Gameplay will now be started
I will give the players a few days for introductions and such
As society members serving the Great Lodge in Absalom your life has been rather boring recently. Beyond doing odd jobs and small tasks all of the more "important" members of the society have managed to hog all the glory. The day in Absalom is chilly and winter is almost there. Running up to each of you comes an envoy wearing a badge of the Society, he hands you a letter and then runs off the continue his delivery service.
The letter reads...
You are being called to the Grand Lodge immediately, your presence is expected as soon as possible. Please come prepared to travel, you will be going far to the North. Bring your "equipment" with you.
I wonder what needs they have up north? Perhaps someone's smallclothes have become soiled, and they need someone to wash them?, Valtyra giggles. Nevertheless, it's got to be better than staying around here...
Valtyra begins heading to her quarters and considers, I wonder how we'll be travelling? Has to be by boat, obviously, at least at the first. Will we continue on up the coast, or strike inland? If we're to travel by land, I'll need more rations...
After gathering her things, she makes her way to the lodge, growing more excited with each step.
Excited for his midday meal, Rowan took a seat at a favorite Tavern of his. Absalom was an interesting city. Unlike the places his father took him, this city had a range of different types, and races, of people. Strange colored skin and odd hair didnt stand out. Well, didnt stand out as much.
Having a gnome quarter was also a change for Rowan. The black robes were a reflex of old; a way to keep others away who didnt understand. Now, the robes marked him as who he was. He had been sought out for advice on a number of matters, and thanks were given afterwards. Not the usual quick exchange of coin and a cold shoulder. The jobs for the society, in comparison, had been minor. It would seem they were relegating him to the least important tasks. Not too unusual for a gnome.
Rowan looked down at the vegetable stew he was about to dig into. Once you've seen enough of the dead, or undead, the prospect of eating animals starts to lose its charm. Rowan spooned a taste of broth into his mouth, sighing at the lack of salt, or any seasoning. Ah well, its better than nothing.
Halfway through his next bite, a messenger tapped him on the shoulder. Without saying a word, he handed Rowan a letter, made his insignia obvious, then headed out. Rowan noticed his messenger pouch was not close to empty. Must be a big deal he thought. Rowan read the letter, and the mention of the north. Taking a deep breath, he resolved to finish the stew before heading out to buy supplies.
|Red Sand "红沙"|
Lady Vox glides in as she takes an unassuming corner of the room. She removes a hot water flask and some tea leaves and started brewing some tea for herself.
She looks around the room trying to spot for anything that she should take notice of.
Perception: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15
Never hurts to be cautious
As you enter you are greeted by another envoy of the Society who shows you to a table on the eastern edge of the room.
Your briefer will meet with you shortly, in the mean time, introduce yourself to the rest of your working partners
Valtyra enters the hall and her mouth immediately starts watering - the sight and smells of all the food reminds her that, in all the excitement of preparing for travel, she had forgotten to eat. Noticing the greeter, she accepts his direction and moves to the eastern table.
As she gathers some food onto a plate, she introduces herself to the only other arrival thus far, "Greetings. My name is Valtyra - I'm a healer. I don't suppose you have any idea of what we're being called to do? Or where? Or even how we're going to get there?"
Rowan hitches up the small pack on his back. The crossbow inside, some extra bolts, and a large blanket (big enough to double over and wrap Rowan inside like some sort of exotic food) shifted around until everything settled. The leather bag had been expensive; not as expensive as the crossbow, but there was no way Rowan was going to try using anything else to keep things away. In the future, though, it might get clipped to his belt. Easier to get at.
Adjusting the straps again, Rowan stepped into the room mentioned on the note. He took a look around, and saw two women standing there. Well, one was some sort of elf-thing, and the other smelled odd. Something not completely human about that one.
An envoy comes over to usher Rowan over towards the table where the women are standing. The... blonde one looks like she just finished speaking.
Erm, looks like we're introducing ourselves. I'm Rowan. Nice to meet you all. Rowan looks around the room while waiting for a response.
Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 2 = 18
"Pleased to meet you as well, Rowan. As I just finished saying, my name is Valtyra. I'm a healer." And with that, she begins to daintily pick at the food on her plate. Then, just as quickly, realizes that as hungry as she was a moment before, she was now too nervous to eat anything at all, and pushes the plate away.
