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Just over a century ago, the god of humanity died. His name was Aroden, and he not only lifted humanity out of the ashes and terror of the Age of Darkness (an age that followed the meteoric cataclysm known as Earthfall), but founded the greatest city in the world—Absalom. He defeated the foul wizardking Tar-Baphon. He drove back the demon lord of the Locust Host from the nation of Sarkoris. He eventually left the world to join the divine host after setting humanity on course for a great destiny. Prophecies said that when humanity was ready to ascend back to the pinnacle it once held in the ancient times of Old Azlant, Aroden would return to the world to usher in a new Age of Glory.
But instead of returning at the appointed time, Aroden, the god of humanity, died.
The death of the god of humanity marked the beginning of a new age. The previous ages had names to inspire and bolster the spirit—the Age of Destiny, the Age of Enthronement. But this new age is not a time of plenty. It is the Age of Lost Omens, for if a god cannot fulfill his own prophecy, what chance have any others of coming true? Aroden’s death scarred the world with storms and madness. To the north, the world split open and the festering armies of the Abyss spilled out through a tear in reality known today as the Worldwound. To the south, the idyllic gulf of Abendego was consumed by a perpetual hurricane whose winds and waves drowned nations. And in the heartland of the Inner Sea region, Cheliax, where Aroden had been prophesied to return, civil war erupted and thousands died before the diabolic House of Thrune seized power.
The Age of Lost Omens has now entered its second century, and in the 11 decades since Aroden’s death, the world has become a darker place. A place where ancient, sinful wizards known as runelords threaten to waken from 10,000 years of slumber. A place where nations are ruled by criminals or devil worshipers or worse. A place where once-great empires now wallow in self-indulgent paranoia or bloody, endless revolutions. A place where nothing is foretold, and anything can happen.
The greatest heroes of the Inner Sea region record their victories in an ongoing series of chapbooks known as the Pathfinder Chronicles. The amazing, often unbelievable tales bound in these oft-traded volumes tell of lost gods and sunken continents, of creatures older than the world itself that fell from the stars in the eldest of days, and of the fantastic ruins they left behind.
The authors of these tales belong to the Pathfinder Society, a loose-knit group of explorers, archaeologists, and adventurers who span the globe in search of lost knowledge and ancient treasures. Some seek to unlock the secret history of the world, piecing together the past one fragment at a time. Others are in it for the money, filtering priceless antiquities through a series of unscrupulous merchants to enrich themselves beyond measure. Still other Pathfinders take up the trade because they find the thrill of risking their lives more addicting and exhilarating than any vice or drug.
A shadowy inner circle of masked leaders known as the Decemvirate rules the Pathfinder Society from the bustling metropolis of Absalom, the so-called City at the Center of the World. There, in a huge fortress complex called the Grand Lodge, the Ten manage a vast organization of agents spread throughout the Inner Sea region and beyond.
These officers, known as venture-captains, coordinate teams of Pathfinders in their assigned regions, tipping them off to ancient legends, passing along newly discovered maps, and supporting their efforts in the field.
Each venture-captain oversees the activities of several tightly knit groups of Pathfinder field agents, who conduct much of the exploration and adventures that fuel the society as a whole. Pathfinders may move from locale to locale to discover the lost secrets of dead civilizations and the wondrous treasures they left behind.
Pathfinder agents provide detailed written reports of their exploits to their venture-captains, who then forward the most compelling records to the Grand Lodge in Absalom for consideration by the Decemvirate. Periodically, the masked leaders of the society collect and publish the greatest exploits in new volumes of the Pathfinder Chronicles, which they send back to their venture-captains for distribution to field agents. Whenever a new volume of the Pathfinder Chronicles hits the field, dozens of adventurers flock to the sites described therein for further exploration and adventure.
Although they belong to the same society, individual groups of Pathfinder agents often find themselves at cross-purposes in the field, particularly if each team reports to a different venture-captain. Competition between Pathfinders rarely results in outright battle, but certain agents aren’t above collapsing passages, triggering ancient traps, or selling out their rivals to hostile locals—all in the name of friendly competition, of course.
