a combination of brawn and finesse. Doubtlessly, you’ve seen men unloading goods outside. These goods are fragile components for my work, and the men outside are slow, dimwitted, and clumsy - I barely trust them to unload my components without damaging them. If a few of you could go out there and assist, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

He stops momentarily, allowing those who wish to work on the coffer to sit at the table. ”I will return shortly - I hope to see both of these tasks done by the time I return! Consider both of these tasks auditions, if you would - for the task I will ask of you later will require as much wit and finesse as it will brawn!” He smiles and nods, then leads the woman into another part of the manor, his clockwork familiar taking off and landing on a bookshelf nearby to watch the group, ensuring no shenanigans take place.

Thassilonian:

Fragile

”Greetings!”

Wilhem & Isroth:
The woman standing next to Taros Ardoc is none other than Koriah Azmeren - one of Varisia’s most famous Pathfinders and a well-renowned expert on the Darklands - not to mention the Drow within. It was only a few short years ago that she abandoned the Pathfinders to join the Cyphermages working for Karzoug, where she has proven invaluable at scouting for ancient Thassilonian artifacts in the Darklands.

_________________________________

First off, I need to know who is doing which task! There is only enough space for four people at the table to work with the coffer - the rest need to help with the cargo outside. Everyone has an hour to complete their tasks until Taros is finished with Koriah.

The Paradox Box:
Those choosing to stay and work on the box will be able to examine both Koriah’s notes and the box itself - needless to say, this is a task better suited for the mind. More info on it will be provided when those choosing to work on the box examine it.

The Cargo Outside:
A much less noble task, everyone not working on the Paradox box are to go outside and assist in unloading the fragile clockwork components from the wagon, carrying it into the glass dome. Doing so requires five sets of checks, each taking ten minutes. The crates are heavy, and thanks to their icy condition due to the cold, each require two CMB checks against CMD 13 to properly lift, carry, and set down. Bonuses to grappling work for these checks. Since these are CMB checks, you may not take 10. Failure by less than 5 suffers no ill effect, but those who fail their checks by 5 or more suffer a catastrophic failure, dropping and ruining the crate - while also injuring themselves, taking 1d3 nonlethal damage as they drop the crate on their foot, fall with the crate, etc. There are three workers also working on this task - canny players may attempt to ask or intimidate them for their aid, granting the player a +2 on all of their checks. The workers are indifferent. Failure by 5 or more on the diplomacy or intimidate checks backfires, causing the workers to actively harass you, granting a -2 to all checks instead. Other ways to gain bonuses to your CMB check may be found by those inventive enough. Furthermore, at the end of the hour, everyone needs to make a DC 10 Constitution check else be fatigued for one hour. All failures at carrying cargo add a cumulitive -1 to your check, while catastrophic failures add a cumulitive -2 to your check. You may take a 10 on this check, provided you haven’t taken enough penalties. In addition, anyone not wearing a cold weather outfit (or using an effect similar to Endure Elements) must save against cold weather exposure at the end of the hour.

Dice Rolls:

Valko’s Knowledge(Dungeoneering) Check: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (7) + 8 = 15 (Failure)
Wilhem’s Knowledge(Dungeoneering) Check: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21 (Success)
Isroth’s Knowledge(Dungeoneering) Check: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25 (Success)


Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

Just to remind, Investigators get to add +1d6 to the result of any Knowledge, Linguistics, or Spellcraft checks they make.

On the box, my money's on: Hoosible, Isroth, Valko, and Wilhem.


Aye, I figured I'd let you choose when to add the +1d6, since its limited.


Stats:
AC 16, T 12, FF 14; Fort +3, Ref +5, Will -1; CMD 17
HP:3/19

At the Cottage

After being reprimanded for shouting by the small construct, Ferit slams his fist against the front of the cottage and shouts, "Oi! Lets go yeh yobs!" before thudding off after the construct.

After Ardoc's speech

"Oi F+#$o, here's a task fer yehr overstuffed brain," Ferit says motioning to the rune covered box. Turning to Mr. Ardoc he says, "Don't yeh worry none sir, I'll whip those wankers outside inter shape." The burly orc hustles back outside, before he should be subjected to any more boring smart-talk. Once out front he shouts at the men, "Oi! Listen up yeh scurvy rat f!~#ers, we gots some graft to dae!"

I'll be on the crates, despite VERY STRONG temptations to punch the box.

First, take 10 on the intimidate for a 20, that should do it fine unless they are all super high level or secret gurus.

CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 5 + 2 = 19 Good
CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 5 + 2 = 8 Bad Fail (Damn you, you had to roll the only number I could catastrophically fail on, didn't you!)

CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 5 + 2 = 18 Good
CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 5 + 2 = 26 Good

CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 5 + 2 = 17 Good
CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (7) + 5 + 2 = 14 Good

CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 5 + 2 = 17 Good
CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 5 + 2 = 15 Good

CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (6) + 5 + 2 = 13 Good
CMB Check (Aided from Workers): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 5 + 2 = 16 Good

Nonlethal Damage: 1d3 ⇒ 3

Take 10 on my con check for 11 (with the -2 for failing earlier)

Ferit quickly has one of the workers helping him. On their first trip, the man is supposed to be looking out for obstacles, and fails to point out a pile of frozen horse dung obscured from Ferit's view by the crate he's manhandling. The orc slporches right into the frozen poo, and falls right on his bum, badly bruising his tail bone.

