The omens are ambiguous.
"Gallowsmith have your sources narrowed the possible location of Ms. Arianna Regere?" He looks around the room a bit, "And, well any idea on replacement for Conner." His left hand rubs the stubble on his chin when he catches Drovik's eye. "Two recruits for this mission concerns me."
"I believe that I have an experienced agent who can step in as a replacement. Ms. Regere is, as it happens, in Absalom, staying with the councilwoman from the Ivy District, Jostlin Ferqyr."
"Good, it always helps to have local contacts. Let us get moving."
"Agreed. Let's find Ms Regere, sooner rather than later."
Dashel would have spent a hour praying int he morning for his spells. He's going to mix up his spells a bit away from his norm.
Then one day, the Great Rift closed most of the way--there was still some extra light shining through it, but the weather became no worse than a hot summer's day. It was then that your parents sent word to you--find out who is responsible for the Rift's partial closure, and help them finish the job. At first, this seemed to be an impossible task. You're neither spellcaster nor scholar, so where do you start? Luckily for you, the matter was taken out of your hands.
As you walk dejectedly from the charred fields, a thrush flits through the gloaming and alights on your shoulder. It hops from one leg to another, and you see a small message tube tied to its leg. You take the tube and open it, revealing a strip of vellum covered with fine script:
"Bradley Armstrong. You are invited to my home in Absalom to discuss the end of the world, and how it may be avoided." It is signed by Prester Gallowsmith, and next to his name is an odd sigil: three interlocking circles with a spiral at the center. It's not a symbol remember ever seeing before, but it seems to evoke a sense of familiarity nonetheless.
As it happens, you know the name--he's a scholar of sorts, and you're able to find his house. It is modest by the standards of the city, an older manse, its glory fading, its paint peeling. It smells faintly of roses and soap, a pleasant enough smell in the relative cool of the evening. As you walk up to the front door, a quartet is just leaving--a pair of humans, a dwarf, and a masked elf, with a winged helmet flying over them. They seem to be in a hurry.
You reach towards the door, intending to knock, when a mouth appears on the lintel. "Come in, my friend. We have much to discuss. There are refreshments for you inside. Make yourself comfortable, I will be joining you presently." The mouth vanishes as you enter.
Opposite the entry hall is an open courtyard that takes up much of the center of the house. There are tables around the edge of the courtyard; most are empty, but one is piled with dirty dishes and another has clean dishes, a pair of pitchers dewed with condensation, a platter of fruit and cheese, and a cutting board with rolls and a bread knife. You take a plate and pile it with food, then pour yourself a cup of wine. Turning away from the food table, you notice that the dirty dishes on the other table have disappeared.
In the center of the courtyard 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. There is no other sign of movement. You take a drink and look around.
Then the mosaic shifts. Rising from it comes a column of tiles, rearranging themselves into the form of a white-haired man in sea-green robes. In the voice you have heard twice before now, he speaks. "I am Prester Gallowsmith. 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, collecting 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 have not yet worked.
It's after a particularly harrowing adventure involving malign fey that Gallowsmith requests that you join another team--a good and capable group, you've heard, with a string of high-profile successes to their names.
As you're beginning to get rolling on your preliminary investigations, Gallowsmith has a sudden need of someone to act as a liason to the Nirmathi Irregulars. Conner is the only one he has on hand, and the slayer is feeling a little homesick after so long away, so off he goes after a last drink with those of you who've worked with him for a while. The scholar has a possible replacement, though--another skilled commando.
"Bradley Armstong?" the tall blond haired man states. "I'm Dashel...Dashel de Penderwon, of House de Penderwon, servant of the Iomedae. Perhaps a small tithe to her church will keep you in her mighty holy blessings for the forthcoming battles we will certainly face." He smiles broadly.
Now that you mention it, I've never really considered the size of Iomedae's tithes...
...apologies.
Dashel glances over at Sethran, and places his thumb under his chin and his forefinger over his lips, pondering the statement. "Well, these are dangerous missions that we go on and a tithe of $250 gp from each of the new members would ensure Iomedae's blessing. These funds, of course, are used for church's ministries." As the cleric shakes down the new members.
Even Drovic gives a quick chuckle at that one. At least he's amusing. Drovic looks at their newest addition. "So, what can you do?"
The tall, burly man reaches his hand out to Dashel, "Greeting Dashel, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance. I am a little tight on cash at the moment; you caught me a few days away from payday. Sure enough, I wouldn't want to be without a blessing, so once I have the money, feel free to ask again." Bradley turns his attention to the masked elf. "Well, I was the leader of a large group of men before I got here, but I have many talents. Mostly, I stick to the blues brothers," he says, pulling out his 2 falcatas. "I call them the blues brothers, because the relatives of anyone they touch start singing the blues," he chuckles, but slowly and awkwardly stops once he realizes no one but himself found it funny. "Anyways... now that you know who I am, why don't you tell me about yourself?"
Drovic stares in silence at their newest addition. I don't even...what? He hisses. "Assassinations, magic, poison. Need any of those, talk to me. If not, keep to yourself."
Dashel face palms shaking his head back and forth. The company I keep, Iomedae shine some light on his wretched mind.
