Cladissa stirs after uncounted hours of fitful dreams. As consciousness returns, she becomes aware of the dim light creeping through the curtains and the strong coppery scent of blood hanging in the air. That scares her for a moment, and she checks herself for injury. Finding nothing, she blinks away her grogginess and catches a whiff of a familiar animal scent. She locates Cole quickly, lounging on a bookshelf and regarding her silently. It hits her that she could smell him from where she lay in the middle of the floor. She breathes in deeply, and her room comes alive with scents -- the plaster of the walls, the wood frames, the linen, the stale sweat and dirt of her adventuring gear -- she could detect it all.
Memory surges, and she remembers where that blood smell was coming from. She had bled quite a bit through her nose before she passed out. Must have been the formula giving me an acute sense of smell, she thinks clinically before remembering the awful tingling throughout her face.
My face, she thinks in a panic. She brings her hands up to her cheeks and feels velvet-soft fur all over. Heart thudding, she races over to her mirror and looks.
Cladissa stares at the image reflected in the mirror. Traces of her old face remain, but the patterned fur dominates her features with the exotic stripes of a jungle cat. She idly wonders if some of the Mwangi mists had seeped into her lungs despite their precautions. Millions of thoughts and emotions race through her head as she studies her face, her mind whirling in so many directions that pinning something down resembling a coherent thought was like catching leaves in a tornado.
But one thought passes her frequently enough that it finally registers, even though it scares her a bit. I...I kind of like it.
Cole meows as he slinks up beside her. She scoops him up and holds him beside her, looking at them in the mirror. Quite the pair we make, huh? she asks. He purrs contentedly in response.
Feeling a little better, she smiles at him. I guess I should go see the others. He mews, and settles on her shoulder. She pads down the stairs and clears her throat. The scents of everyone, plus Mr. Goodpies' cooking, assail her and reminds her that other changes had happened.
Um. Hi. It's me.
"Cladissa!" the half-orc booms, "Look at you -- another step closer to self-perfection, I see! Wonderful. And--" he smiles, "--who knows how much more this serum might do for us?"
Thinking a bit more he adds, "You know, it can't be a coincidence that you've become more catlike in your appearance. Could it be proximity to Cole that's guiding your accelerated mutation? Or did the same humor in you attract both this particular familiar, and this particular mutation?
"Hrimnagel, Argor, Grommuk, are any of you interested in sleeping with Cole for a few weeks? I'd offer to do so myself but -- since I have my own familiar already -- the experiment could be polluted."
Argor observes the mutated, and more catlike, form of Cladissa with silent curiosity. At Nyugusk's purported hypothesis, Argor shakes his head.
"Firstly, no, I will NOT be allowing her familiar into my quarters. Secondly, I believe your hypothesis is off. In my observations, the serum is enhancing each of our own unique qualities. For Cladissa, it is indeed amplifying her strong arcane connection with her familiar. With Hrimnagel, his affinity for the shadows and dark places of the world. For you and Grommuk, I think it is magnifying your orcish blood and making you both more powerful physically. However, I have also found that, with concentration and willpower, the effects can be guided. I theorize that is how I've managed to keep my physical changes to a minimum all the while gaining greater clarity of mind."
Hrimnagel returned the "magic dagger" to the Pathfinder Lodge and silently followed his crew home. He kept to himself in the basement. Every day he worked a little more making it feel like home. The first room down the stairs could accommodate his orc friends and Cladissa if she ever wandered downstairs, even Argor if that would ever happen. It was relatively roomy with integrated, curved benches along the walls and a stone brazier in the center. The many small exhaust ports to act as a chimney had taken him awhile to shape. Beyond the sitting room, he had a bedroom and a study with an altar. Both were too small for his fellow Pathfinders to comfortably enter. In his study, he worshiped Count Ranalc, recorded his adventurers his journals at his desk, and conversed with life size statues of his old friends Konal and Maeva sitting along the walls. With his suite mostly complete, he tinkered with the appearance of his friends at the end of the day changing their hairstyles, clothes, and facial expressions. Occasionally, he would purchase new cushions and wall hangings to decorate and soften the stone surfaces.