You all have all been to the Grand Lodge in Absalom and are novice Pathfinders. For whatever reason you’ve come to Magnimaar, you’re all hoping to connect with the newest of the Venture Captains who’s recently established a presence here, Sheila Heidmarch.
Many Varisians are wanderers and nomads, traveling the land in caravans and stopping only to put on exotic shows or to swindle and seduce locals. Yet just as many Varisians settle down and form small towns or, in the case of Ustalav, entire cities and nations. Yet none can deny the stereotypical con artists or swindlers who give the Varisian people a bad name. Most respect the Varisians for their ancient traditions and vast knowledge but for the same reasons mistrust their motives. To ordinary folk, the colorful travelers who never settle but flit about like butterflies over the land seem fascinating, but also just a little frightening.
A traveler can sit down in any tavern in Avistan and overhear a story about Varisians—how they never build towns or sow crops, how they live in the wagons that carry them over the land, how they sing and dance for money, how they dress in bright colors and cover their bodies with jewelry and intricate tattoos, and how a Varisian once robbed someone’s uncle’s wife’s brother’s best friend in an elaborate scam. Conventional wisdom holds that observers should view the beautiful, exotic Varisians from a distance, as if admiring a tiger prowling through the jungle.
A sprawling region caught between the southern nations of Taldor’s old empire and the northern lands ruled by the Linnorm Kings, Varisia has long been considered a backwater. As Varisia lacked any significant coastal settlements to raid, the Linnorm Kings traditionally bypassed the region in favor of attacking the southern kingdoms, while in the south, the distances involved made exploration of the area uneconomical. Only in the past few hundred years have the nations of the Inner Sea turned their attention to Varisia, and they’ve found a land ripe for exploration—something the Varisian people have known for thousands of years, yet have long maintained their silence about.
Although a relatively large stretch of Varisia has been settled by Chelish colonists and Varisian natives, the fact remains that this region is still primarily a dangerous wilderness. Legendary monsters, ranging from sinister local stories (such as the elusive Sandpoint Devil) on up to regional tales of terror (like deadly Black Magga, or the mythical Oliphaunt of Jandelay) have given the wilderness a singular menace, yet they are not as stark a reminder of the region’s dangers as the numerous Thassilonian monuments that still dot the land. Built by armies of stone giant artisans under runelord command, these monuments were preserved and protected by magic.
Only today is this preservative magic beginning to fail, allowing the ancient monuments to slowly suffer the indignities of erosion and trophy seekers. In many of these monoliths lurk hidden dangers—immortal monsters trapped for centuries; enticing vaults of treasure protected by traps; and (some whisper) the slumbering runelords themselves, who wait patiently to awaken from their centuries-long sleep to reclaim a land rightfully theirs.
Although Varisia has only recently returned to the forefront of the Inner Sea’s interest, it has not always existed as a remote frontier. Before Earthfall, this was the site of one of humanity’s most powerful civilizations: the empire of Thassilon. Founded by exiles from Azlant and ruled by wizards known as runelords who reveled in the seven deadly sins, the nation of Thassilon enslaved giants to build vast monuments to its own ego. When Earthfall ushered in the Age of Darkness, Thassilon—already teetering from its own decadence and corruption— fell as well.
The region remained wild for thousands of years, inhabited only by barbarian tribes of Shoanti and Varisian wanderers until the frontier finally came to the attention of expansionist Cheliax, whose armies marched on the region in 4405 ar. Chelish soldiers drove the warlike Shoanti into the rugged regions to the northeast, while colonists adopted a tenuous peace with the native Varisians under the pretense of bringing “culture and civilization” into their lives. It was at this time that the ancient frontier came to be known as Varisia. Since then, the area has become the Inner Sea region’s fastest-growing realm—a place of new opportunity, while still heavy with ancient mystery and the promise of undiscovered riches.
