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You have been stationed at the Grand Lodge in Absalom, awaiting assignment for a mission of utmost importance – or at least something to show that you’ve made the right choice casting your lot with the Pathfinder Society. Things finally seemed in motion when Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng sent out a summons for available agents. Specialized in the history of Absalom, Dreng is known for putting off-duty agents to work on sundry tasks when he finds them resting within the city’s limits.
Coming to the meeting place—an odd choice of venue, as it is a street corner far from the Grand Lodge, on a grey, rainy morning —a lone beggar garbed in baggy robes approaches. The only figure visible in the constant drizzle, the beggar sticks out his hand out abruptly and says in a scratchy voice, "Have you any coin to spare, fine folk?”
The question hangs in the air for only a scant moment before the figure pulls back his hood to reveal the wizened face of Venture-Captain Drandle Dreng. He gives a crooked smile, soaked head to toe from his unprotected time in the rain. His clothes smell faintly of cabbage.
“Sorry about that,” he says with a mischievous wink. “I always like to play a little joke on agents when I stumble across them during my jaunts into town. Now, why did I summon you fine folk here again…?” Dreng shakes his head from side to side, as though trying to knock water out of his ears, despite the rain falling steadily on him.
“Ah yes, of course, the Wounded Wisp! As you can see, I’m undercover now and can’t stray far from the site I’m watching, but I need someone to retrieve a package for me from that fine establishment. It’s among Absalom’s most storied taverns, you see, and one that holds a special place of privilege in the Society’s lore, as the place where the organization began. Well, I could drone on and on about it, but standing out in the rain is doing none of us any favors.” As if anticipating agreement, the bedraggled venture-captain produces a small slip of folded paper from one of his many stitched pockets and holds it out to the new Pathfinders, who quickly see it is a map detailing the location of the Wounded Wisp bar.
“The bartender is a woman by the name of Heryn Gale, a fine lady who came to own the Wisp after the passing of her father from—oh, bah, it’s really getting too cold for me to give a proper history lesson! If you could just go to the Wisp, and tell Heryn you’re there to pick up my parcel, it would be most appreciated. I’ll be around here for several more hours at least.”
Though his mind is clearly turned to his ongoing surveillance – and perhaps getting out of the rain – Dreng raises an inquiring eyebrow at the party, expecting the usual barrage of questions that agents always seem to have for him.
”Why so many what, my friend?” Dreng asks Rokdor, his voice surprisingly cheery despite the rain and the dwarf’s gruffness. ”So many raindrops? Only the gods can answer that one. So many of you to run this errand? Well, the Wisp is a place any Pathfinder should visit, especially those new to the Society. The history of the place…and the chance to meet other Pathfinders, perhaps hear a tale or two, maybe even learn something from a veteran that could save your life or lead you to glory!”
He pauses, his head tipped as if listening to a message from the falling rain, then adds, ”Or perhaps you mean why so many hairs on my head have gone grey? It might just have to do with the vague questions I get asked by Pathfinder recruits!” This last is said with a smile and a wink, making clear no offense is intended.
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The dwarf grunts at Dreng's answers, nodding sagely and giving no indication as to which was her intention. "No rush then, if there's time to hear tales?" she rejoins, glancing up at the orc with a slight frown. Hrmph. Expected to work with one of his type, eh... probably a ritual hazing of some kind.
”Exactly, my clever friend,” Dreng replies. ”Tog, wasn’t it? You’re a sharp one! You go collect the parcel and bring it here, and you’ll have completed your first assignment as Pathfinders! Some would argue that a visit to the Wisp’s cellars is hardly going to leave you awash in glory, but I will surely appreciate the effort.”
Wicket and Rokdor study the map a moment, then decide on a course to the Wisp. Arriving at the location marked on the map, they congratulate themselves on successfully navigating their way through the great city of Absalom.
Built from dark, discolored wood, the exterior of the Wounded Wisp is the image of an iconic dive bar. Stained and barred windows obscure direct vision into the establishment, though ruddy yellow light bleeds from a window in the front hall. The only distinguishing feature on the Wisp’s exterior is a thick wooden sign hanging from above the bar’s entrance. A brass ring fitted onto the sign anchors a lantern—referred to by the staff as “the wisp”— that hangs there during the evening hours.
On entering the place, the smell of smoke and spilled ale assails the senses in the open taproom. Walls of dark-stained wood make up the sides of the Wounded Wisp, while well-used wooden tables are spread throughout the space, where patrons sit with colleagues and share stories over drinks. Three short sets of stairs lead up to a slightly raised dining area that runs along two walls of the room. A few feet above the main floor of the Wounded Wisp, this area is sectioned off by elegant metal railings. On this level, patrons can enjoy a more private meal without the noise of the area below.
On the far side of the room is the bar, with a barkeep or two busily filling drink orders behind it or, on the rare occasions when business is slower, swabbing the long, stout plank supported by oaken kegs that serves as a bar. Taps mounted on the bar offer a variety of different beers, ales and ciders, and a stained-glass cabinet stands behind the bar, its dark panes cracked in several spots, yet not so opaque as to conceal the several dozen types of hard liquor within.