The next to enter was a somewhat reedy looking man. He was not overly large or intimidating looking. In fact if it were not for the very large battle axe strapped to his back and its smaller cousins in easy reach at his belt, he might have been dismissed as a clerk or other form of lodge staff. Most of his gear was worn and in poor condition, likely from living on a limited budget.
Approaching the others, he cleared his throat politely, "Did you also receive a summons?" His voice had an odd cadence to it and was somewhat scratchy, as though he rarely used it save for on special occasions. He gave them a nervous smile.
"I'm Woodsman," he had long ago resigned himself to the nickname and most of the people that knew the name his parents had given him died some time ago.
Quentin did not particularly enjoy being summoned to do much of anything. That being said, any summons by the Pathfinder Society's Lodge was probably the most exciting thing that ever occurred in Quentin's life - and the vast majority of the things that he was asked to do were relatively uninteresting. Quentin suspected that this was due to either his near-complete incapacity to deal with people in a friendly way or because he was a scaled demidemonic creature. Maybe it was because he wasn't particularly powerful. Either way, it resulted in apathy towards even the more entertaining aspects of his life.
So, upon receiving these summons, Quentin was not overly excited, but quickly came upon the conclusion that he had nothing better to do than review his books and organize his living quarters, and he had perhaps done this a dozen times in the past week, so, he moved right along.
Upon arrival, the short, scaled tiefling kept his hands in the pockets of his clean, black trousers, his dark body somewhat counteracting the effect of his white shirt. A black sheath hung along the back of his hips, appearing to be a single curve of wood with no apparent difference between the hilt of his blade and the sheath, making it nearly impossible to even tell which side he would draw it from. A backpack, hardly appearing weighed down, sat upon his back. Otherwise, he seemed to have no equipment.
Bright blue eyes sat underneath a twisted, horned brow. They did not look up as they entered the Grand Lodge, but quickly directed the head and body towards food. Because food is good. Once an impressive array of the blandest foods that had been offered had been composed, the tiefling stood apart from the others in the room - the man, perhaps a warrior from the worn axe on his back. Aasimar - probably a divine caster, then, Aasimar were extremely predictable in this sense. A gnome. An exotic-looking woman drinking tea. Many others about, but the envoy that directed him to the eastern end of the room pointed these to him, and he quickly excluded the others from his mind.
"Good day," says he to no one in particular, rather hoping for a briefing before everyone got social. Gnomes are notoriously social. This could end up a very unpleasant scenario. Why couldn't everyone just drink tea quietly?
Seeing the expected group established a small, rather fat man, bustled his way over to the group of adventurers. Coming up to the table he bowed and said in a squeaky almost mouselike voice So sorry misters, and misuses (he says as an afterthought), my most esteemed venture captain, due to being excruciatingly busy, will not be joining you. He told me to give you this note (he hands over a small piece of desk paper) He then does another fast bow and moves quickly on his way.
Upon closer inspection of the note you find that it is scribbled quickly in a rather messy drawl. It reads [i] Thank you for making your way to the Grand Lodge on this occasion. Unfortunately I will not be able to meet with you, as you have probably noticed. I require you to got to the town of Jol up North in the Land of the Linnorm Kings. We have heard word that small town called Dwellhold has been having recent problems, disappearances and strange acts, from the fey in the region. I have already payed for your voyage to a small port south of Jol from which you can make your way to Dwellhold from. I suggest you speak to Thessilin Swillfoot, a gnome of good standing, who sent the message. She should have more information for you. As a side note, a local lodge based in Jol will be sending a ranger to meet with you at the docks. He will be joining you upon your search into the ongoings in Jol. Good luck. Inclosed in the note is a small and rather messy map of the lands around Dwellhold.
Make sure all your last minute shopping and hello's are done then there will be a "fast travel" to the port at Jol where you will meet your last party member.
For all map related things I will be using Google Docs. It will not be the prettiest thing to look at but I hope it gets all map related ideas across.
|Red Sand "红沙"|
Rowan notices the newcomer, definitely a different sort. Scaly skin tends to stand out, no matter how you try and hide it. Rowan sympathized, having tried to hide the color of his skin and hair on occasion. Then again, being less than 3ft tall is a good deal harder to disguise.
As the group tries to read the note, Rowan taps his foot in frustration. As the group finishes, he snatches the note and reads quickly. Well then, looks like it is time to prepare. Umm, I've met the aptly named Woodsman, and the lovely healer, but would the two of you care to introduce yourselves, and perhaps what you bring to the party? Er, it may help us know what to buy.