On the western edge of the land of Varisia, along the southern reaches of a beautiful stretch known as the Lost Coast, the swampy expanse of the Mushfens and the coiling length of the Yondabakari River come to a stark and dramatic end in the shadow of a striking limestone escarpment jutting from the cliffs. Varisian legends have long regarded the place as a blessed resting spot for celestial messengers, and the wanderers would often visit in hopes of seeing an angel and gaining the good fortune such a portent presaged. Yet the upthrust mass of stone itself is overshadowed by an even greater sight—the Irespan, one of ancient Thassilon’s most prominent ruins. Known also as the Giant’s Bridge, this ruined causeway juts out from the Seacleft nearly 400 feet, with its ruined pilings extending farther out to sea, giving the unmistakable impression of ancient grandeur. Be it the point at which angels descended from the heavens to bless their Varisian wards or the ancient site of forgotten commerce and travel, the region has long captivated the imaginations of those who beheld it. Its position at the mouth of Varisia’s mightiest river and at the southwesternmost safe harbor on the mainland only further ensured that the site would, one day, host a magnificent city. Today, that city is known as Magnimar— the City of Monuments.
Built in the shadow of megaliths, Magnimar endlessly endeavors to surpass the overwhelming scale and grandeur of the ancient wonders that litter the Varisian landscape. A place of great opportunity, social stress, and cold beauty, the city exudes the air of a southern metropolis, seeking to rise above its ignoble beginnings as a refuge for Korvosan outcasts to become a beacon of culture and freedom in an unforgiving land. Yet its towering monuments, elegant gardens, ostentatious architecture, and elaborate sculptures form but a cracked mask over a struggling government and a desperate people in need of heroes.
The site had long been a favorite resting place for Varisian caravans, and at any time before Magnimar’s foundation, explorers could find numerous such caravans sheltering against the Seacleft’s walls. But by the dawn of the Age of Lost Omens, conditions in Korvosa had grown intolerable to those who did not want to live in a society many had taken to calling “Little Cheliax.” They wanted something more—a place with the comforts and conveniences of a grand city, yet free from the traditions of an overly pedantic and close-minded government. Unable to change such institutions in Korvosa, dissatisfied citizens opted instead to leave. In the shadow of the great upheavals caused by the death of Aroden, hundreds of pilgrims traveled west, helmed by four visionary adventurers led by the paladin Alcaydian Indros and known collectively as the Wardens of the Eye. After these travelers had journeyed across nearly the width of Varisia, they came to the Seacleft and knew they’d found a new home.
The integration between these Korvosan expatriates and the indigenous Varisians was not seamless, despite the fact that the settlers had left Korvosa behind in search of greater acceptance and diversity. Soon after the settlers began moving to Magnimar, the Varisians asked the foreigners to move their newly built homes south of the Yondabakari River and away from Varisian holy grounds. Freshly settled and defiant, Magnimar’s leaders all refused except for one: Mistress Ordellia Whilwren, a member of the Wardens of the Eye. Curious, Whilwren promised the Varisians that she and her followers would gladly relocate if they would show her an angel. In response, the Varisians mysteriously told her to look to the Seacleft Spire at dawn every day for a week. Whilwren did so, and on the week’s final day she saw a radiant figure perched atop the alabaster spire in the dawning sun. Awed and inspired, Whilwren kept her promise and moved south to the district now called Ordellia in her honor. Cynics whispered that all Ordellia witnessed was a cagey Varisian adorned with a magical disguise, yet Ordellia went to her grave with the happy conviction that she had seen, if not Desna herself, then one of her more powerful azata handmaidens.
Two years after the city’s founding, a great storm racked the land and threatened to destroy all the settlers had created. Through the driving storm, Ordellia Whilwren prayed to the angel of the spire. In a blinding f lash, a bolt of soundless white lightning struck the spire’s rocky perch, blasting it to nothing more than glass and rubble, but in so doing scattering the storm clouds to reveal starry skies.
Having heard Whilwren’s prayers and seen the silent lightning, the townsfolk agreed to create a great tower to replace the fallen spire. As workers laid the first stones, local Varisians—seeing they now shared the same faith— joined in, and thus did the Arvensoar began to rise. Although it took more than 18 years to erect, the Arvensoar now stands as a symbol of Magnimarian-Varisian unity and an open invitation to goodly spirits.