Over the three weeks of downtime, Hrimnagel spent the majority of it with the Master of Swords, Marcos Farabellus. While his archery continued to improve, he focused on melee, so he would be more useful to his orc companions.
On the day of Cladissa's major transformation, Hrimnagel was breaking his fast and preparing to head to the lodge. He had not noticed any more particular changes for himself. "The feline look suits you well," he offers his friendly opinion and then is suite. "Cole is certainly welcome in my quarters." Obviously, the small, thin voice appeared to come from nowhere.
Cladissa and Cole exchange a look when Nyugusk proposes his "experiment." Cole mrows dubiously while Cladissa wrings her hands. She regards him; the alchemist practically reeks of chemicals -- ammonia spiced with nutmeg and saltpeter. She opens her mouth to ask him about his own familiar when Argor speaks up.
She and Cole both narrow their eyes at him. His statement about guiding the transformation gives her pause and she studies him. The scent of parchment and expensive inks hangs off him but underneath is a slick, oily pall that doesn't smell human.
Hrim speaks out of a patch of earthy scent like a limestone cave and she turns her head toward him. She smiles at what she assumed was a compliment. Cole pounces off her shoulder and rubs up against the patch of shadow.
Cole came to me as part of a bargain. He pretty much sleeps where he wants. He meows in agreement.
But I don't know if that's going to make much of a difference. I don't know what this formula is doing. Her tail swishes in agitation. Nyug, if you have a familiar, why aren't you looking like it? Why isn't Argor looking like his raven? Why is this happening to me? Is it-- she cuts herself off and looks away, suddenly pensive.
Argor waits to give her time to continue on her own, but then inquires, "Is it...what?"
The silence hangs as she brings her hand up and chews on a nail. Is it because I don't know what I want? The thought remains unspoken as she contemplates it. She feels the eyes on her, and she tries to cover. She wants to think more about it, but not in front of everyone.
Um. Is it...something else? You know, something we haven't thought of yet.
She sniffs the air. I think Mr. Goodpies is back. And is that reefclaw I smell? I'm famished.
"Ahhh, but Argor the experiment was to distinguish between two competing hypotheses. The other I mentioned is that something in her humors attracted both Cole and her particular mutations. It makes me wonder...what would happen if we were to inject the serum into Cole? Of course the remaining syringes are much too valuable to use like that, but still..." Nyug pauses to consider.
"Argor your theory that our minds can somehow control the mutations are fascinating as well. I'll have to consider that. Perhaps we can design an experiment to bear it out, or disprove it. Would you like to work together on one?
"Of course our mind and our essential humors are thoroughly intertwined. You for instance seem to have some excess of black bile and -- to a lesser degree -- phlegm. Does that shape your will, or does your will somehow produce more of those particular humors? It's an area ripe for research."
When Cladissa says "Nyug, if you have a familiar" his eyes go wide for a moment. "Do you mean to say that I haven't introduced you to Huk Huk yet? He's almost always with me. One moment."
Nyug starts to move his throat and jaw as though he might be chewing his cud at first, and then hawking up a massive hairball. Suddenly his mouth stretches to it's limit and out climbs a hideous ten pound creature that looks something like a miniature bulette shaped out of flesh and organs.
Smiling, Nyug pets the fleshy green-grey thing. "Friends, I'd like you to meet Huk Huk." Seeing more stares, he adds, "He's an armadillo that I grew from a tumor in my throat. He's good at digging and swimming, and likes to roll up in a ball."
Nyug extends his too-many-jointed left arm out across the room, holding Huk Huk up to Cole and saying "Huk Huk, this is Cole. Cole, Huk Huk. He's a familiar too, just like you. Only maybe somewhat different."
Huk Huk sniffs Cole, nudging the cat tenderly with it's nose.
Urgl... Cladissa reflexively makes a sound in her throat and brings her hand up over her mouth for a moment while Cole eyes the strange lumpy creature cautiously. Not so hungry all of a sudden, she mutters as a fleshy, acrid smell hits her nostrils.
Cole sniffs Huk Huk back, then decides to return to Cladissa's shoulders.
Argor grins behind his mask as Nyugusk extends the offer to begin joint research of the serum.