Rowan scratches his head. I'll start. Rowan, and as you've probably figured out, something magical in nature. I also tend to work alone, so what do people tend to buy for these sort of things?
What that means is I have no idea what to buy lol new.
Valtyra greets Woodsman warmly, but when the tiefling shows up, she stiffens a bit. This must be some sort of joke...
She considers Rowan's request for information, and realizes that she has no idea either. "I would imagine that the ship on which we travel will be appropriately stocked, and we will hopefully receive some guidance from our contact in the region as to what else we might need once we're there. As such, I suggest we leave immediately after we determine what", she glares at the tiefling, "if anything, they have to offer."
|Red Sand "红沙"|
The scaled tiefling's facial expression does not change, although something closer to amusement touches his eyes when the lovely Aasimar gets a persecuting tone in her voice. Oh, that was terribly original - a celestial outsider distrusting an infernal outsider. This was going to go along smoothly.
Although, he did quickly reinforce his liking of the brief lady, Vox, who identified herself as a monk. Her minimalistic attitude was also rather nice.
Finally, the tiefling had to identify himself. "My name is Quentin Uriel." He reads the note to identify their objective, and explains his role, meanwhile. "I am a Magus, and I suppose I am here to offer you . . . knowledge. Bladeskill, and, perhaps, a bit of expertise. Whatever it is that we may otherwise . . . lack." Whenever something interesting appeared in the note, his voice halted and then resumed a few seconds later. However, the emphasis of his pauses seemed planned and pointed, rather than distracted.
He hands the note off to anyone else who may not yet have read it. "Our Venture Captain's information expresses worry of the fey in the region. You may find cold iron to be of value for your weapons, those of you who deal with such things."
Kn: Arcana - 19
"That would assume we have the funds required for such a thing. I have the feeling this little mission is somewhat hastily assembled." The Woodsman finally spoke up. A cold iron weapon was expensive for a man like him.
"If you're offering to buy them for us, I won't say no." He seemed to either be entirely oblivious or pointedly ignoring the tension between Quentin and Valtyra.
Cold iron? Too rich for my blood. Rowan was unsure if confronting the obvious tension in the room was worth it. He had a tendency to avoid conflict, or awkwardness. But if he was going to have to spend time with these people...
Ok. I'll come out and say it. Anyone want to discuss the orc in the room? Quentin, Valtyra, whats the deal between you two?
I'm assuming, based on the lack of a character history, that Quentin is your "average" tiefling - looks demonic, and as such is shunned by society at large. If that's wrong, then let me know and we can easily move on. Regardless, Valtyra will eventually come around and realize that he doesn't fit the stereotype, and that they have more in common than she might currently care to admit - I just figured this would be fun.
Valtyra glares at Quentin. "Use your eyes, Rowan - he's a tiefling. They've got fiendish blood in their veins, and can't be trusted. I'll grant you that he may very well be able to help us, but only because death and destruction come so easily to them."
No, no, please - I very much enjoy character conflict of these sorts. Quentin is fairly average for a tiefling, except, as noted, that his whole body is scaled, save his horns and fingernails. Note, also, that Quentin has fantastic intelligence and 5 charisma. His social capacity extends about as far as he needs to have it be to be efficient.
Quentin makes a subtle, somewhat habitual motion of tapping the right end of his sheath with his fingers. The sound resembles steel on wood. He looks at Woodsman, the man who looked like a warrior-type, first. "I actually will fund you to replace your weapons with Cold Iron, if you'd like. Axes don't even require that much . . . once a store is available, come see me - you ought to have one such weapon on you at all times in a fey environment."
More tapping. He addressed his side of this now. "And, she is rather on the money. Aasimar, for all their mystical wisdom and fantastic birth, fall into the same beliefs as many - that blood makes a person. I suppose she is right; my ability to take action and keep us alive may be rather helpful, versus praying to my ancestor or what have you to protect us."
Having never sat, Quentin makes his way towards the door after commenting, "Now, shall we take Vox's suggestion - introductions over, moving right along."
Ah, a tiefling. No wonder he smelled a bit odd. And you an Aasimar. Rowan thinks to himself about Quentin's words. Valtyra walks out the door ahead of Quentin. Rowan hurries to catch the tiefling.
Er, just a minute. Clearly I dont know you, but you made a good point. Too often I've been judged on my, err, talents. If there's one thing I've learned, its that we dont get a choice in our birth, only in our actions. Come on, lets make it clear to the others that who we are and what we do is more important than who our parents were.
