Recent Posts
Life in the City of Twilight moves on at a normal pace. The hours of daylight go fast as the Westcrani rush about trying to finish their errands before the sun's light fades over Golarion and the dreaded Shadow Beasts begin to prowl the city streets at night. Most folk keep their heads down while out and about in Westcrown not wanting to attract to much attentions to themselves as Hellnight squads patrol and Asmodeus inquisitors watch over the city looking for trouble makes, potential rebels and seeking out dangerous knowledge to cleanse by enforcing the law with brutal clarity and vicious efficiency. Its a town full of disappointment and dispair as diabolism has taken ahold of the city. Hope has dimmed and the Shadow Beasts walk the streets instead of Aroden's faithful. The city still thrives as trade and its military might are strong but the city weighs heavy with its lost faith and tarnished reputation.
You have lived in Westcrown long enough to know that the city is slowly dying, the rule of House Thrune, the holy ones of Asmodeus and its pact with the devils from Hell are chocking the life out of the city. Westcrown's goverment follows Her Infernal Magestrix Queen Abrogail II rule but the major groups in the city fight or work in the shadows against each other creating a life of hopelessness for its citizens. Even though things are bad and they weigh heavy on your mind, the risk of doing something about has been to great but someone you just met has changed your mind a bit. Still causious from your first meeting with the lady Janiven has placed a speck of hope in your brain so your steps lead you to a secret meeting to meet fellow citizens with similar ideas that change must happen to throw over the cities oppressive government. Your last foot step places you just outside Vizio's Tavern, a run down tavern which has been closed for some time but the thoughts of a return to splendor and glory push you on, plus the promise of a good meal as your stomach grumbles reminding you its time to fill your belly..........Your hand slowly raises to knock on the door as your heart starts to pound, your hand shakes, once you knock there is no going back..............
A cowled figure steps from the lengthening shadows and carefully approaches the door. It looks to the left and right before knocking. The door cracks open quickly and the mysterious lady Janiven peers out at the figure.
I am expected? A tenor voice asks quietly.
Janiven's quick nod assures him, and he swiftly enters the old tavern, opening the door only enough to slip through.
The tall elf pushes his cowl off of his head as he breathes a sigh of relief, holding his staff upright so it is no longer hidden mostly beneath his cloak.
Janiven, I have to admit. This feels a little dangerous.
A peck at the window draws his attention. A golden-brown flutter of feathers disappears up to the roof.
I hope you don't mind if my friend watches for the dottari or worse, any Hellbeasts. I mean of both varieties: humanoid and shadowform.
A bulbous-nosed beggar in rags staggers through the front door, his left hand clutching a bottle of poor wine and his right fishing around near the front of his trousers. He looks around as if eying a place to relieve his bladder.
"Good birdie. Nicesh birdie," he says absently.
Assessing the two others in the room, he suddenly straightens and grins, removing the costume nose from his face. Under the rags you now see leather armor and a rapier slung on his back for concealment. His slender form and youthful, well-bred Taldan looks now apparent, he grins widely and shrugs apologetically.
"You can never be too careful in this town, eh? Still, it's good to see a bit of fight left in some here," he says, walking behind the bar and chucking his poor wine into the garbage. Anything decent to drink around here, milady? he says charmingly to his hostess.
A man approaches Vizio's Tavern. He can't help but feel unconfortable in Westcrown's street. He feels exposed, since the city is full of hiding spots while everyone can see him in the middle of the street. Arriving at the tavern, he looks nervously at his surrounding. He notices a bird on the roof. To him, there's something odd about this bird, it's almost as if it's looking for something. He hesitates, looks around once more, but finally knocks on the door.
After being ushered in, the man removes the hood on his dirty cloak. He's a slim and short man and, while his face looks young, he has the eyes of someone who has been throught a lot already. Perhaps more notably, his skin is dark brown, some might say black. He makes a short bow to lady Janiven (some habits die hard), and observes the other two with a mix of appraisal and suspicion. Finally, he speaks with an unusual accent and way of speech. "For seeing me again, you have my thanks, Lady. However, the fear of being spied upon is mine. I saw outside, a bird, an unnatural bird. An agent of your ennemies, it could be unless it belongs to you or one of your guests ?"