Ferit snaps back to his feet, and kicks the worker in the testicles, promising that if he f's up again, he'll rip his nostrils off and piss down his gullet. There are no further mistakes, and the rest of the crates are unloaded smoothly, to the accompaniment of much moaning on Ferit's part about the pain in his rear.


Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

It's limited for most skills, but the ones listed above (Know, Ling, Spell) don't consume any Inspiration Points so long as they have ranks in the skill.


Note that, each person must intimdiate/diplomacy the workers separately in order to gain the bonus. So while they're certainly giving their assistance to Ferit, they might not to others.

@Valko: Oh dang, must've missed that. I'll roll for ye, see if it helps!

Valko's Inspiration: 1d6 ⇒ 1 Didn't help, Still a failure!


Stats:
HP 15/15; AC 13, Flat Footed 10, Touch 13; CMD 13; Fort +0, Ref +5, Will +4 (+2 vs. Enchantment; +2 vs. Poison); Perception +14; Initiative +3

Coughing and sputtering momentarily, Valko quickly produces a stoppered vial of a thin, viridian liquid. Removing the minuscule cork, he places the mixture to his nostrils and begins inhaling sharply to alleviate the toxic assault that is the orc's flatulence.

"One wonders why such artillery is not actively serving on the front lines in the Ulfen conflict! Surely such agony would see the northmen surrendering in moments."

As the assembly files out of The Eurythnia House, Valko seizes an opportunity to bound up to their most recent arrival: the pallid gnome in the tricorne hat.

"I overheard a brief allusion to matters involving the dead that yet walk—a necromancer amid our number? Excellent! I am familiar with several mixtures and concoctions with which one might preserve certain specimens long beyond what ravages the roll of time might otherwise inflict, though the smell itself is no more enjoyable than the rot of flesh. A discussion for another time, perhaps. Would you be a student of the arcane then? Perhaps a student of gluttony?" Valko's eyes grow more eager with each inquisitive prod.

And at the Manor

Sliding past Ferit, Valko offers a direct "Indeed!" as matter of reply.

Valko affords no manner of discussion nor civilities as he shuffles quickly over to the table upon which the paradox box is displayed, almost forgetting—momentarily—that he is not the only person in the room. His eyes feed on the provided notes, unrolling scrolls and parchment to gain an inkling as to what the the redheaded half-elf has discovered so far. Without tilting his head up from his scanning of the box and provided findings, he shoots a glance to the other six persons who have not yet committed to an assignment.

"I have heard tale of, but never witnessed such a device. It should be a simple affair to ferret out its secrets. A cipher or riddle, perhaps?" Realizing that his assistant is standing slack-jawed in wonder at the estate he finds himself in, Valko angrily gestures at the unkempt lab assistant and points just as angrily to the door that brought them all into the manor proper. "Renfeld, do not gawk! Go find a bench somewhere and keep out of everyone's way. And do try to behave. Any damages or thefts inflicted upon our good host will come out of your wages, understood?"

Renfeld begins nodding giddily before loping out of the room with his pack clutched tightly to his chest. His mongrel-esque form disappears into the small foyer that waits beyond.


Male Human Arcanist 1

Wilhem looks through the window as Ferit's blow rattles the side of the house, wondering what the crude man wanted now. Seeing him following some sort of flying creature Wilhem rises smoothly, finishing off his mug of water and pulling his cloak around him again as he heads out with the others.

When they are presented before Ardoc he gives the man a respectful bow, and as he recognizes the woman beside him offers another to her, albeit a fraction shallower, but no less respectful. "I shall be interested to see what you have found." he informs her, listening to Ardoc's explanation of the device. He thought perhaps he may have seen one of these before, or something similar that the librarians had amongst their collection, though he could not recall having had the chance to study it.

He is only to glad to see Ferit head back outside, but sighs softly as Valko beats him to the notes. He instead seats himself at the table and gently lifts the box, turning it slowly around until he has viewed every side, before sitting it back down again. He begins to inscribe runes in the air in front of him as he chants a few words in Thassilonian, quickly finishing his spell as he narrows his eyes, studying the aura of the box as well.

_________________________
Cast Detect Magic
Spellcraft: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25


Anyone reading Koriah’s Notes:

The notes scattered amongst the table are written clearly in Taldane by a woman with years of experience taking notes of her findings - as a result, they are concise, well-written, and quite thorough.

Upon the pieces of parchment are detailed translations of the various runes that appear upon the Paradox Box - the most oft-repeated symbol is the symbol for ”sloth” - Koriah’s notes also mention that this rune was associated with Conjuration magic and, during the earliest days of Thassilon, as the symbol for the virtue of ”zeal”. In addition, it represented the ancient Thassilonian realm of Haruka. However, she notes that the rune itself likely has little to do with opening the box.