"Of course, I'd be glad to begin in depth studies of the serum and how to control it's effects. Though I have already promised to begin teaching Ms. Legrand in the arcane arts as my apprentice, I have no doubt I can find a way to perform both tasks jointly."
At the orc's description of his "humors" in such primitive and vile substances, Argor rankles a but in anger. He was about to speak his mind when he produced his "familiar," and began comparing it to Cladissa's. He felt disgust from Arctyryx at the wretched thing, and knew the Raven would not allow the thing to come nearly as close as it had to Cole.
In the following days, Argor continued his work researching spells, scribing scrolls, and providing tutelage to Ms. Legrand. He eventually decided it was time to begin looking for grounds to establish his true foothold in the landscape of Absalom's history.
He asks his new Apprentice to accompany him through the city looking at properties and open lots that could serve as a potential college, library, and provider of arcane paraphernalia. Particularly, he intended it to have room for at least two buildings, the main building as well as the dormitories, as well as room for expansion should he desire.
Cladissa scratches under Cole's chin. I should help too. I need to start understanding this, and not just reacting to it.
She crouches on her feline legs. It was a pleasure meeting you, Huk Huk. She stands smoothly and flashes the raven a predatory smile. Arctyryx. Good to see you again. Don't be a stranger.
Despite her momentary queasiness at Huk Huk's arrival, she follows the smell of food to the kitchen.
Hrimnagel has seen stranger aberrations in the Darklands, but none coexisting in a fellow's body. Mostly, they were parasitic or predatory. He also did not have opinion to debate the two arcanists. His change was the will of Count Ranalc. He saw Him. So he disappeared in the shadows of the kitchen to enjoy breakfast before joining the Weapon Master at the Lodge.
The smells of the kitchen hits her like a wall. Not only does she register the near infinite variety of the foodstuffs, spices and herbs, but she catches subtle nuances of each scent. Her receptors break them apart and analyze each component. She realizes Taldane -- and every humanoid language she knows -- is entirely insufficient to describe the nuances she know can detect. She remembers that there's a rarely-used subset of Draconic that she may have to explore.
She expects to be overwhelmed, but instead she feels elated. She remembers the first time she put on her corrective lenses all those years ago. And then --shudder-- when she opened her eyes after first injecting the serum. The world before was drab, out-of-focus and hazy. Now it is in sharp, clear focus and informing her of a myriad of new experiences.
She recognizes Hrimnagel is in the kitchen with her.
She sniffs and then turns to the shadow next to her. Um. You never mentioned if you had any new changes. Are you okay?
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Three weeks after the incident at the Blakros Museum the Pathfinders of Jabberwocky Ln. are summoned to the Foreign Quarter house of Venture Captain Drandle Drenge. The house is a relatively modest affair, significantly smaller than their own manor. Venture-Captain Drandle Drenge, is a stout older Taldan with thin, graying hair and a thick, bushy beard. He offers chairs and drinks, wipes sweat from his brow, and dives into business. Drenge unfurls a map on his butcher-block table and places a meaty finger on the parchment. “The abandoned district of Beldrin’s Bluff was once the gem of Absalom’s Precipice District—now it is but a weathered crag of broken rock at the edge of the roiling sea. When the great quake hit ten years ago, entire blocks of the Bluff sheared from the mainland. Cliffside tearooms and exclusive estates fell into the waves and carried hundreds of nobles to a watery grave. An elite academy, called the Tri-Towers Yard, remained on the mainland, but sank wholesale into the earth. Children unfortunate enough to survive the quake lay pinned under debris as sewer water slowly rose from the ground and drowned them. Nearly every student perished.”
“Today, crumbled stone walls and weed-filled lots sprawl where gentlemen’s clubs once filled with pipe smoke and hobnobbing lords. The Drownyard—er, that’s what the illmannered call the school these days—lies behind a fence of black iron pikes, constructed by the families of the dead to discourage morbid trespassers.”
“Even respected archaeological groups have been denied official access. Our own Society has itched to explore the site ever since the quake—that is, ever since we discovered that the school fell through the roof of a lost necropolis. Unfortunately, the emotional trauma attached to the school has remained fresh. But finally, after ten years of mourning, the politically-connected families of dead students have sanctioned our delve request.”