A visitor to Magnimar might be stunned to learn that the sprawling city is only a few decades over a hundred years of age. The city’s sprawling slate rooftops and marble avenues stretch from the foundations of the Irespan to beyond the western banks of the Yondabakari River. A sheer cliff, the Seacleft, cuts through the city’s heart, dividing Magnimar into its two major sections: the Summit, upon the cliff’s top, and the Shore, below. A third area, the Shadow, lies beneath the Irespan, a place where the sun rarely reaches and the city’s failures and corruption hold blatant reign.
The second largest city in Varisia, Magnimar still wages its mostly bloodless war of coins and lies with Korvosa to the east. Both city-states vie for control over vassal communities, natural resources, and trade with the cosmopolitan south. Ever since Lady Whilren’s prayer saved the city and shattered the Seacleft Spire, Magnimar has welcomed those who would shape their own fates by the sweat of their brows and keenness of their wits, regardless of race or beliefs. To this end, the city has opened its gates and harbor to all comers, encouraging traders from many lands to discover the wonders of Varisia away from the excessive taxes and regulations of Korvosa, yet in greater safety than is offered by pirate havens like Riddleport. In an ironic turn, relations with the Shoanti steadily worsened as Magnimar grew—its leaders perhaps unintentionally fostering the same sort of classist discrimination and oppression that drove them from the east. Whatever the cause, those Shoanti who live in Magnimar are forced to lurk in the worst corners of the city, often working as gladiators in the Serpent’s Run or as aristocrats’ “tame savage” bodyguards.
Since the establishment of a formal city government in 4608 ar, Magnimar has been led by two political bodies: the Council of Ushers and the Office of the Lord- Mayor. When the city was established, this egalitarian arrangement was meant to assure that no one person would have too prominent a voice in the city-state’s governing. After more than a hundred years, though, this noble effort has become embroiled in bureaucracy, paper shuff ling, and the ambitions of its members. A third political body operating outside of the city government is the Varisian Council. Formed at the request of the city’s elders more than 80 years ago, the Varisian Council ensures that the Magnimarian government does not infringe upon the rights and traditions of the land’s Varisian natives. Unfortunately for the city’s small but quite active Shoanti element, this level of understanding does not extend to them, and the people of the quahs often find themselves distrusted at best and unfairly persecuted at worst.
More than 16,000 people make their homes in Magnimar, with the majority of that populace consisting of humans of Chelish or mixed Chelish/Varisian decent. While these people are ethnically Chelaxian, they are anything but in mind and spirit—the people of Magnimar prefer to be called Magnimarians (or even just Varisians). The city also boasts the largest semi-settled population of Varisians in the region, with approximately 2,000 such residents—significantly fewer in the spring and summer travel months. Aside from the region’s native nomads, Magnimar hosts a second transient population: thousands of regular traders from far-f lung foreign locales, particularly Absalom, Cheliax, and Osirion. Many of these merchants and emissaries have homes that they reside in while passing through but that otherwise remain empty. As a result, whole city blocks—particularly within the Shore—appear deserted for months out of the year.
Magnimarians show their affiliation with the City of Monuments through symbolism. Magnimar’s colors are blue and silver. The city claims the osprey as its mascot, but also identifies with angels of all types, as seen in many of the city’s carvings. The city motto is “Where Freedom Can Never Be Lost.”
Map of Magnimar
Images of Magnimar Here and here and here
Prologue
Nazir Kalmeralm, Prince of the Market, wipes sweat from his brow as he moves forward up the stairs and through the long dark stone passage. The light shining from his falcon-shaped badge of office illuminates the carefully cut masonry of this millennias-old structure.
I must be the first living soul in this place in 10,000 years. Simply amazing.
Nazir, rapier in hand, and a copper-hued shard of metal in his other steps across the rotting threshold of the ancient wooden door. Rotating left and right, he lets his eyes adjust to the new surroundings. On the west side or tip of the spear-shaped room he sees a massive pair of double doors made of a silvery metal decorated with images of burning eyes looking inward to two sets of runes written in a language that Nazir doesn't recognize.