Rowan heads out behind Valtyra, thinking of how the tiefling's own history somewhat mirrors his. Rowan may not be a celestial or demonic being, but working with the dead has its own stigma.
Everyone will have the ability to say that they got things before they left if you did not have time to post that you were buying things
Morning has come and the party heads down to the docks of Absalom. After being quickly shuttled onto a small passenger galley you are sent off toward Jol. The trip passes rather uneventfully with only a small "passage" payment having been demanded by a Cheliax ship as you passed. After a good week of voyage, with nothing to eat besides stale bread and pickled herring, the air starts to get colder. From now on everywhere you go will be considered "cold weather" meaning if you do not have cold weather gear there will be consequences. Slowly into the distance you see what looks like a small bluff on the shore, some of the first land you've seen in days, and a small port town nestled against the bluff. As you are unloaded off the ship the captain, a large Ulfen man, comes up to you and says "Jol and Dwellhold are to the north, just keep following the road." With that you are unloaded off to onto the docks of a small fishing town in the Southmoors.
As you get off of the ship a man comes to you Enter last PC!!!
Once the aasimar has left, and Quentin is left with what looks rather close to a smug look on his face, Quentin steps out and quickly finds himself pursued by the gnome from the party. He figured that this would be one of his party mates for the time being. Spellcaster, arcane. Gnomish, so probably an innate, not learned talent. Dark blue skin, bright hair. Old enough to start experiencing the bleaching, but clearly somebody who managed to keep excitement in their life. Relatively young gnome.
"She did not misinterpret me. But I suppose she may lose her fear of what I have to offer - or not. It matters little either way. I look forward to seeing your talents, if you consider them comparable for prejudice."
Quentin was not particularly fazed by either the conditions of cramp, cold, and food that were presented during their voyage. He makes sure to pick up some clothing for the cold, although rather incapable of wearing anything hooded, as his horns made that rather difficult. This also made it harder to strap on his blade, but not horribly so. Furthermore, he picks up a cold iron dagger, just in case somebody decides to steal his go after his sword.
A well muscled, and heavily armed savage approaches the group of travelers carrying an armload of furs. He has dark reddish skin, steel colored eyes, and a bedraggled long black mane that hangs below his massive shoulders. His gear is tied down in a meticulous manner, and one would surmise by his posture and accourtements, that he's used to killing whatever it is he eats.
"Welcome travelers, I am Gordak." He raps his fist and forearm against his chest in a barbaric salute."I am to lead you onward to Jol." He speaks common well enough for everyone to understand, but it sounds harsh and gutteral. It's obviously not his favorite language.
He hands the furs off to whomever looks least comfortable. If everyone is wearing furs, he dons them himself.
Gordak inspects the party in a general manner. He's not used to strange races, or those who aren't accustomed to life in the wild. He's especially looking for obvious weaknesses.
1d20 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9
Valtyra makes a stop and buys cold weather supplies - a sturdy cloak and a winter blanket, at the least - then makes her way to the ship.
During the trip, Valtyra spends most of her time on deck, looking out at the horizon, enjoying the fresh air, and watching the birds and fish each playing around the ship, each in their own way.
She also spends some time observing her companions, attempting to get to know them, with the exception of Quentin. It would have been nice if he had ridden another ship...or been dragged behind this one...
When the journey is over, she makes her way down the gangway to the dock. "Greetings Gordak. Thank you for your service."
Woodsman spent the trip in his cabin, with brief intervals of racing onto the main deck to empty the contents of his stomach over the edge of the ship. It is fairly obvious that he is not the sea going sort. Questions directed to him got short or noncommittal answers, whether this was due to a taciturn nature or the sea-sickness was anyone's guess.
Once they had arrived, he gratefully stumbled down the gangplank to the relative stability of the docks, still green around the gills. He gives Gordak an awkward smile.
Quentin, luckily, came off considerably less nauseated than Woodsman and less venomous than Valtyra. He had made no particular effort to get to know anyone.
As he makes his way off of the ship, he notes a man approaching the party. Valtyra is the first to respond to him, followed by Woodsman.
Knowing surprisingly little of the nationalities and ethnicities (if not races) or Golarion, Quentin was poor at placing the proper word for the man. However else he might be identified, the man identified himself as 'Gordak', which Quentin supposed was somewhat native, both due to the man's dialect and the generally guttural tone of it seeming out of place in Common.