Xaandros slips out of the shadows after watching the others enter,
and thinks
Perception DC10
After being ushered in, the man removes the hood on his dirty cloak. He's a slim and short man and, while his face looks young, he has the eyes of someone who has been throught a lot already. Perhaps more notably, his skin is dark brown, some might say black. He makes a short bow to lady Janiven (some habits die hard), and observes the other two with a mix of appraisal and suspicion. Finally, he speaks with an unusual accent and way of speech. "For seeing me again, you have my thanks, Lady. However, the fear of being spied upon is mine. I saw outside, a bird, an unnatural bird. An agent of your ennemies, it could be unless it belongs to you or one of your guests ?"
The bird is mine.
The robed elf seems to recognize that he has spoken a little too forcefully, and relaxes his stance.
As much as any living thing can belong to another. You might say, we belong to one another. But mean me no harm, and Elim shall pose no threat to you.
Initiative Rolls (1d20+2=21, 1d20+2=17, 1d20+2=16, 1d20+2=20, 1d20+2=15)
The hard clank of iron shod boots hammers off the soft wooden floor of the bar room. A figure, a Hell Knight, stands in the doorway. At first glance, terror fills the lesser patrons of the bar fearing they have been discovered. The more hardened in the tavern quickly realize, the soot black armor differs from the diabolical lap dogs from the house of Thrune. This man, is no Hell Knight, just another desperate Westcrani hoping for change. His large muscled frame is contrasted by thinning, greying hair, this man is no novice boy, the wrinkle lines etched on this aging warriors face, provide a map indicating he has seen entirely too much blood shed at the hands of devils and worse. He kicks out a chair and sinks into the chair as it buckles under the weight of his ebon armor. Gauntleted hands pound the table as they come to rest. He looks defeated, tired, even sad, he lets out a sigh hoping the winds of change blow hard.
The bird is mine.The robed elf seems to recognize that he has spoken a little too forcefully, and relaxes his stance.
As much as any living thing can belong to another. You might say, we belong to one another. But mean me no harm, and Elim shall pose no threat to you.
"Sometimes, the language of this Cheliax confuses me. But yes, master elf, you speak truly. The spirits of the land have no true masters. Earning their respect is never easy, threat your companion well."
With this said, Za'unda turns to the others. "Many come in, but say little. If, like me, you come seeking change, I would at least have your names, strangers. Za'unda was the name given to me by my mother."
The robed elf is silent for a moment, pausing to gaze into the crystal imbedded at the head of his staff. He seems to be weighing something in his mind, but he turns back to the dark-skinned Za'unda and nods in approval.
I am called Mithrael. Let that suffice for now. Well met, Za'unda.
Mithrael looks around, surprised to see so many people within the building. He turns toward the lady who had brought them all there.
This is a bit reckless, perhaps? A group this large is too conspicuous.
Conspicuous? Whatsoever about? the smirking Taldan says, grabbing a bottle of spirits from behind the counter and a half-dozen glasses.
He sets them all on the bar and pours a full measure into each, draining the bottle. Searching in vain for a place to discard the empty vessel, he tosses it absently behind the bar and shrugs at the blue-headed man. He picks up one of the glasses.
I am Ashenal ... yes, THE Ashenal, he says darkly, then brightens, raising his glass to the lady. After a quick gulp, he continues. And I'm glad to have the acquaintance of all of you. Come, drink, all -- none should face their deaths without a stiff drink.
For you, my good man? Ashenal says, offering a glass to the tired warrior. Come now, have a drink with me. Surely one as accustomed to death should have no fear of ... this? he asks, indicating the gathering as a whole.
The weary elder lights up at the wine, but even more at the gentleman from Taldor, he stands and crosses the space from his chair to the bar in a grace that dares his age to slow him down. for those paying attention a Falcata swings from his belt, it seems this Chelish son has Taldorian roots. "Well met Ashenal, I have heard your name, but cannot place it, please indulge me". Looking the smaller man up and down, "Perhaps the theater?".
The weary elder lights up at the wine, but even more at the gentleman from Taldor, he stands and crosses the space from his chair to the bar in a grace that dares his age to slow him down. for those paying attention a Falcata swings from his belt, it seems this Chelish son has Taldorian roots. "Well met Ashenal, I have heard your name, but cannot place it, please indulge me". Looking the smaller man up and down, "Perhaps the theater?".
Aye, the theater. But you flatter me; I am but a overwrought jester, nothing more. Likely, my name has come to you as the son of Urusol. A master thespian he was, Ashenal says, looking in his drink and swirling it, distracting himself for a moment. But a dark tale that is, and I imagine we'll have enough dark subjects to discuss this eve, eh?