With a toothy smile and a clap, Drenge says, “I’m pleased to announce that I’ve selected your team for the delve. I want you to find a way into the necropolis, document your findings with professional detail, and recover artifacts of historical significance. The Society is interested in one artifact in particular—a two-finger ring topped with a ruby salamander.” Drenge makes a motion with his hands that seems to say, 'Any questions?'
Falling into a bit of a trend, Grommuk is largely absent for much of the time between missions. He returns each night, however, exhausted and covered in new sets of bruises and cuts. Mr. Goodpies' delicacies in the morning always find the dullard up and about with enthusiasm before he disappears into the throngs of Absalom to, presumably, find more fighting.
Much like when he returned bearing a new set of magical armbands, he remains absent on through the night leading up to their third assignment. He shows up for breakfast, a new suit of well crafted chain struggling to contain his constantly expanding girth. Grommuk is splattered in ample quantities of someone else's blood. . . again. When they receive their summons, the orc elects to take a hot soak before reporting to Venture-Captain Drenge's estate.
Grommuk seems to be in good spirits as they receive their briefing.
"I want you to find a way into the necropolis. . ."
Grommuk smiles at a mass of shadows in the corner of the room. They are not the shadows where Hrimnagel currently resides, the gnome will note.
". . .document your findings with professional detail. . ."
The burly orc, still smiling at the empty shadow, nods his head in Argor's direction. Argor seemed to like writing, for some reason. Grommuk thought it was stupid.
". . .recover artifacts of historical significance."
Grommuk's smile disappears and he stares blankly at the Venture-Captain. He's not entirely sure what he just said, but the part about recovering artifacts makes sense enough. They were Pathfinders after all. Grommuk continues to understand well his function in the organization. As ever, it would be his job to smash things that wanted to smash them.
When the man opens the floor to questions, Argor states, "A few, actually. What is it that, after all these years, has finally convinced them to allow the investigation? Also, what is the significance of the ring? If no other teams were allowed to investigate, how do we know for certain there even is a necropolis hidden there?"
Inwardly, however, Argor had other concerns.
If the loss of the Tri-Towers is still causing this much turmoil amongst the politically connected, I will either need help from their number or more personal clout to get my own institution up and running. Perhaps this could prove to be the bump I need to get it established...or the very thing to hinder it's establishment outright.
Replying to Cladissa, Hrimnagel says, "No, nothing really. Just these shadows." He passes his arm between them and the shadows dance along his arm like flames as if he was completely on fire. Then, he shrugs.
_______________________________________________________
Following the Venture-Captain's reply to Argor's questions, Hrimnagel disappoints Grommuk a bit by asking questions from a location at which he is not looking. The deep gnome clears his throat to gather attention and asks in his small, thin voice, "Sir, would you please tell us more about this necropolis and Tri-Towers Yard academy? Also would you expect other interested parties exploring down there at the same time as us?"
When the man opens the floor to questions, Argor states, "A few, actually. What is it that, after all these years, has finally convinced them to allow the investigation? Also, what is the significance of the ring? If no other teams were allowed to investigate, how do we know for certain there even is a necropolis hidden there?"
"I don't know why they've finally decided to accept our petition, and I really don't care. In ancient times, a wealthy merchant cut a ruby salamander ring from the hand of young cat burglar named Horastian. Horastian later became a renowned information broker and art collector. The Pathfinder Society hopes to magically locate the long-dead thief and his fabled hoard by using the ring as a divination focus. As for the rest, moldering texts tell of a coastal necropolis, rich with ancient treasures. Until the Tri-Towers Yard sank, no one knew the necropolis’s location," Drange replies.
Following the Venture-Captain's reply to Argor's questions, Hrimnagel disappoints Grommuk a bit by asking questions from a location at which he is not looking. The deep gnome clears his throat to gather attention and asks in his small, thin voice, "Sir, would you please tell us more about this necropolis and Tri-Towers Yard academy? Also would you expect other interested parties exploring down there at the same time as us?"
