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 Recent Posts
Seeing their escape route cut off by Ardan, the rogue farthest from Terin bolts out the front door, ostensibly after Eldin. Dropping their hand crossbows, the two remaining rogues draw rough looking cutlasses and close on the nearest adversary (no sneak attack damage because the second thief can’t flank from behind the bobcat).
Holdrus charges forward, but the skeletons close ranks, attempting to prevent him from moving forward (Strength check 1d20+3=20). Shenker darts forward and stabs one of the skeletons, but his blade passes into the open ribcage of the undead ineffectually. Taking advantage of Holdrus’ lead, Skarsnikt cartwheels through the trio and lands before the door taken by the Templar. Peering inside the humid room, the mantis man can see a stone tiled chamber dominated by a large pool in the shape of a sun, bas-relief rays extending to the walls around it. The templar wheels around from studying the runes of the door at your scuffling approach and again reaches for his holy symbol. From the foyer, the "bluff" group can see the second half of the party passing the end of the hallway stretching out before them. They appear to be in quite a rush, and Issiki is riding one of the Kreen. Stepping outside briefly, Kha-Chik takes to the air, reporting that the nobles that can flee have done so, and there does not appear to be any response from the city guard, oddly enough. The strange shimmering you witnessed outside Tik’s place appears to be present here as well.
A surge in the noise level heralds the arrival of an outpouring of panicked nobles. Reacting quickly, Aso trips a few in the quest for valuables, coming up with an empty toga, a sandal, two pulsating slug creatures, and eight ceramic coins. Clearly distressed, Kha-Chik begins ranting into thin air while the others fend off the panicked crowd. Stepping into the foyer, the small group finds opulent furnishings, including bronze statuary, hanging vines, and a hemispherical wooden front desk, behind which sits a lone, empty, overturned chair. There are closed doors on both ends of the lobby, and a wide hallway stretches out behind the desk, ending at a set of double doors before forking to the right and left. You hear a whooping noise that sounds like Issiki from the end of the hall. --- Bursting into the hallway in hot pursuit of the Templar, the group barely has time to draw to a sudden stop before smashing into a wall ten feet straight ahead. You find yourselves in a long hallway with a set of double doors on either end. At the midpoint of the hall is another set of double doors facing an open entryway, and a single door lies open along the north wall at the far end of the hall. Your quarry, the Templar stands in the doorway. Thrusting his holy symbol prominently into the air, he cries, “Mighty Dregoth, grant me the power of creation!” then ducks into the adjoining room. The bodies of three thoroughly trampled nobles begin to stir at the far end of the hallway. Skin sloughing from their forms, blood and organs melting away, the skeletons begin to advance on your position. From behind Marada, a feminine voice quips, “This is going to be messy. I hate messy.”
Terin angles closer to the crossbows, in an effort to prevent another volley. Rounding an overstuffed bear, he finds himself facing one of the thieves (a hard-bitten man with a unibrow), with another to his right, ducked behind a bobcat. On the other side of the room, the final guild member uses a monstrous centipede for cover. Passing through the back of the showroom, Ardan finds himself at the end of a short L-shaped hallway with a door to the left, and two doors ahead and a step or two to the right. The hallway bends at a ninety-degree angle, making a sharp right in the direction of the showroom (behind you) and preventing you from seeing what may lie around the corner.
Aso and Radik make short work of the remaining sentry, though the sounds of screams and general panic now emerging from inside overwhelm the sound of his body sliding to the soft sand. --- Bodies of affluent Raamans lie everywhere, from the scorched dead piled high about Zuko, to those hacked apart by Holdrus, or torn asunder by Skarsnikt. The band is nowhere to be found, and the overwhelming din is beginning to die down somewhat as those who can flee do so. Your new companion shows signs of deprivation or torture of some kind, as she addles on about half-giants and weaves her arms in complex patterns for no reason you can fathom. As the remaining partygoers jostle through the far exit, shoving each other against the doorframe, Issiki leaps onto Kirrish’s back (how cool is that), and they both charge after the fleeing Templar, ducking low as Faindrac’s amorphous ectoplasm soars above and passed them in attempt to ensnare the retreating man before he can clear the portal completely.