Now, tell me of yourself, sir. Besides, of course, of your impeccable style and excellent breeding, which is obvious, he says, bowing. I would be honored to have your name, and your station of course. Are you an officer in the army?
Conspicuous? Let's make this look like a party then. Xaandros states as he pulls the Sitar from his shoulder and takes a seat in the corner. Xaandros begins to play a tragic song, picking the strings to the familiar tune of Fallen in Twilight. An outlawed song...a song sung by those of rebellious spirit...
Urosol, you say?
Mithrael steps a little closer to the insistent youth.
Urosol I have heard of. Infamous, indeed. And now you carry on his work?
Mithrael ponders the turn of events quietly, lifting his free hand to his chin in a typical elven gesture of deep thought.
And your mother, what of her?
Mithrael is suddenly distracted by the musical performance.
Quiet down, minstrel. Even these parts of the city may be hounded by spies and those in league with the House of Thrune. If you must play, play quietly, so that we may avoid the eyes of scrutiny.
"Well Ashenal, like you I am an artist, except my medium is blades" The elder warrior takes a sip of the wine and cherishes its strong flavor, "The name is Almander, I teach the house of Jaggere to wield weapons of war" Almander looks down, saddened, "I once taught a more noble family, but all that remains of that great house is ashes" Almander looks up to the assembled group, his steely eyes pierce each one of them. "I am sorry, I do not enjoy talking about myself, you, elf, what thoughts are you forming, the chin-strokes speak volumes"
Almander finds himself subconciously humming the minstrels banned tune.
Mithrael glances at the armored man, noticing the distinctions between his heavy armor and the Hellknight's typical black plate.
I am considering our shared interests, since it seems that all who are present share at least one thing in common or are making a pretense of doing so.
Mithrael hesitates but only for a moment before continuing.
At least, so it seems to me. I would almost think that we might speak freely here. Almost. And for now, that is how it must remain.
Urosol, you say?
Mithrael steps a little closer to the insistent youth.
Urosol I have heard of. Infamous, indeed. And now you carry on his work?
Mithrael ponders the turn of events quietly, lifting his free hand to his chin in a typical elven gesture of deep thought.
And your mother, what of her?
Mithrael is suddenly distracted by the musical performance.
Quiet down, minstrel. Even these parts of the city may be hounded by spies and those in league with the House of Thrune. If you must play, play quietly, so that we may avoid the eyes of scrutiny.
Did you know, magician, that this artist playing for us is no mere minstrel?, Ashenal says, indicating the sitar-strumming man. Introduce yourself before they start throwing coppers at you, man!
But to answer your question. My father's work, as you say, was like play for him. As were his indiscretions. But a stiff price he paid for his failings, Ashenal says with a sigh, downing the rest of his drink. And I never knew my mother, the only one that could hold the great Urusol's heart. Suffice it to say that my family tree has been pruned most ... diligently.
He takes a deep breath. But we move ever forward, and it is not even Act I of this story, is it?
Mithrael lowers his gaze in a recognition of sorrow.
Too much pruning has occurred already. You are not the only one to be separated from your family by the hands of devil-twisted fate.
Mithrael finally picks up the goblet of wine left on the bar, sipping from it slowly. He wrinkles his nose as though in distaste, but keeps the goblet in his hand.
I would ask your forgiveness for my dire and sour mood. My familial arrangement has of late been, like yours, prematurely ended.
Waiting in the shadows outside, Tahlali watches the others enter the tavern. He takes note of each in turn, paying special attention to the elf.
Once he feels he has waited long enough, he detatches himself from the enveloping gloom and moves silently to the door. He checks the large slender sword sheathed at his back, before pushing open the door and entering, drawing looks from the gathered faces.
The small gathering before him will note a tall pale elf with bright piercing blue eyes and jet black hair that seems to drink in the light. He is dressed in stylish black pants and shirt and carries himself with the grace of a predatory cat, coupled with the haughtiness of the nobility.
He walks to the bar, for the moment ignoring the stares of those around him and requests a Waveskimmer, a strong mixed spirit from his homeland that he is quite certain won't be found in such a place.
Xaandros be my name he says as he stands to bow, Indeed, these devil twisted fates thrust me from my family, I was expelled from House Arvaxi when my Infernal nature was revealed. It seems my family made deals in the past with the fiends most common in the desert lands...and generations later that deal has once again shown itself. Though I'm not like most of those cursed in these lands...My wits and charm run much beyond my brethren. Xaandros seemed to be about to say more when the newcomer arrives But, yes, you may have seem me in one of our lovely opera houses, though my voice is not as strong as the stars, I have had a few bit parts.
