Dashel is able to cast his spell despite the orcs pressing him. Dazzling radiance fills his part of the deck, and in its wake three of the remaining orcs are left badly wounded. One is blinded, and the other two are having trouble seeing.
The crew member next to Drovic takes advantage of the orc's inability to see and finishes it off with a dagger thrust.
The elf is preparing to attack the remaining orc next to him when the other nearby crewman gives him a piratical grin and moves to flank the orc. Drovic promptly takes advantage of the orc's distraction and plants one dagger in its kidneys and the other in one eye socket. The orc falls.
Round 3 (ongoing):
Initiative order
Orcs-acted
Drovic-
Conner-
Crew members
Dashel
The orc climbing after Conner reaches him and tries to attack the slayer, but misses. The two remaining orcs on deck go after Dashel; one misses, while the other hits .
Conner lays into the climbing Orc.
Conner's AoO hits, and the orc does not survive the second attack on it.
RD 4: Dashel
Dashel swings at the enemy by the door,
; + 2
That drops the already wounded orc.
Drovic finishes off the last blinded orc. The other ship moves off; apparently, the captain has decided that closing again would not end well for them.
The rest of the voyage is uneventful. The half-orc leader carries nothing in the way of magic. He has a symbol of Rovagug in a belt pouch, though.
Gallowsmith greets you warmly on your return. "Well done, as usual. The anchor has been protected, and at least one foe has shown itself. The obvious hypothesis is that cultists of the Rough Beast are trying to open a rift to a world where It rages unrestrained, hoping that It will free Itself here. Though I still have no idea how they would accomplish manipulation of the rifts; Rovagug's followers are not known for scholarly pursuits." The mosaic replica of the scholar looks off into the distance for a moment, pondering, before returning his attention to you. "There will be time to investigate that later. For now, I have an exceedingly difficult task for you--one which will call for an addition to your ranks. A version of Golarion largely similar to ours requires its anchor restored to its rightful place. This sounds simple, yes? It is not. The anchor is, coincidentally, a small idol, carved from iron pyrite. It currently resides in the Blakros Museum in that Golarion; I have no doubt that you will be able to liberate it in some manner. That is, unfortunately, only the beginning."
Dashel smirks when Gallowsmith mentions that Rovagug's followers are not known as scholars. "Who is this 'new' addition to our ranks?" The cleric scrunches his face a bit. "I've spent most of my time studying religion and creatures called from the pits of other planes, but I'm afraid I know-not about this Blakros Musuem that you speak of."
"The Blakros Museum is here in Absalom, a collection of odd artifacts from all over the world. It appears to be the same in the other Golarion as well."
"The idol must be returned to the mine where the raw pyrite was taken from the ground. Because of the nature of this particular anchor and Golarion, I have not been able to determine its exact appearance, and I admit I do not know exactly where it came from. You must obtain it, figure out where it came from, and return it there."
"Can you tell us nothing else of it? These are very vague terms to be going in by."
Drovic, you're familiar with the Blakros Museum--where it is, the layout, and something of its history. Gallowsmith looks pained at your question, and maybe a little embarrassed. "Very little more, I'm afraid. I can tell that it's about a handspan high, what it's made out of, and that it's on the bottom shelf of a display case in the southeast corner of the main exhibit hall."
Drovic gives the man a blank stare for a moment. And you didn't think those details were important? "I've been there and I know the layout of the building. We should start planning."
As if responding to Drovic's unspoken thought, Gallowsmith looks even more pained. "I would have gotten to that."
"There are no rifts to this particular version of Golarion in Absalom, but I can open one temporarily. The difficulty I have scrying into that Golarion, though, implies that I may not be able to tell when you need to be retrieved. I will set your compass to point to any permanent rifts back to this Golarion, though, if you need to return before you have set things to rights there."
"I would like to send another of my agents along with you--an elf wizard of some skill."
It all began with dreams.
At first it was just dreams of fire, of bright lights followed by darkness. Then it was dreams of screams, of terror, feelings of loss and entrapment, of peril and pain. The thing was, EVERYONE had the dreams. Even the elves, who sleep only rarely and never for long, had the dreams.
Then came the sound. Every day, a long drawn out keening sound, as if the sky was being rent in twain. It happened at the same time, everywhere, echoing from here and there.
Then came the dragons. Flights of dragons, all converging in the sky to talk. Deadly enemies, longtime foes, all came to speak on the omens it portended.
Last came the rips, tears in space that vomited forth strange creatures and strange men who spoke of other worlds and other places, of things that had never been and places that no longer existed: of Azlant Victorious, of the flying cities of Garund, of the lost city of Absalom, or the Disappearing Trails of Old Cheliax. Of cataclysms, catastrophes and things even worse.