The other shard must be on the other side of that door. This room should have a clue to opening it. My destiny awaits. It shan’t be long, now!
The shard in his hand glows briefly and Nazir thinks back to the lucky deal he made with a traveling Varisian swindler who had no idea of what he possessed. Ever since that fateful day, things had just broken free for Nazir. His hold on the markets became stronger, his hesitancy in business deals evaporated and the knowledge that more artifacts were out there for the taking, and with them the knowledge that Nazir would soon become the ruler of Magnimar and later all Varisia. The thought brought a thin smile to Nazir’s lips.
If those naysayers could see me then, especially Phantal … the look on his face would be priceless. Perhaps I shouldn’t have killed him.
Movement in the east side of the room breaks his reverie and the merchant squints, swearing he saw a lantern flash. He focuses and sees a green mist pooling in a small area. Not sure if it’s his eyes deceiving him, humanoid shapes flit back and forth within the mist. He tentatively steps towards it, ”Who goes there?” he barks, his voice breaking slightly as he brandishes his rapier.
The green mist forms up into a large mass, and pulses. Nazim shakes and steps to the north, and the mist tracks him for a moment and then in a sudden rush, an image of a human skull appears in the middle of it and it flows forward over Nazim who screams as he feels his life force drain a the mists touch. With a firm grip on his shard and weapon, he stumbles further into the room, finding a partially open door. He staggers through it, pulling it shut behind him. Breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, he realizes he’s in a tiny chamber, a closet perhaps. There is no other way out.
I’ll wait it out … sunrise, I’m sure it’ll be gone … right?
He closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, not noticing the fog slipping under the crack in the door. By the time he feels that deathly cold touch, it’s too late. He lets out one agonizing scream as the last ounce of his life energy is sucked out and the only thing he notices in those last minutes is the sound of the shard clattering to the ground before he hears no more.
With a sudden jolt and intake of breath, Braelex wakes from her nightmare with a cry on the tip of her tongue. She catches her breath before it escapes her lips, turning it into a shuddering sigh as reality takes over. She sits up in the lumpy inn bed and takes in her surroundings. Her skin and the bedsheets are covered in cold sweat, the gray light of pre-dawn filters through the window shutters, and but for the mewling of a tomcat in the alley outside, all is quiet.
By Nethys, what was that? Braelex shakes her head, trying to clear the vivid image from her mind. It doesn't work, and she quickly realizes she won't be getting any more sleep. She runs a hand through her blood-red hair and stretches, hopping out of the bed and dressing quietly. Her stomach growls hungrily, giving haste to her movements as she ponders upon breakfast options.
Sure to be a busy day today...
Stepping quietly, she slips out the door and heads downstairs.
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Chapter 1: Shards of Sin
The five of you have gathered at the Rag and Garter for your weekly gathering with your other pathfinder initiates. This open air cantina is settled in the Naos district where the "new money" of Magnimar has settled. The restuarant is a few blocks north of the Arvensoar, the tallest structure in Magnimar, climbing from the bottom of the Seacleft and soaring high above the city. The Arvensoar is also notably the home of the city guard.
Tonight, in the shadows of the setting sun, the flickering of the Founder's Flame creates an eerie glow at the table and conversation as led to topics of local ghost stories. Braelex has just finished one about the Orphan and the Rider, a harrowing tale from eastern Varisia about a headless horseman named the Dark Rider who emerges from his personal hell to hunt and kill someone every year, motives unknown. Jengali, a Mwangi warrior-scholar, has just started telling a story about Sir Aeryn Darvengian, once the patriarch of the Darvengian aristocrats. His mass murder of his family and four Andoren dignitaries earned him a place in the Hells, and Jengali is discussing the particulars of the paralytic poison the noble used that allowed him to keep his victims alive and fully aware while he sacrificed them to his demon lord.