Terin detects a hint of a double image as the stuffed creatures begin to animate, and recognizing the betraying signs of illusion magic, tips off his comrades. Knocking the arm from a stuffed bear with his cutlass, Ardan concurs with Terin’s assessment of the situation. “I knew they were fakes all along. Hmm, maybe not those though…,” adds Penkus as crossbow bolts spray into the room, striking the wood paneling and narrowly missing the party. As you search for the source of the missiles, Nemien reappears, leaps over the counter while screaming something unintelligible, and runs out the front door. In his wake, the little bell over the door jangles restlessly.
Tyndal begins looking around for the mysterious jackalope. Tyndal’s jackalope search bears curious fruit, as one on the unlikely amalgamations bounds to the top of a cabinet in front of him and brandishes its antlers menacingly. The hanging black dragon cranes it neck around at the party and begins to flap its wings, as if testing them for flight. Creatures of every genus begin turgidly awakening, with ominous import.
Aha. Found them:
Listening to Terin shine on about his favorite subject, Nemien claps his hands together joyfully before fastidiously smoothing down the front of his suit with his hands. “Excellent choice, sir! We could easily accommodate all your conservation needs; if you would like to see a work in progress, we’ve just recently begun work on a dire jaguar for the church of Kord. Also, I happen to have some reliable alchemical preservatives which I would be willing to offer you at a bulk discount, provided you bring your catch to us exclusively.” “Do be careful there, sir!”, Nemien interjects, swatting at the air near Tyndal. “This is an incredibly rare horned gopher. Quite dangerous, from what I hear, though understandably less so now. See how lustrously the pelt remains, even after a full decade?” At Seann’s inquiry, Nemien raises a single eyebrow briefly. “Mr. Vanderboren? Hmm, yes, he bespoke quite a few pieces lately, very unusual creatures all. Interesting...he seemed the type to be more…circumspect.. in regards to the company he keeps. No offense, fine patron. “As a matter of fact, I think I have something of his here behind the counter that you might wish to see.” Stepping behind the long desk, Nemien sweeps up the smock and gloves, shouting, “Evanesco!” before he disappears from sight.
Holdrus and Skarsnikt bully their way through the room like mating braxats, tossing revelers with abandon as Shenker adroitly weaves his way to the center stage, pausing here and there to dance with a noble. Faindrac unleashes the power of the Way, striking the Templar, his attendants, and the bulging moth, the pulsating abdomen of which explodes in a riot of color, dripping ichors and undeveloped young. () As one, the revelers clasp their hands to their heads and begin wailing in anguish. The moment is short lived, however, followed by what could best be described as “all hell breaking loose.” The party quickly becomes a riot, with some of the nobles attacking each other, several attempting to escape, trampling each other in the process, a few standing pitifully or collapsing, and quite a large number attacking you. Holdrus and Skarsnikt are closest to the chair, and they discover the attendants dead on the ground, felled by Faindrac’s icy blast. Shenker arrives shortly thereafter, and searching for the Templar finds him at the head of an ocean of mutinous crowd, almost to the door. The remaining group members are enveloped by the revolt, savagely assaulted on all sides by the completely irrational well-to-do of Raam.
As you enter the Taxidermist’s Guildhall, a bell placed over the top edge of the door jingles. Scores of expertly stuffed animals and beasts are on display in every available space, some even hanging from the ceiling. At every turn still life monkeys, parrots, and bats confront you, side by side with realistically posed stirges, giant centipedes, and even a black dragon, albeit a very young one. “Coming!,” announces an even-toned voice from the rear of the shop, and before long a snappily dressed man appears, placing a neatly folded leather smock and recently removed gloves on the counter as he moves to greet you. Impeccable despite the evidence you interrupted his labors, the olive skinned man looks for all the world as if he was about to head out for a night on the town, with his brown suit, silk hat, and well trimmed goatee. Straightening a handlebar mustache between two fingers, the man practically drips with smarminess as his eyes run up and down your party, appraising your financial merit. Knitting his thick brows just a moment, the man comes to a decision internally, flashing a gold tooth in what he obviously means to be a winning and sincere smile. “Welcome, valued customers, I am Nemien Roblach! Are you looking for something special today, or perhaps inquiring how best to preserve a rare trophy?”