The world began to buzz with talk of the ending of this age and whether a new one would arise. The fey began to speak of the Third World, a refuge to flee to when this world was no more. And in the City of Absalom, a small group of people prepared to set things right....
Sethran the Younger, you were called, though it had been long enough that your memories of Sethran the Elder have begun to blur. Even before the rifts opened, your journey had stretched across much of Avistan and to points beyond. There were always wrongs to right, new people to meet, new things to learn. Then came the great change--dreams, sound, dragons, rips. The village you'd been staying at vanished overnight while you were away, taken into some other realm.
As you looked down at the unmarked expanse of grassland where the village once had stood, a thrush alights on your shoulder, a small message cylinder tied to one leg. It hops back and forth to draw your attention. You remove the cylinder and open it, revealing a strip of near-transparent vellum. It reads, "You are invited to a meeting at my home in Absalom to discuss the end of the world, and how it might be avoided. Regards, Prester Gallowsmith." Next to the name is a symbol--three interlocked circles with a spiral in the middle--that seems familiar to you even though you are certain you have never seen its like before. Against your doubts, or perhaps because of them, you decided to attend. You chose your travel methods carefully, fort you knew that you may never pass this way again.
On reaching the house, you heard Gallowsmith's tale of what had happened to the world: "I am a member of a brotherhood of men who study the planes and the stars and the space between. For many years we have met quietly to share our insights and to speak of the knowledge that we have gathered. The death of Aroden changed everything. Suddenly all the omens and prophecies ceased to function, and even basic divinations could not be trusted. It was in that moment that a brother of mine observed a strange occurrence heretofore unknown to us. During a simple teleportation effect, he observed that the Golarion of his destination was not the Golarion of his departure. Fortunately he was not stranded on that strange shore and was able to return to us with his findings. From that moment, we were able to make several discoveries. Bear with me; the path ahead is not a clean one."
He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "We have discerned that every major event in the history of our world holds a certain temporal energy. It permeates the planar boundaries and as we found out, alters them. You see, every major event or keystone moment creates a potential for an equal and opposite outcome. The very energy that causes history to hinge upon that moment creates its opposition. When this occurs, a new Golarion is produced, divergent from our Golarion in that moment. If the event is strong enough, that Golarion continues, evolving in its new path separate from our path, spawning its own alternates. If it is weak, it will die, usually within a few days, but we have seen such realities persist for longer before fading. Indeed, in Pharasma's Boneyard, there may well be a graveyard of such realities. But I digress. In this garden of forking paths, it seemed that there must be a prime path, a Golarion from which all others sprang. I first believed that our world must be that world, but of late I am reconsidering that conclusion. That does not change the basic point: it seems as if the weight of these other realities is becoming too much for this world to bear. The rifts are the result of this stress. They are the tears where one reality intersects with another, and if they are allowed to continue, they will eventually cause all realities to collapse in upon each other, destroying them all. We know not why or where this threat comes from, but we believe we may have a way to stop the collapse."
Gallowsmith pauses and the mosaic tiles composing him rearrange to form a sort of network of roots. "In each reality, we have identified a keystone, a place or person or thing upon which that reality rests. These things have become lacking in some way and must be rectified if that reality is to be shored up against the collapse."
From that small house, you and many others went out into the many worlds, finding the keystones and setting them right, as Gallowsmith directed. And here is another for you, this time in concert with others with whom you had not yet worked.
An elf. An intelligent one at that. Could you have possibly made a worse choice to find somebody that hates me? Even Dashel came around eventually, but this... "I'm sure the arcane power would be put to good use." Drovic makes sure his mask is on and firmly in place, tucking his salmon colored hair away. At least put the problem off for a bit.
Someone raps on the doorjamb. Am I interrupting?
Standing in the doorway, is a tall semi-refined looking elf. Though in the latest fashion, he's not overly done. Beneath a blue cloak, tight fitting supple grey leather.
I'm Sethran.
A lithe figure in black leather and a black robe detached itself from the wall. A silver mask obscures his features, but there are small bumps on each side of his head, indicating large ears. "Drovic."
A well-muscled and athletically-built human casually stands and walks to the newcomer, and stands before him.
He has a somewhat dour expression, but he stares the newcomer up and down from his head to toes as if examining where best to sink a dagger. He finally nods, as offers an awkward smile and a hand.
And, I am Conner.
He turns back to Gallowsmith.
How are we to determine where it came from once we find it? You have told us how to return, but not how to get to the location of whence it came.
He walks back to the table and studies the map.
Come, Drovic, show me what you have in mind for obtaining the idol from this building. Is that a window near the X? That appears to be an option.
The elf enters, an eye on the masked figure then accepting Conner's hand. Drovic. Conner... Pleasure.