In addition, she notes that four other runes representing sins appear on the box, though only once each. These runes are the runes for ”lust”, ”gluttony”, ”greed”, and ”envy” - with each having their own associated virtues, school of magic, and ancient Thassilonian nation.

Koriah’s notes indicate that the rune of ”lust” was associated with Enchantment magic, the virtue of ”love”, and the nation of Eurythnia. The rune of ”gluttony”, meanwhile, was associated with Necromancy magic, the virtue of ”temperance”, and the nation of Gastash. ”Greed”, likely the most well known rune, Koriah mentions, is the rune of our lord Karzoug - it is associated with Transmutation magic, the virtue of ”generosity”, and the nation of Shalast. The final sin rune appearing on the Paradox Box is the rune for ”envy”, which is associated with Abjuration magic, the virtue of ”charity”, and the nation of Edasseril.

The only two sin runes not appearing upon the Paradox Box, the notes mention, are the runes for ”wrath” and ”pride”. This matches up with the fact that both schools of magic associated with the two sins - Evocation and Illusion, respectively - which are opposition schools to Conjuration. Considering that this Paradox Box was found in ruins linking it to the nation of Haruka, the realm of ”sloth”, this makes quite a bit of sense. It is likely that the Paradox Box simply belonged to a citizen of the nation of Haruka.

Koriah notes that, like the rune of ”sloth”, it is likely that none of the other sin runes appearing on the Paradox Box have anything to do with opening the box. Instead, Koriah’s notes point to the runes appearing opposite of the prominently displayed rune of ”sloth” - the only such side that is different than the rest. Upon this face are five Thassilonian runes that spell out ЖЕСТОКИХ, or, translated into Taldane, CRUEL. Koriah believes that these runes somehow are linked to opening the box. She also notes that each individual rune in the word can be reorganized by touching two of the runes at once - doing so causes the two touched runes to exchange places for an hour before reverting to their original spelling of the word CRUEL.

Valko:
Immediately upon reading the last bit of Koriah’s notes, you are quick to realize that the runes that spell out CRUEL is likely a word anagram of some sort - possibly a magical combination lock, since the box cannot be opened via a more mundane methods.

Wilhem:
Upon casting Detect Magic, you do note that indeed, it is a Paradox Box, having positively identified it. In addition, the box appears to be resonating no less than five different magical auras - the strongest of which is centered upon the rune for ”sloth”, which radiates an aura of Conjuration. Upon the rune for ”lust” radiates an aura of Enchantment. The rune of ”gluttony” radiates an aura of Necromancy, while the rune of ”envy” radiates Abjuration. Finally, the rune for ”greed” radiates Transmutation. The Conjuration aura has a moderate aura about it, while the other four have faint auras.

However, despite studying it further, you are not able to identify what the function or purpose of the auras are.

Anyone examining the Paradox Box:

The Paradox Box, made of stone, is relatively heavy, weighing thirty pounds. It measures one and a half feet to a side. It indeed appears to have no visible way to open it - there are no moving parts, and the box indeed only has shallow grooves around the edges. Upon five of the faces appear numerous runes - the most common of which is the Thassilonian rune for ”sloth”. Four other major runes appear in prominent locations as well: One rune for each ”lust”, ”gluttony”, ”greed”, and ”envy”. Upon one side, that opposite of the most prominent rune for ”sloth” are the Thassilonian runes ЖЕСТОКИХ, which spell out CRUEL in Thassilonian. In addition, faint, extremely shallow lines can be traced going from each major rune to each other rune.

Dice Rolls:

Valko’s Linguistics Check: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (9) + 8 = 17 (Success)
Valko’s Inspiration: 1d6 ⇒ 5 (Add this to the above)
Wilhem’s Perception Check: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (12) + 0 = 12
Wilhem’s Knowledge(Arcana Check For Aura #1: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (10) + 8 = 18 (Success)
Wilhem’s Knowledge(Arcana Check For Aura #2: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (9) + 8 = 17 (Success)
Wilhem’s Knowledge(Arcana Check For Aura #3: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (9) + 8 = 17 (Success)
Wilhem’s Knowledge(Arcana Check For Aura #4: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21 (Success)
Wilhem’s Knowledge(Arcana Check For Aura #5: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25 (Success)


Male Human Arcanist 1

Wilhem appears surprised by what his spell reveals, murmuring softly to himself as he continues to examine the box, turning it this way and that, though largely ignoring "The runes radiate magic of their school. Is this merely decorative?" he examines Koriah's notes, nodding to himself as they match up with his own assumptions, though she seems to believe that the five runes are indeed decorative, or at least not tied into opening the box.

He examines the side that she indicates are tied to opening it. "A word puzzle then?" he observes at his normal volume. "ЖЕСТОКИХ, or Cruel suggesting a link to Wrath, yet this was found in Harukan ruins. Perhaps altering the phrase to something more appropriate to Sloth? Or the other forbidden school Pride?"

_________________________
Hmm, didn't realize the box was that big :p Anyway it doesn't seem like Crusty has changed the puzzle here so I'll just stick to what my character can figure out from dice rolls since I already know the solution.

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