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The sturdy dwarf nods soberly and leans on his dragontooth runespear. "Aside from those in the palace who wish the Ruby Prince ill for their own political gains, there's also the Consortium to consider. If the vaults o' Osirion get closed to the Society, what manner of dung beetle do you think will move in?"
Welcome, lad. How's it going? Often, I'll find m'self the only member of the team that can recognize a threat or disengage a trap that's older than my grandfathers. More 'n once, I've had a colleague ask, with a certain shock, "You're disabling that trap?! But you're a cleric. How are you ---" An' I always answer, "Cause I'm a Pathfinder cleric*, you yahoo." *Best to correct 'em one at a time, y'know.
A dwarf with a deep desert tan cocks an eyebrow at the half-elf. "Look at yourself, Kyros. If you met someone dressed likewise, with light armor and fine-controlled weapons, what would you expect?" He walks over to sit in a chair closer to the half-elf, and his short sleeves reveal a Thassilonian rune burned into his right forearm. "So glamer that armor to look like a satin tunic, or disguise it further to seem a fine breastplate bearing some religious symbols. Let your foe think you a mage, or a priest. That's good for one surprise." The dwarf reaches into his belt pouch and tosses a handful of small items onto the lampstand between them. "Feather tokens. Only good once, so don't waste 'em, but you can grow a tree in the middle of a battleground, or summon a whip to do your bidding, or move across water faster than you can run. That's another surprise. "Learn some magic spells, and save them for the third round of combat. "Throw your rapier into the air, and as their head snaps up to follow it, stick a dagger in their throat." He gathers up the tokens and winks at Kyros. "And as for the mindless foes, throw them down a pit. Heh heh." |