He follows and inspects the map, The Blakros Museum? I'm not familiar with the floor plan, but I've been there. Scholarly pursuits, I assure you.
Grab "something", an idol, and escort it...
A human "Dashel de Penderwon." A tall tan male human stands there and extends his hand. His hair is sandy brown and looks sun-lightened. He has clerical vestments covering his breastplate. Leaning up against the chair he was sitting in is a shield that is adorned with a holy symbol. "My the ever penetrating light of Iomedae welcome you."
Now, that... sounded fancy. Official. The "penetrating" bit, leaves me unsure whether to feel welcome or violated. I'll choose welcome. Well met. He accepts the holy man's hand with a firm shake and a professional smile.
His gaze returns to the map. What attribute or attributes of this idol hold significance?
So, since I'm the only one you're introducing yourselves to... I gather you've worked together before and I'm the "new guy".
Indeed you are,and we have been through much, together.
Drovic says nothing else to the newcomer for the moment; even Conner is better qualified to do introductions, and Dashel is probably thrilled about it.
Sethran's eyes look to Drovic. Drow? Or at least drow descent, if I may guess?
Maybe not, sorry if I've offended you.
I'm a student of geography and linguistics among other things. And, I don't know, but something about the timbre of your voice when you said your name.
He pause, then continues.
Probably selfish of me, actually. I'm blessed or cursed with darkvision, it's served me well over the years. But, those individuals more close minded... Well, ignorance is deplorable in whatever form.
Perhaps, selfishly I hope to find a kindred spirit. Someone who might at least begin to understand. I've projected this on you. And, I shouldn't have.
It appears, I've illustrated my lack of social skills adequately enough.
Drovic continues to remain silent, letting it stretch out until it's awkward. Than he turns his head ever so slightly. "You're right, ignorance is deplorable. Especially ignorance of when you should keep your mouth shut." He goes back to the map.
Touché. Noted. In going to like you, Drovic.
I hope you don't like your throat. Drovic quietly studies the map.
"Like him? Seriously?" He chuckles. "He's exceptionally qualified but he doesn't give off a warm and fuzzy feeling. Does he Conner? But he's always there, which is all we really ask from anyone on these missions," He glances over at the elf. "Death proceeds us and lays in our wake."
I think that's the highest praise you could give me Dashel. I might keep you in mind when this is all over.
Sethran chuckled, himself. He's full of himself, what's not to like? We should all be, at least a little.
As to your path, I'll try not to get ahead or fall to far behind... Seems unhealthy.
As to your path, I'll try not to get ahead or fall to far behind... Seems unhealthy. [/b]
"Quick learner." He smiles broadly.
Conner lifts his head and just stares at the newcomer, and then grunts.
Hmph...the three of us work together very well, and it has saved our lives more than once. I suggest you watch carefully, and lend yer skills where they can best benefit our purpose. It will take some time. Drovic's skills and abilities far outweigh his demeanor. He should be respected accordingly - even feared by those who are smart enough to recognize the death he can deal, as should we all.
He turns back to the map.
Let's focus on getting in through a window silently and getting out with the idol. How we determine where to take it has yet to be explained.
He turns to their benefactor.
Gallowsmith...care to enlighten us?
Sethran noticed Gallowsmith's hesitation.
Would one of you mind bringing me up to speed on this idol?
"In this case, I don't know if it's an object of worship or a decoration. All that I can sense of it is that its proper place, if you will, is where it was taken from the earth. I am hoping that the design and motifs used will give some clue to its origin; failing that, the Blakros family does keep very good records of where they get the various objects in their collection, but finding them will call for more time spent in the Museum."
In the center of the room is an open circle around 20 feet across. It is covered with a mosaic of small tiles arranged in precise shapes to depict the legend of the drowning of Old Azlant. Odd fishy shapes encircle the image, and the water depicted on the mosaic seems almost to move, but only from the corner of your eye.
...
The voice comes from the mosaic, as the tiles seem to rearrange themselves to form a human male, who rises from the floor, seemingly made of the tiles themselves. His voice is the same as the one you heard earlier. His hair is the white of sea-foam and his robes the blue of the ocean. He is clearly older, but stands straight and tall.
The object is composed of pyrite. Maybe a mine? My geology is rusty. There was another term for the stuff... fool's gold, I believe.
Perhaps Mr. Gallowsmith can help us cross-reference such a location or where similar pyrite deposits may be found? An anomaly, sky metal, something.
In your studies, Sethran, you have come across no mention of any culture of Avistan or Garund, past or present, that uses or has used iron pyrite for artifacts. (Some of the gunsmiths of Alkenstar use it as a striker instead of flint, but that doesn't seem to be what's going on here.)