"I've told you what I know of the place. There shouldn't be anyone else down there. As I said, we're the first ones to be allowed in the ten years since the quake."
"Is there any time frame we need to be aware of regarding starting his venture? I would like to take time to do appropriate research before beginning. Forewarned is forearmed."
If there is nothing else, Argor will bid farewell to Captain Drenge, then begin trying to find out exactly what has occurred to suddenly grant them access to the place.
"As always we prefer timely completion of the tasks we assign you, but taking some time to research shouldn't harm anything."
Replying to Cladissa, Hrimnagel says, "No, nothing really. Just these shadows." He passes his arm between them and the shadows dance along his arm like flames as if he was completely on fire. Then, he shrugs.
_______________________________________________________
Okay, she says softly, not sure if that's a boon or a drawback that he suffered no further change. She smiles at Mr. Goodpies as he busies himself with the morning repast, but her smile fades at his reaction to her new appearance. She eats quietly.
_______________________________________________________In the weeks to follow, Cladissa finally screwed up the courage to venture out into the city to do some shopping. She got more strange looks than before, but one advantage to the new appearance was that any blushing was hidden beneath her patterned fur. Her reflection still took some getting used to, and she spent long moments just staring in the mirror making faces and wondering if she was changing on the inside along with the outside.
She noted Grommuk's coming and going, even when she didn't actually see him arrive in the late evenings and leave in the early afternoons, she could detect his presence and absence. She learned an orcish term that fit him perfectly -- hon-tolor, the heady scent of one's own sweat mixed with the blood of enemies. What was once just the reek of body odor, now it was an intriguing cocktail of subtle traces that spoke of the trials the orc had just faced.
When they were summoned to Venture Captain Drenge's house, she was relieved that they did not have to go to the Pathfinder Lodge. She had not wanted to face Auronee ever since the most recent change and thankfully she had not stopped by their estate. Cladissa had avoided the Lodge entirely since the museum incident.
She remains silent during the briefing, since everyone spoke the few questions she had before she had a chance. When they leave, she offers to assist Argor in the gathering of information on the academy and the necropolis.
"OK then, that sounds like enough to go by. Thank you Captain Drenge."
Argor's inquiries draw the attention of Lady Miranda Dacilane, a striking, middle-aged Chelish noblewoman who lost her daughter, Junia, at the TriTowers Yard. She sends a formal invitation to the Freaks on delicate (but expensive) parchment hand-delivered by a household page in livery.
Hero of the Society,
It has come to my attention that you and your cohorts were chosen by the noble Pathfinders to enter and explore what became of the Tri-Towers Yard. As my daughter, Junia, was lost there during the great quake, it seems only proper that you attend the banquet I am holding tomorrow in memory of her. You and your friends should wear your finest and arrive at the Dacilane Estate in the Ivy District at sundown. As you are probably not accustomed to the traditions of nobles, not attending this dinner would be a serious slight upon the memory of my daughter.
Sincerely,
Lady Miranda Dacilane
As Argor reads over the invitation, he almost simultaneously groans in pain at the thought of getting Grommuk properly attired for the occasion as well as laughs at the mental image the thought elicits.
"Ms. Legrand, please gather the others and have them meet me in the den. It would seem we need to go shopping."
Once all are gathered, Argor presents them with the invitation, making sure that the more brutish of their number handle it with care. "It would appear we have been invited to a social gathering in honor of one of the deceased students of the Tri-Towers incident, a Lady Dacilane. And, before you ask Grommuk, yes there will be food present. It is a banquet that we have been invited to."
Here came the delicate part of the explanation, "We will need to arrive in proper attire, unless we risk offending our hostess and the memory of her deceased child. If we step on the wrong toes, the privilege of investigating the Tri-Towers grounds could be revoked from us and assigned to another team, or outright denied to the Society altogether. As such, anyone who is in need of proper clothing, I suggest you gather an appropriate amount of coin from your previous payments and join me in a trip to the seamstress, as well as a jeweler. We will gather what information we can from the nobility in attendance, then we can prepare and set out for the ruins in the morning."
Take 10 Knowledge (Local) and (Nobility) in regards to Lady Miranda Dacilane.