An old man shuffled indoors, his steps halting as he leaned on the staff gripped in his right hand. Whilst his hood was up, mostly shadowing his face, his white hair draped down also, almost totally shielding his appearance from view. One could note his piercing blue eyes, however - they seemed to penetrate through the gathered people.
With a voice that barely made it past a whisper, Jeric acknowledged the group. "Greetings. I trust I am in the right place?"
Rolls:
Disguise (1d20+2=7) Of what is visible, one can see that the left side of Jeric's face and neck have been badly burned in the past, making almost a straight line down his face. Basic religious knowledge would remind you of the story of Nethys, god of Magic.
---
Perception (1d20+8=18)
Mithrael slides a glass of wine toward the new elf, peering over at their silent hostess for a moment or two.
I fear this institution does not carry the delicacies of the Mordant Spire. It's not even fully operational and I am amazed that the bar is as well stocked as it is. The wine is stale, but cool enough to parch one's thirst.
Janiven watches as the newest hopefuls get to know each other. She keeps herself busy with cleaning and getting the food ready for dinner for the group not having to worry about the drinks as they seem to be able to take care of themselves. She keeps silent as she works, listening and watching for the moment. She smiles as she proclaims everyone is here now as a large half orc enters the tavern. Her smiles seems a bit false though as her nerves show on her face and keeps glancing at the front window every few minutes while she works. Dinner will be served in a few minutes so please make yourselves comfortable at the main table, there are no assigned seats so sit where you like. We will not be to long as I know everyone here wants to get to your home before the sun sets. I will speak while everyone eats to speed things up as it took longer for everyone to get here than I expected! She turns back to the food preparation......
Tahlali takes the offered glass and sniffs it, wrinkling his nose, but taking a sip anyway.
"You are of course correct in your assessment of the Human's pitiful taste in liquor," he says with a grimace, although he doesn't remove his hand from the glass.
"I see that you are familiar with my homeland. Do you yourself hail from there? My name is Tahlali Waverunner." He gives a tiny nod of his head. "You will of course have heard of my family if you are from Mordent Spire, minor nobility though they be."
The other Elf's reply is interrupted by Janiven's call for everyone to take their seats. He will walk with the other Elf to the table and take a seat beside him, preferrably as far from the Half-Orc as possible.
Anyone who speaks Elven:
Mithrael grimaces briefly.
No, the Sevireannes have been in Chelish lands since the elves' return. I am well versed in elven lore, though, and know enough of the lands we inhabit to recognize your cultural heritage.
Mithrael walks around the table, finding a suitable chair facing the door. He turns back to the Mordant Elf, introducing himself.
It is curious that you are here in these lands. How come you to Westcrown?
Settling in next to Mithrael, Tahlali continues his discussion.
"I was a little unsure as to your heritage. You have the look of a Spire Elf about you, but I have been generally unfamiliar with other Elves until recently. Living in this foul land must be so... draining upon your fine sensibilities. From what I can tell they are a barbaric lot to throw in their lot with Devils as they have, no matter how much they try to lord their supposed nobility over everyone." He takes nother sip of the wine, doing his best to hide his distaste.
"As to why I am here, that in itself is an interesting story."
"I happened to hear tales of how some of the last remaining Azlanti had taken up residence in a city named Absolom, a huge place veritably teeming with all walks of life. My curiosity got the better of me and despite my father's displeasure, I decided to visit this city tosee them first hand for myself. During my travels, I happened to meet another Elf who had been to Absolom and told tales of these "Gillmen" as they have allowed themselves to be called. He also told me that he was a member of a group who had a thirst for knowledge much like myself and that he would be happy to introduce me to them in hopes that I would join. When I arrived I did indeed meet with memebers of this group and they tasked me with exploring here in Westcrown as a show of my sincerity to join with them. The other Elf, a strange one with wild tattoos upon his face who hailed from a land called Mwangi, became my Patron and as a measure in his faith in me has gifted me with a token of that faith." He pulls a small compass-like device from his pocket and shows Mithrael secretly, sure in his ability to trust the other Elf, but not so much in the other races, particularly the Orc half-breed.
Jeric took a seat near the two elves chattering away in their native tongue. Hearing something that grabbed his attention, Jeric turned to the elves.
"One should be careful when... mentioning the... Pathfinders in Cheliax... friend." He rasped, his manner of speech halting thanks to a lack of recent practice.