it is my intention to attack with claws to make a hole first or my shot would use my dex and be a lot higher; your description said the half giants blocked the passage so I figure we all gotta make a hole; I am going to direct my strikes on one being fought by one of our warriors as my intent is to make a hole for a shot. bow shot would have been a 27 but I didnt think I had line of sight by the description
The well-trained Half-Giants draw their falchions as one, though one of the guards can only hold his in a single hand. Closing ranks, with their backs to the entrance, the two and a quarter meter tall warriors roar, each lifting one foot as they do so. The air before you shimmers, and as the giants stamp their upraised feet down upon the earth, their roars attain the crash of a landslide and take quasi-physical form, rippling outward and zigzagging along the ground with incredible speed.
At the commotion, a young raven-haired woman wearing sandals and a white linen toga pokes her head between the giants, gapes at the turmoil, and then quickly runs back inside the spa. Giants
At the rear of the compound, the panorama is vastly different, looking for all the world as if the doorway into the spa was actually a portal into another world. Filled with a milling, dancing, socializing press of bodies, a smoky haze of incense drifts throughout the darkened room, causing the far end of the hall to be lost to your vision. To the left of the doorway you just passed through is a long bar of dark agafari wood tucked behind a large band, the members of which sway rhythmically as they enthusiastically play an eclectic assortment of instruments, from large skin drums to long tubes of intricately carved wood from which emit a droning simultaneously doleful and sonorous. Everywhere you gaze, amateur ecdysiasts, some on tables, caper more or less in time with the music, and your group immediately sticks out like a sore thumb due to their copious attire. Many of the revelers hold small glowing globules, which pulse different hues as they swing them about in their fingers, occasionally pausing to suck on the objects or write their names in the air. In the haze and the gloom, the plentiful items leave variegated trails behind them, lending a hundred different colors to the walls and ceiling Blankets are spread along the floor in roped off areas, inside of which are clusters of flesh, men and women of all ages and races fornicating in a blur of groping, grasping limbs without regard for any sort of decency of modesty. A small crowd of onlookers sip colored drinks from glass decanters while scantily clad youths circumnavigate their way through the room with never-ending pitchers of wine. A fit looking half-elf is comatose on a table here, lying flat on his back. As you watch, he coughs up tinted liquid as a multihued glowing slug inches its way from his nostrils, leaving a trail of glistening color shifting slime behind it. Oblivious to his condition or simply uncaring, nearby partygoers continue to bob their necks and circle their wrists above their heads, while two middle-aged noblewomen take advantage of the man’s cataleptic state and lack of clothing. In the center of the room, you spy the Templar from Tik’s place swinging an object above his head on a short rope. Looking closely, you see it is the head of the elf from the alley, though its mouth, eyes, and nose are sewn closed! As he spins the decapitated elf’s head faster and faster, the skull becomes a blur, then a fountain of glowing light as the head splits open, showering the crowd with a bounty of pulsating slug creatures. In response, the frenzied tempo of the gathering increases even more, and patrons revel in complete disorder, naked bodies grinding against you in their fervor. Seated near the Templar, in the only chair in the room is a dark skinned young woman of incredible beauty, though her only clothing consists of loose, torn rags held on more by prayer and the giant-hair binding which keeps her from standing up than anything else. Two attendants standing nearby are preparing to slip a leather mask over her face as she struggles. Secured to the front of the mask is an enormous moth, belly swollen and distended, broken rainbow wings flapping impotently in excitement at the prospect of a vessel for its ovipositor. Spotting your group from across the room, she begins yelling for aid and thrashing about wildly, attempting to delay the operation until you can reach her. Sirocco calls out over the roar of the crowd and the throbbing bass of the band, “That’s Marada, she’s on our side. We better bail her out of there quick!”