Cladissa's stomach flips when she learns of the invitation. She frets about her appearance until she remembers the two orcs will also be in attendance. Calming herself, she turns her attention to the actual clothing that she needs to acquire. She had never been very fashion-conscious (when your stepsister always upstaged you no matter what you did, you eventually stop trying).
She excuses herself from the group expedition to the seamstress, and instead makes her way to the catfolk quarter once again. Dropping a pile of coins in the paws of a tailor there, she explains her needs and puts herself at his mercy.
She leaves with a silk dress that complements her patterned fur (and reveals entirely too much of it, Cladissa thinks), and has an elegant slit off to the side that guides her tail around and towards the front. She is keenly aware of the slitted pupils that follow her as she exits the feline quarter.
She quietly waits for the others to get ready, heart racing.
Hrimnagel follows along to the seamstress and jeweler. The fitting has quite a bit hilarity (for some senses of humor) with the proprietors constantly losing their customer who constantly disappears into the shadows. Eventually, they get through it.
Unlike the others, Argor's trip is relatively "normal," aside from his company and their difficulties. After he purchases an appropriate outfit, he heads to the jewelers and makes a few purchases. Of note, he acquires a ring with an onyx gemstone, as well as a pendant with a bloodstone centerpiece. Also, he has a signet ring crafted to match his personal mark, the same one that is emblazoned on the front of his Spellbook.
As he finishes his preparations at the manor prior to departure, he removes his mask and gloves, then looks at himself in the mirror. Certain that whatever it was that covered his skin would hardly be noticed considering the company he would be arriving with, he makes his way downstairs, the first time he has been unmasked in public in weeks.
Grommuk buffs and shines his armor and actually takes a bath. He retrieves the three skulls acquired from the grain silo ordeal and has them affixed to the front of a leather-and-chain girdle. He replaces his usual battle mask with a Brevic fur hat. Grommuk enjoys how the lining feels against his bald pate.
Drandle Drenge pulls an iron key from his waistcoat. “I leave you with the key to the Drownyard gate. Remember, the Drownyard is a deeply personal site for many powerful Inner Sea families. You will tread upon the graves of their children. Be sure to give the site the respect it deserves.”
The Pathfinders arrive at the address on the invitation to find a sprawling estate surrounded by a tall, wrought-iron fence and overly decorated in statuary, fountains, and a carefully landscaped garden. It's near Greydog Manor where they were able to help Skelg just a few weeks prior. They enter through a gate where their invitations are checked by a guard who gives them a strange look.
Once inside they immediately notice the over-the-top opulence of the Dacilane house interior. It's filled with gilded furniture, painted ceilings, gold-spun wallpaper, and valuable Chelish rugs that, if sold, could easily feed a family in the Puddles District for a year. Noblemen and women wearing the newest and finest of fashions mingle quietly amongst each other, chattering and sipping champagne.
The Pathfinders are seated at the main of two tables in the banquet hall. Despite her obvious wealth, the Lady Dacilane’s grief is very real, and she does her best during the dinner (a 10-course affair) to keep her composure as she receives proper introductions from various guests throughout the night. She makes small talk, but keeps it mostly impersonal. Lady Dacilane tries her best to be polite, though her resentful attitude toward those of lesser status remains barely concealed.
Toward the end of the dinner, she finally broaches the subject of her daughter and the TriTowers Yard. “My daughter Junia was one of so many children lost. Hundreds of them pinned under the rubble in that sinkhole. The black water rising—the kids screaming.” She quiets for a moment. “None of us could get to them.”
Lady Dacilane gestures to an enormous painting of her daughter—a rigid, sharp-featured young girl with long black hair—that looms over the entire banquet hall. "Please, I am desperate for any word of the fate of my daughter. I would implore you to find out what happened to her and let me know."
Argor rises at her request and bows slightly, saying, "Madam, I shall make it a personal objective to endeavor to discover any sign of her."
"Thank you." The lady hesitates for a moment, then says, "I recall my daughter once mentioned that lesser children — not my Junia mind you — skipped class to tell ghost stories by candlelight in an abandoned corridor beneath the school. Maybe if she made it there she could have survived somehow?" The lady grows misty eyed for a moment, and goes quiet to regain her composure.