"Quentin Uriel, sir." The man didn't even seem to identify him as a tiefling. Ignorant causing lack of prejudice, quick and precise with words.
Quentin liked him just fine.
Gordak would easily identify that Quentin is very unusual and very much not accustom to the wild. Despite physical prowess, Quentin appears bookish, not strong or terribly sensible.
The trip proved uneventful for Rowan. He spent most of the time reading an interesting book on history of some forgotten city. While sailing was not his cup of tea, thankfully nausea didnt affect Rowan all that often.
The man that meets them getting off the ship is an interesting sort. He looked like something written in a book about primitive societies. Gruff, but that was to be expected.
Rowan Keeganson, Mr. Gordak. Lets get a move on.
The man's eyes washed over the group, and Rowan felt his stomach give a tumble. The way he took them in, the look of suspicion, felt all to familiar. He'd seen that look before, the distrust of the strange or unfamiliar. Rowan gave a sigh. Nothing to be done, and he'd been in this situation before.
The travel goes rather smoothly. The most noticeable thing about the Southmoors is the pure amount of poverty and unlawfulness. Local lords and Bandit Kings have set up shop throughout it and are to busy try to decide who owns the right to a certain hill than to deal with the tribe of trolls that lives on the hill. It seems that it is the true "kingdom" that is run by Opir is only the towns surrounding Jol, the Capital, and that past a dozen miles it becomes a no-man land. You come quickly to the outskirts of Jol, and see a sign pointing north to Dwellhold. In the interest of saving time we will skip over Jol and continue on to Dwellhold. As you come closer to the town you see the ever present massive Grungir Forest drawing ever closer. Eventually you come right to the forests edge, walking next to the massive pine trees, that are just beginning to gather snow. To your right a small group of misty hills looms, the sort of land that seems most prevalent in the Southmoors. Eventually you come to a small valley between the hills and forest that seems to be sheltered from the elements by the two features. It is a small town, (largely due to the knowledge that Gordak has of the lands layout), laid out in with 2 circular roads that have a single road connecting them. One circle of the town seems to follow the house layout you have already seen in the Southmoors while the other one has smaller, stranger buildings. If you have spent anytime around Gnomes you can tell these are the average Gnome homes. The middle street connecting these two circles of the town is obviously the "merchant" district of town. The only two story houses can be found here, and even then only about 3. With an outside look at the town you can tell it only has around 75 homes with an equal spread between the traditional Ulfen and the Gnome styled houses. As you come into town the merchant district seems to have only one truly "important" building, the town Inn named the Woodsman's Racket . It is a medium sized building with two stories and a large battle axe imbedded into the door. There is a small blacksmiths shop in town, a general store, and the inn as far as basic shops go. There may be more in the Ulfen or Gnome part of town but this seems to be it for "Main Steet"
"Come, they have strong drink inside." Gordak's rough exterior melts away, and you're not entirely sure but it seems like he's smiling. He jestures towards the Woodsman's Racket inn.
"Please, tell me stories of the southern lands."
I don't intend to clog the thread with dialogue, this is just a "mood" post.
"Pray, let us find this Thessilin Swillfoot, and get more information as to what is expected of us." Valtyra says to Gordak. She seems unwilling to waste time carousing in the inn at this time...
Woodsman seems eager to head inside the inn, thankful to be on dry land and out of the elements. Though the second part might not last long, the first was a marked improvement in his mind.
"If he'll be waiting anywhere, my bet is in the inn. There aren't many other large comfortable public spaces here."
As Gordak and Woodsman enter the inn, looking like quite the rough and tough pair, they see only a small amount of patrons, probably due to the time of day (which happens to be about 11 in the morning). Only a small group of 3 Ulfen men sit at one large circular table, and a Gnomish women in a green cloak sits at the bar. As you enter a the bartender, a large man that seems to remind you of the perfect picture of an Ulfen Raider, yells at you from across the bar Ahhh newcomers, what would you be spending your time in Dwellhold for? Stopping for a drink at me tavern, what can I do you for?
Quentin makes a note of the approximately balanced number of households between gnomes and humans, which is rare to see - one would generally see a clear domination between one of the two species in terms of population. Especially since gnomish populations don't breed nearly as fast as humans, what with all the potential immortality in their race and all.
Once the party makes their way in front of Woodsman's Racket, it is easy for Quentin to make his decision as to whether or not to enter. Valtyra did not want to enter. So he entered straightaway after Woodsman and Gordak.