"I don't mean to... interrupt, but I couldn't help hearing... you mention that... organisation. I doubt any here will give you... trouble for it, but it's not something I'd... advertise." He said, his voice never raising higher than a whisper.
Za'Unda refuses any offered alcohol. "In this time, I have little desire to cloud my mind and senses."
Unable to understand the elven language, Za'Unga sits close to the Ashenal and the heavy armored warrior. "The wish is mine that I could tell you lots about my homeland but, many seasons ago, vile men took me away from it. I was born on the land you call the Mwangi Expanse, a land of jungles and wild rivers. It was a place rich in spirits, ancient spirits, good and bad. I mostly remember that we people were free, not oppressed and hiding like here."
Tahlali looks at the old man in surprise, not really expecting anyone else here to know Elven.
"I... thank you. I find it interesting that you speak Elven, even though your manner of speech gives away the fact that it is not your native tongue." He attempts to peer under the hood without alerting the old man, but he can see nothing but shadow.
Perception Check. (1d20=3)
"How is it that you know of the Pathfinders? And why should I not mention them in Cheliax? I know little of this land other than what relates to my mission in Delvehaven."
Jeric smiled behind his hair. Other races were always surprised when others knew their language.
"My father taught me several years ago. Although I haven't had much cause to use it, it is... useful to know when studying magic." He explained, the words coming to him easier now, if still a little halting.
"The Pathfinders were forcibly exiled from Cheliax many years ago, so the story goes." He said, his voice difficult to listen to.
"I would welcome their return, but the upper classes are afraid of knowledge they cannot control. In this, my brothers and I share a certain kinship with the Pathfinders."
Mithrael looks around, noticing how some of those present distanced themselves from the elvish speakers.
Let us speak the common tongue, even if it is less chordant to certain ears. I do not wish to seem elitist. There is a certain rhythm and cadence to Chelish which can be intriguing, poetic, and subtle. I find it enjoyable to speak.
A light of understanding goes on in Tahlali's eyes as he finally realizes why Delvehaven was abandoned.
"I am impressed by your knowledge of the Pathfinders. And I also see how they work." He thinks for a second. "They told me as little information as possible about Delvehaven's history, so as to see how well I could dig up information. A cunning way to determine whether I was worthy of membership."
"And who are these brothers you speak of? Are they family or another society?"
He turns to Mithrael.
"Your words are wise."
"So do any of you know what we are here for?"
"I am a servant of Nethys, God of Knowledge and Magic." He said, explaining his words.
Noting the words of the other elf, Jeric nodded his agreement. "I apologise for any rudeness on my part." He said to everyone, switching to the common tongue, although his voice was so quiet it would likely not be heard over any other conversation.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am called Jeric. The god Nethys is my patron." He continued, mostly talking to the elves. "I, like Him, have suffered for my knowledge."
The quiet half-orc moves in the door and stands watching for what seems like an eon before moving to the table and taking a seat that affords him a commanding view of the entrance and the bar. He sits quietly listening to the conversation unfold trying to get a feel for the players in this new story he is departing on.
Tahlali gives the others a curt nod of his head. "I am Tahlali Waverunner, here in Westcrown to do some exploring of some of the ruins."
Za'unda looks at the elf with renewed suspicion. "Explore the ruins ? I sure hope we are here for more then a treasure hunt. Let the ruins belong to the dead, we say among my people, the Zenj. The past is rarely the business of the living."
The ruins of Westcrown hide more than just treasure. There are conspiracies, secrets, agendas, some of which might suit our needs.
Mithrael spoke solemnly, sipping from his wine glass again at the end of his sentence. He kept a wary eye on the part of the building surrounding the door.
Well played, Xaandros. It was premature of me to call you out on playing too loudly. Decades of caution have embittered me to the dottari and their hellbent allies.
Mithrael looked out the window, noting that the sun was even lower in the sky. The shadows on the street were growing longer.
Quietly, almost muttering to himself, The Brightening can rarely take hold in the places where darkness rules.
Tahlali looks at Xaandros and his eyes widen ever so slightly.
"This is an interesting turn of events. I wonder why they sent two of us here without speaking to us first of the other's involvement?"
He catches Za'unda's comment and turns to give him a gaze that conveys a certain disdain for such a common pursuit.
"I am not here simply as a mere treasure hunter. I am here for a specific reason and the ruins of which I must explore once belonged to companions of mine who wish me to see to their current state."