Ten years is a long time to hold on to hope, Cladissa thinks, her lips pressed together tightly. She says nothing of her thoughts and sips her champagne.
She did her best at the banquet. She had enough training in etiquette that she believed she didn't embarrass herself, though the myriad of perfumes -- some lavishly applied -- made her head hurt. She smiled at the pleasantries without showing her teeth, afraid that their sharpened points might offend. She ate lightly, and favored the fish and suckling pig courses over the salad and dessert courses. Sweets no longer appealed to her as much anymore.
At the conclusion of the meal, she nods in sympathy with Lady Dacilane. Did she keep any journals? They might assist us in navigating through the ruins if she wrote in detail, Cladissa inquires.
Grommuk is too busy being a glutton to pay much attention to their hostess. Ten courses in a single meal is the most incredible thing the orc has ever heard of in his entire life. Those sitting in his vicinity are often victims of his zealous appreciation of Lady Dacilane's culinary geniuses. In short, he makes a pig out of himself, complete with belching and drooling.
Ten years is a long time to hold on to hope, Cladissa thinks, her lips pressed together tightly. She says nothing of her thoughts and sips her champagne.
She did her best at the banquet. She had enough training in etiquette that she believed she didn't embarrass herself, though the myriad of perfumes -- some lavishly applied -- made her head hurt. She smiled at the pleasantries without showing her teeth, afraid that their sharpened points might offend. She ate lightly, and favored the fish and suckling pig courses over the salad and dessert courses. Sweets no longer appealed to her as much anymore.
At the conclusion of the meal, she nods in sympathy with Lady Dacilane. Did she keep any journals? They might assist us in navigating through the ruins if she wrote in detail, Cladissa inquires.
"I'm afraid not."
Eventually the meal begins to wrap up. Once the dinner is over, Lady Dacilane shows the Pathfinders to the door herself, wishes them luck in their exploration, and impresses upon them once again how important it is that she receive any word of her daughter.
Argor walks in silence back to the Manor. Once they arrive, he says to everyone, "Get yourselves some sleep, and we shall prepare and depart in the early morn."
As he heads to the stairs, he pauses and calls back over his shoulder, "For the record, I believe it would be safe to presume we will be dealing with undead. This is Absalom after all, apparently undead are under every bloody rock in this city."
He then heads to his chambers and makes his final preparations.
Nyug spent much of the last week in his lab. Part of the time was brewing potions for his fellow freaks, but part of he spent experimenting with his own mutagens. For several evenings straight when he showed up to supper he excitedly displayed a new form.
One night he had scales from head to toe and webbing between his fingers and toes. The next he had the nose of a truffle pig, exclaiming, "Cladissa, I didn't know how right you were! The explosion of scents is amazing!"
________________
Nyugusk makes a quick trip to the lodge, looking for a colleague who he recalls knows an extract that would let him detect the presence of the undead. Then he heads back to their shared home to prepare for the evening.
When the freaks head out for the evening he wears the same tweed jacket he wore the day he picked the freaks up from jail, freshly pressed, though he realizes too late that the left sleeve barely makes it past his first elbow, leaving over half of his arm (including his second elbow) uncovered. His bare left arm shows new additions to his sacred tattoos, extending up most of the length of his arm: indigo lotus blossoms of Irori shifting and transmogrifying into leaping sharks, tigers, and falcons.
At his neck he wears a ceramic indigo hand pendant: Irori's holy symbol. Otherwise, he's freshly bathed and wearing a custom cologne that he made for the occasion, with notes of white ginger, sandalwood, and green tea.
At the dinner he does his best to be his father's son: following proper etiquette, paying attention to the various utensils for the various courses. He tries to engage those around him in discussions about self-perfection through chymistry, and the fascinating breakthroughs he's had by incorporating the blood, bile, saliva, and plegm of various beasts into his mutagens, and to demonstrate with pride his new three-segmented left arm.
Guests start to recoil, back away, and murmur. The transmogrifying half-orc is so caught up in his enthusiasm that he can't really make sense of why other than concluding that these must be some unusually stodgy and closeminded folks.