Starting fresh in the morning, the party sets out for the Taxidermist’s Guild Hall, Lavinia wishing them luck in all endeavors. The air holds the tang of salt spray as the sun climbs amid the blue-grey backdrop. The humidity is quite tolerable this morning, as a stiff wind blows from the sea towards the Amedio jungle. Heavy clouds droop in the sky however, and you think there may be rain before long. Making good use of Penkus’ guidance (though he complains bitterly about the morning brightness), Terin leads the party to the Sunrise district via Gondola station to Crown Street. Crossing a wooden walkway and passed a general goods store bring you to a familiar sight, as oddly enough you find yourselves facing The Shivering Cat Tavern for the second time this week. Shrugging it off as coincidence, you make a left onto Monkey Street, then again at Water Street, arriving at your destination. The guildhall has a relatively modest exterior, with nothing to identify it except for a shingle out front containing an image of a rampant hare with hart’s antlers. Penkus informs you this is the main business entrance, but there is also a (typically) locked workshop door around back in Dead Dog Plaza.
Sirocco answers, “Yes, but we must hurry. They’ve already begun the ritual to imprison them!” With Faindrac’s aid, Shenker now has the bar perched above the stops, and the door swings outward easily (he will also need to decide if he wants to let the bar drop, or let the door swing back with him behind it). The noise level from the building appears to be mostly concentrated in this area. Kirrish reports all clear. Not caught completely off guard by Radik’s surprise attack, the guard raises his arm to ward the club swing, though soon wishes he hadn’t. The force behind the blow smashes the fine bones in the sentry’s hand, driving it back into his skull and causing him to bellow with both rage and agony. Unfortunately, Radik overreaches and is unable to check the swing, costing him precious time and allowing the guards a moment to recover.
Whoever is near Radik please sound out. :)
The other party members do not spot the shimmering dark, even with Sirocco aiding Holdrus, but you do find evidence of recent movement in the area, including some blood spotting, almost as if someone was clearing the path for Radik’s march to Featherwhisper’s. As before, the closer you approach, the more noticeable the dramatic bass becomes. The half-giants stationed at the door look up at Radik’s steady approach, but as of yet do not seem particularly interested. Shenker finds the rear door to be barred from the inside, but is fairly certain he can carefully lift the bar with both daggers pushed through the jamb, though it will take some time.
From her post on the roof, Kha-Chik-Chik-Ka notices an odd shimmering, like the rising of hot desert thermals, moving between the alleyways around Tik’s place. While she is attempting to determine the source of the shimmering, the inn door bursts open and Radik strides into the evening street purposefully and without fear, or perhaps even the common sense to attempt to avoid patrols.
The youth’s eyes pop open at Holdrus’ yelling, and he sits bolt upright, barely managing to avoid impaling himself in the process. It’s difficult to tell what he might be staring at as his eyes rotate in opposite directions, but his eyes emit a distinct yet faint radiance. “Wuh…wuh…wrrrraaaaaalllllgggggpppphhhhh,” is all the youth manages to get out before projectile vomiting iridescent, viscous bile, showering Holdrus and anyone else unfortunate enough to be nearby. The youth defecates explosively, then his entire body spasms repetitively before he lies still, breathing no more. The variegated flecks of vomit around his mouth and across the front half of Holdrus continue to shine for a few moments before going dim, then out.
Certainly!
Spoiler:
Lavinia’s been quite careful not to mention her recent problems with her brother, or her family’s financial situation, but the other council members are aware she has called in a large number of markers lately. Your contacts tell you the PC’s were recently involved in some sort of altercation at the docks, as well as the recent trouble at the ancestor’s rest inn. Descriptions of the party written in the dead sergeant’s notebook match up with those given by the imprisoned warehouse sentinel of a group posing as sewer workers, but as of yet no tangible links exist to prove the party may have caused the costly fire.
The council in general wants you to investigate the ghastly murder of Keltar Islaran (the harbormaster) and to ensure the party remains within the boundaries of the law, while secretly Emil Draktus wishes to learn anything that might give him leverage over Lavinia’s seat on the council. The Arabani’s wish you to investigate quietly the party’s involvement in the fire, to either exonerate them or formerly charge them with a crime. They aren’t ready to move publicly, because the warehouse was a staging area for an underground railroad they use to transfer non-evil dark elves safely.
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