Intelligence 13 - To recall the details of the note from last week.
Quentin's eyes fall upon the gnomish lady quickly, and he makes his way over to the bar, positioning himself off to the side, not behind her. "Thessilin Swiftfoot?" asks he.
Rowan greeted the idea of a town with a large gnomish settlement with no small amount of apprehension. In the past, he hadnt had the best of times dealing with other gnomes in large numbers, his brief tenure in Absolom not withstanding.
As he hesitates at the door to the inn, he notices Valtyra doing the same. Rowan takes a deep breath before heading in. As his eyes quickly adjust, he sees Quentin speaking with a gnomish woman at the bar.
Rowan tried to put on a good face and be upbeat with the woman. Clearly she was important. He walked over and stood next to the Tiefling. Ah, Quentin. I believe you have found Ms. Swiftfoot. We were sent in response to your note, specifically due to the, um, events of late around Dwellhold. I'm Rowan Keeganson, I see you've met Quentin Uriel. There are a few more of us in the inn and outside as well. what can we do to help?
Sorry for the delay in posting, internet issues while traveling.
Valtyra, realizing that she alone is outside in an unfamiliar location, decides to make her way in as well. When she realizes that they have found their quarry, she breathes a sigh of relief and joins the others at the bar.
Hope everyone had a nice holiday
To Gordak The bartender seems rather surprised by the news. Lucky you, you probably just managed to beat the winter wolves here. By now they will have started to come down from the mountains to feed on the winter caravans. Anything I can do for you?
To Rowan and Quentin The gnomish women looks extremely happy at the news that you have just given her. Well... you see..... She seems confused where to start Well... there have been a small amount, well.... a large amount of disappearances recently. Well... not really disappearances but more, well insanity. You see, we have a large population of gnomes that live out in the woods and many of them seem to have a strange.... disease.... affecting them. Me and my Rangers are usually able to keep control of the problems for the Gnomes of this town but the yearly Feast of Winter is coming up and we have not had time to deal with these strange actings. If you could I would like you to go out into the forest and look try to see what has been happening to these gnomes. Recently a group of woodcutters stopped all communication with town and we don't know what happened to them. I would go check on them myself but... she points at a broken leg Do you think you could check on the woodcutters for me?
Quentin is apparently a rather serious person, because he merely nods throughout Swiftfoot's story, blinking little. He inspects her leg briefly, and responds quickly to her request. "That is what we're here to do, is it not? How might we find these gnomes, and what is this disease?" Quentin did not like the idea of getting sick or insane in lieu of gold.
Rowan listens as the woman speaks, thinking on the strange situation. Something didnt add up. Gnomes didnt get sick, not like this. Bleaching, yes, but that was an individual thing.
Rowan nodded along with Quentin.
Its definitely concerning. The more information as you can give, the better off we will be and the faster we can resolve this.
Thessilin nods, [b] I understand your concern regarding the disease. I did not think these things could happen to gnomes. All I know is that the number of gnomes effected are growing and only those in the forest seem to be getting effected. I have not yet seen a Gnome effected by this so I only know what my Rangers have told me. I hear that they seem to forget friend and foe, it almost seems as though they have lost all logical thought. I worry it might be something related to the forest, as only forest gnomes have been effected. The woodcutters camp that I spoke of is just a little into the edge of the forest. I will mark it on your map. It is run by the 3 Alderway brothers, nice folk, but I don't know what they will be like now.
Here is the link again
Map of Area around Dwellhold
A gnomish disease a gnome has never heard of . . . Quentin pondered briefly what made them so resistant to disease, and thus what might penetrate it. The easiest thing he could think of is that gnomes, by nature, are magical creatures - they're fey-descendant, if not necessarily considered fey. So something affecting them might not be natural, it could, perhaps, be magical - if it caused insanity, it could be something more along the lines of a mad druid or sorcerer. Perhaps an Outsider of some sort.
They would have to see.
Thank you for your time, Ms. Swiftfoot. We'll report back to you as sw... quickly as we can. Quentin stands up and taps Gordak on the shoulder. I'll round up Woodsman - meet us outside in ten minutes, if it pleases you.
Valtyra waits for Quentin to leave, then inquires quietly of Thessilin, "Would it benefit you at all for me to attempt to heal that leg of yours, be it either by spell or mundane means? I would appreciate the opportunity to help..." She looks at Thessilin hopefully.