It's during this conversation, that Andel Gesseran, the first of you to be hired on by the local venture-captain, Sheila Heidmarch, comes rushing up to the table.
Nearly out of breath, Andel comes to your table, pushing his hair out of his head before he tosses envelopes to the five of you, each hand-written with your name on the front.
"Sheila bid me bring these to you ... she's been scouring the city and interviewing folks for the past several days. I haven't read them, but I think she wishes to give you an assignment!"
It reads:
Greetings fellow seeker of adventure,
I am Sheila Heidmarch, Venture Captain of the newest Pathfinder Lodge--and the only such lodge in Varisia at the time. You have come to my attention as a person who possesses a certain amount of skills and interests that make you an excellent part of a highly skilled team I'm putting together for a matter of grave import, not only to the Society but to Varisia as a whole. Please report an hour before noon, tomorrow, to Heidmarch Manor. You will be compensated for your visit, but that reward will pale in light of the riches that await you should we come to an agreement on my proposition to you. I look forward to meeting you soon.
--Sheila Heidmarch
The house is quiet.
I should get rid of it; it's too big with only me here, and will just sit empty while I'm traveling.
He has finished his morning prayers, and is now gathering his thoughts before setting out for the day. Since returning to Magnimar from Pathfinder training in Absalom, he's been spending time at the Stone of Seers taking lessons in arcane Divination.
He spins the wedding ring on his hand and thinks, Soon our bond will be complete, and you will flow with magic. Then maybe by combining arcane and divine spells, I can get the answers that I need.
After opening his invitation and reading it, Lorlenn nods at Andel and says, "Please let Mrs. Heidmarch know that she can expect me at the appointed hour. My thanks, Andel."
He looks around the table, "And the rest of you?"
Braelex opens the invitation and reads it quietly, showing a small smile.
Intriguing. If the assignment is as garish as this letter, it should be very interesting.
Clarence puts down the half-eaten turkey leg long enough to smear globs of grease across the invitation while he reads it.
"Leapin' lizards! This is great news! I bet we'll get to kill some spiders. Or maybe a 'gator or two!", he says as flecks and chunks of turkey spatter on the table.
Relan glanced up from his breakfast as the messager stood breathless by waiting for the party's responses. Leaving the envelope unopened, he continued to finish the bite of meal before grabbing the letter and breaking the seal. Giving the letter a quick glance over he smiled "Interesting..."
Glancing up from the letter, his eye caught the sight of the tavern's barmaid sneaking down from the upstairs rooms. The younger girl looked up in time to catch the glance and with a smile and a wink, the woman hurried off to her duties. Leaning back in his chair, Relan grinned and tapped the envelope's corner on the table. "Interesting indeed. Count me in.".
Braelex gives the food flying from Clarence's mouth an unimpressed look. "Were you raised among swine? Close your mouth when you chew. We do not need to share your meal with you."
"Ha, Ha, Ha! Give 'er time muskrat and we'll be sharin' plenty o' breakfasts, me and you!", says Clarence while waving the flopping turkey leg in Braelex's direction.
Braelex just smiles.
With a glance at Fulmen to gauge his response, Andel says, "Great, meet you guys at Heidmarch Manor entrance a few minutes before noon. Until then."
Andel half salutes you all awkwardly and then flushed and runs off.
Relan chuckled and leaned over to Braelex, "Poor kid, he looks whiter then you". Grabbing his mug, he took a long draw. Wiping his mouth a smile, he leaned back, "But then again who can blame him, he was standing in the presence of the future greatest Pathfinders since the original Ten."
Raising his mug up, "Well friends. To adventure, riches, fame, and saving the world. And not necessary in that order!"
Lorlenn raises his wine glass, "To mysteries, revealed."
Fulmen glanced at each of the other patrons and let out an audible be grunt. "The animals outside the city have much better table manners than this lot...but as long as we can do the job I don't really care"
"Cheer up, elf", giving the half-elf a good shoulder bump with his fist, he grinned. "Your bunking with Clarence here when we are on the road.".