I'm fond of symmetry, I'll extend myself and take care of... both tithes.
Sheepishly, Sethran passes gems valued at 500gp.
Bradley bows to Sethran, "Thank you, friend, you shall be certain that I will repay you and more for your kindness."
Drovic shakes his mostly-empty coin purse. "As much as I care, I'm about 200 short."
Gallowsmith clears his throat. "Ahem. The mission?"
Drovic's lip curls into a smirk. "Yes, continue."
Dashel nods and puts the tithes in his belt pouch. "Yes, the mission. I'll stop by the church before we embark on the mission." He assures the others. Then he places his hands together with his forefingers in a steeple. "Is there anything else that we need to know about Ms. Regere or councilwoman, Jostlin Ferqyr?"
"The Councilwoman is also the keeper of the Vault of Abadar in the district, and as it happens I have a few items of significance stored there." A rolled and sealed scroll flies out of the column of mosaic tiles. "Here is a request, addressed to her, to store a few tomes. Please take it to her and arrange for a time to move them. You can ask her about Ms. Regere when you make the arrangements."
Perfect. A legitimate way in. Drovic nods at the suggestion, letting somebody else take the scroll. "I think we're ready to depart than."
Dashel reaches out and takes the parchment from the employer. "Excellent, we'll be off now." He turns to the others, "time to complete the mission, it's local at least, so it shouldn't be too hard or deadly." he chuckles out loud.
The short walk over to the Vault is uneventful; the Ivy District is kept clear of undesirables by the Brotherhood of Abadar, though the Brotherhood's methods are occasionally indiscriminate. Nevertheless, you are undisturbed.
On showing Gallowmith's scroll to the clerk at the Vault entrance, you are immediately ushered into Ferqyr's office. Ferqyr, a short but energetic woman with tightly braided grey hair and the key of her office around her neck, rises from her desk to greet you. "We will, of course, be happy to set up the movement. And how is Master Gallowsmith? I have not seen him for months, and have heard little."
Drovic remains in the back of the group, leaning against the wall and keeping an eye out. In all ways he seems like a quiet bodyguard, keeping to himself and letting the others talk. Dashel is far more qualified for this than he is.
"He seems to be doing well. He's keeping himself busy as you'd expect, but there isn't much time for pleasantries. We've business to attend to, and unfortunately that business is saving the world. How quickly can we do the movement?"
"Certainly. I'll have my assistant set that up immediately." She rings a small bell on her desk. In response, a young woman enters the room. "Gentlemen, this is Arianna Regere. She will take care of all of the arrangements."
"My pleasure Ms. Regere." He waits for Ferqyr to depart the room. "So how long have you worked with the councilwoman." Making idle small talk. He puts a finger to his lips, "Yes, Arianna Regere, I saw a piece of art that you donated to the Blakros Museum. It was a jagged fragment of golden material, apparently a piece of a disc. It was a curiosity to say the least, I didn't quite know what I was looking at."
The woman smiles. "Oh, that. It was a courting gift, I suppose you would call it, from Garland Rakesclaw while he was still single. He said it came from one of their overseas holdings, but I don't remember anything more. I thought it was better suited for the museum."
"I know Garland, I've bumped into him before. He's a director for the Lumber Consortium, the batch of greedy tyrants. He lives in Oregent with four other board members. Arianna is from the same place."
Subtle, he is not.
Drovic conveys the information.
At Drovic's observation, Arianna stiffens slightly, and her smile slips a bit. "Let's finish this quickly, please. You did say you were in a hurry."
All business, she completes the arrangements and leaves you with time to discuss Drovic's findings.
Drovic smiles behind his mask. Like we care what you think of us. Please, make a move on the group saving the world. Tyrants have no place right now. "Well I'm glad I made a friend, but we have work to do."
The cleric smiles and lets Arianna and Drovic finish the business. When it's concluded Dashel states, "It looks like we are going to look for Garland Rakesclaw. Interesting surname...Rakesclaw."
He's famous enough that you'll have no trouble finding him--or at least the palatial estate where he lives (far more elaborate and ornate than the mayoral residence, which should tell you something about the relative status of the mayor vs. the Lumber Consortium board)--after a quick trip to Oregent. However, now you have to get in to see him.
Drovic disguises himself as an old human beggar and stakes out the house, learning the comings and goings of the inhabitants. He also keeps an eye out for any interesting or shady figures.
Dashel follows along, trying not to be too obvious, since he is clearly out of his element with the planning and perpetrating the break in. Best leave it up to Drovic, he's clearly experienced with this type of crime.
He'd probably try to slice my throat if I pulled out my light casting long sword anyway. "Drovic, I assume this is deed you are accustomed in performing. Breaking in to rich fellas house and seeing if he has left you any gifts." Dashel keeps a deadpan face. Oh look there a third story window is open a clear invitation.
While he may have given a sarcastic retort to most other people, the cleric had earned his respect. "Spent some time doing it in Taldor. Have to make sure there's no surprises, like hired security or magical defenses. Information is power. If all goes well I'll just scout to learn what we can before going to talk to him. Right now I don't intend on taking anything, just snooping around and reading some papers."
Let me know if you need anything... I may have a trick or two.