"Yee-haw! To capturing us some adventure!", says Clarence as he hoists his tankard, sloshing foam over the side, and then attacks it with a frothy fervor. When the last drizzles of mead finish pouring through his beard, the burly man slams the now-empty vessel down on the oak table, a satisfied grin on his foamy lips.
"... and the last one over the manor wall is a month-old snail splatter!"
Lorlenn thinks, Life certainly won't be routine with this group. At least for the first few decades.
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You wind down the evening's festivities and each head off to home, encouraged in your own way about tomorrow's potential.
The party meets up together in the Alabaster district, home of the wealthy and to date, one of the first times you've ever come this far north in town. Relan's time at the Serpent Run was a notable exception, but Heidmarch Manor is much further east than the games stadium, very near the city's easternmost gate.
The manor grounds are surrounded by a stone wall, but the front gate hangs open. Andel joins you at the gate and ushers you into the foyer. Shortly thereafter, two women step into the room. The first is an elegantly dressed human who cuts an imposing figure and moves in a non nonsense way, obviously Sheila Heidmarch. The second is an attractive half-elven woman dressed in leather armor and armed with a distinctive-looking mithral-and-redwood aklys (a hooked club attached to a cord) and a bastard sword strapped to her back.
Sheila appraises the party quickly and then in a surpringly low and sultry voice, she greets you,
"Welcome fellow Pathfinders, welcome to Heidmarch Manor and thank you for answering my invitation. Our doors area always open to Pathfinders throughout the day. You are encouraged to come and go as you please, but standard Pathfinder protocol applies ... Do not interfere with each other's work." She punctuates this last bit with a hard, meaningful gaze.
"I apologize in advance for a bit of a delay, but Koriah here has recently returned from an expedition, scouting a new route to the Nar-Voth from the Fogscar Mountains. She stumbled across a surprising number of ancient Thassilonian artifacts and I must conclude my business with her before I meet with you all." She hesitates in thought for a moment, nods her head, and then comes to a decision, "Come, please accompany me into the library."
She leads you into a room lined with bookshelves and several tables are heaped with scrolls and books. One table in the center, however, supports only a single object - an ornate cubical stone coffer covered with runes. "Please, take a seat around the table." she says indicating the central table.
"I think perhaps you can help us with another minor issue. This stone coffer is an ancient Thassilonian puzzle, a cunning feat of magical engineering known as a paradox box. As you'll see from even a casual investigation, what appear to be seams on the sides are only shallow grooves--there's no obvious way to open the thing. Each paradox box has its own secret method of being opened. Essentially, they subsitutue hidden catches and magical triggers for a lock. Given time, anyone clever enough could figure out how to open one, just as given time any locksmith can open a lock. This particular box was among those items recovered by Koriah--the scrolls next to the box are her preliminary notes on possible triggers or methods of opening it, but she's not yet had a chance to sit down and properly investigate. So ... why don't you put your heads together and see if you can't do that for me? Even if the box is empty, as I suspect it probably is, knowing the method of opening it makes it a valuable find anyway. I'll return shortly, and I hope to see that box open!" She starts out of the room, speaking over her shoulder, "Think of this as an audition, if you will. You've been recruited as much for your wit as your brawn."
The scroll lists translations of the significant runes on the box--one of the most oft-repeated symbols was the rune for "wrath," which Koriah also notes is associated with evocation magic, and in the earliest days of Thassilon with the word "kindness" as well. Her notes surmise this rune merely marks the box as having once belonged to a citizen of the nation of Bakrakhan, and the rune likely has little to do with opening it.
Another scroll lists a few other key observations. Five of the boxes faces are indentical, but the 6th has several additional runes. They spell out the word "CRUEL." She believes the mystery in unlocking the box is tied here. She's noted that each of the individual runes in the word can be reorganized by touching two runes at once--doing so causes the two touched runes to exchange places for an hour before reverting to their original alignment as the word "CRUEL."
After watching Sheila walk out of the room with a long, leering grin, Clarence pops back and stares at the stone coffer with a skeptically arched eyebrow.
"Well now. Let's see what we got here. I'm not sure I trust a polecat like that right out of the box. Lemme see if there be a baited trap here for us," he says as he half-squats and cautiously waddles up to the device, glaring suspiciously at it the whole way up to inspect it.
Craft (traps):
Regardless, it goes without saying, you don't find any traps with that roll.
Relan studied Sheila as she left the room. Something is obviously amiss, he thinks, it would take a lot for a woman like that to be so shaken..
Returning his eyes to the table, Relan watched as the man checked over the device for traps. Not seeming to find any, he picked up the notes and re-read them.
"Interesting..." reaching out he touches the C and E, watching them change places and waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike him dead. When nothing happens, he touched the two letters and put them back together again...
"I have an idea."
Knowledge (dungeoneering):
"What's your idea, Relan? I was going to cast comprehend languages and start swapping letters through the one-hundred and twenty possible combinations."
Looked up from the notes and then at the elf, "Well I didnt want to spoil it for the rest of you." he paused to glare at the elf then smiled a half-smile "But it seems to me that we need to rearrange the letters to form the key word. And that word would be." he pauses for effect and drums on the table. "Drumroll please. Kindness or some word similar possibly in Thassilon."
Relan leaned back in his chair and smiled, "Of course words and grammar aint my speciality, so its all yours, Sir."
Braelex ponders the puzzle in silence, listening to everyone's suggestions. She holds out a hand. "May I see it?" She makes a thorough inspection of the box, specifically ignoring the letters and focusing on other details.
"May I see that?" Fulmen looks towards whoever is holding the box. Once his hands are on the box he'll rearrange the work to spell LUCRE
Relan sits back, smug in his assertion as Lorlenn discusses how he might approach the problem. Clarence and Braelex take turns inspecting the box, finding nothing of significant mechanical or magical note. Suddenly, Fulmen reaches over, taps the box a few times, spelling the word "LUCRE." The box clicks and whirs, magical light spewing from it as it spins in place.
With a small puff of smoke and the smell of brimstone, there's a quick flash of light and when the smoke clears, standing on the table are 2 dog-faced creatures brandishing wicked daggers above the now open paradox box. With a sickly look and a mischievous grin, they leap off the table and begin tearing scrolls and carving into the bookcases. The entire room feels ... a bit off, like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Clarence was caught with a pensive look on his face as Fulmen was playing with the box and the two dog-faced creatures appeared. Snapping like a cobra tongue, he flicks out his heavy crossbow and fires a bolt at the closest one.
"Fetch you a bolt there, Fido!"
Lorlenn reaches over to Relan and touches him on the shoulder, "Good luck to you, warrior." Then he draws his morningstar.
Fulmen seeing the creatures spring out of the box readies his quarterstaff and attacks with figorous force!
That Venture-Captian probably knew exactly what was in the box and how to open it since she likely placed the critters in there in the first place. When will I ever learn not to trust a pretty face
"Foul creatures! Down with ye!
Damage:
str +2
Relan leaped up, drawing his sword and attacking.
Clarence whips out his crossbow and fires a bolt, but the snickering gremlin steps aside like a bullfighter and tosses a book in front of the bolt which sticks solidly in it and slams into a flower vase on the other side of the room, shattering.
Andel hunkers down in the back of the room, holding his dagger out, Lorlenn reaches over to grant luck to Relan. In one smooth motion the fighter stands, whips out his sword and cuts down the gremlin in front of him. The creature hits the ground in a whimpering pile.
The other gremlin sees this and laughs, a combination of snickering and yipping in a high pitched voice. He hops to the west and points at Clarence who just shot at him and a strange sonic vibration hits the crossbow in his hands making it shake violently
Fulmen also leaps from his chair but catches it with his foot sending the small stool sailing into a painting nearby and knocking it off the wall, cutting the canvas deeply.
Fulmen takes another swing at the little terror.
str +2
str +2
"You snake-bit bastards!"
Lorlenn punches Relan in the shoulder, "Go do that again!" He then steps towards Andel.
Relan grinned at the elf as he moved forward to attack the remaining dog-like creature.
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