As the Pathfinders make their way in, a skinny-necked teen standing behind a half-door in the hall extends a welcoming hand and says, ”Check your coats? Your axe, sir? Or your hammer, sir...er, ma’am?” He glances around a bit uncertainly and says, ”You kin hang onto ‘em too…”
Several different clusters of patrons can be seen enjoying themselves, relaxing by the bar, enjoying a meal and a pint or three at the tables, or relating tales of their exploits to spellbound listeners.
Several voices can be heard discussing the news of the day. ”I heard Sir Reinhart is going to take the Test,” one man calls out to another. ”He’s going to brave the Starstone?” a cheery-looking halfling woman interjects, ”That I’d like to see!” A dour half-orc weighs in, ”These Mendevians, they fight some demons and they think they can do anything!”
Having divested himself of his prize possessions, Wicket looks across the taproom. He hears a loud, ”Gulp!” from the boy at the coat-check, then sees Tog walk past him and head for a table, while Rokdor works her way across the room to the bar.
When she gets there, a human woman leans forward to get a better look at the dwarf and says, ”Welcome to the Wisp. What can I get you?”
As Tog heads for an empty table, he passes a couple of burly half-orcs, a male and a female. The woman, who’s the brawnier of the two, calls out to him, ”Hey you, you’ve got a nice axe! Come sit and have a drink with us!” Laughing heartily, they lift their heavy steins and smash them together, spilling a fair bit of cheap ale in the process. ”A nice axe! Good one, Shrade!” the man says, ”Like I always says, ‘There’s nothing an axe can’t fix!’”
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The dwarf nods once at the greeting and eyes the tabs above the bar. Apparently not finding what she's looking for, she tilts her head to look up at the woman. "Got any Sunshine? Best if it's from Fortress Bronzemurdered, but I'd take it from anywhere. Hasn't been a stronger, better brew since Urist Granitecosmos first decided to ignore the whip vine embargo and use it for brewin'." She grunts, glancing around and spotting Tog obtaining a table. "If you haven't got any Sunshine or whip wine, I'll settle for five pints of sewer brew. That table," she adds, pointing.
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A foppish half-elf with a bulging backpack comes bursting into the tavern. Breathing heavily, he looks around the room, before spying the party, and jogging over. "Soooo soorry! I was composing a piece of music and lost track of time!" Tipping his hat with a flourish, he says. "Sobestian Opparason III, at your service!"
After being brought up to speed, Sobe looks around the establishment. "Ahhh, the Wounded Wisp! Steeped in so much Pathfinder lore! This is where it all started! Some say it was the Pig's Pauch, but they're wrong! It was here that the kernel, that would grow to become the Society, was planted!"
The bartender’s eyebrows gradually lift as Rokdor places her rather complex drink order. When the dwarf is done speaking, the human woman simply says, ”Right, five sewer brews, coming right up. I’ll send ‘em over.”
As Tog heads toward the bar, he sees Rokdor moving toward him at the orcs’ table. ”Hey, come on and sit with us!” the two orcs call out in unison, their voices remarkably similar despite the difference in gender. On a moment’s reflection, in fact, it’s clear from their appearance that the orcs are twins. Their very similar eyes - and nearly identical tusks - rotate toward the newest arrival, as Sobestian joins the group. ”Nah, it ain’t the Pig’s Paunch,” the male orc says in a deep rumble, ”they don’t give us Pathfinders cheap drinks there, an’ the Wisp always does. Heryn there takes good care of us.” This last is said with a lift of his tankard and a wave toward the woman tending bar.
Meanwhile, still at the bar, the busy bartender attempts to follow Wicket’s wild gesture as he asks for a drink. She shrugs and pours him a tiny glass of amethyst liquid, laced with faintly glowing wisps of silver light and topped with a dollop of whipped cream. ”If you don’t mind my saying,” she offers, ”this one is pretty pleasing to the, um, gnomish palate.”
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Wicket’s eyes roll around in his head as he watches the little motes of starlight dance in the glass of unknown spirits. His curiosity finally getting the better of him he picks up the glass and drinks, sipping at first, and then pounding the rest in one big gulp. A wide grin spreads across the gnome’s face and he wipes away the cream splattered across his face, beard, and collar with the back of a hand.
”Yum!” he says after a hiccup.
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As Heryn shifts a tray off her shoulder and smoothly sets down the foaming flagons of sewer brew, she says, ”Oh, you’re the ones he sent, was wondering when I’d see ya. Tell you what, I’m pretty busy at the moment. Let me buy you this round of drinks on the house - and that Purple Mind-Melter your little friend drank too, I guess. You take a moment and chat with some of the nice folk here. I see you’ve met the Boartusk twins - and here comes bin Kaleel. I’ll leave you to his edifying views on things and catch up with you later.”
As she moves away, a Keleshite man proudly displaying a golden symbol of Sarenrae approaches the group’s table. ”Good day, good day,” he says in a friendly tone, ”I am Aram bin Kaleel. You, I take it, are initiates to the Society? Always a pleasure to see new Pathfinders join the ranks. I do hope you’ll take advantage of the knowledge of veteran agents in this place. Too many these days seem to focus on smashing through obstacles rather than using their wits to navigate past them.” This last comment is made with a regretful glance at the Boartusks, who seem fairly oblivious to this fact.
Returning his gaze to the party, bin Kaleel continues, ”For example, in travelling through the wilds of the forest, or the sewers of Absalom - which is, regrettably, sometimes part of our trade - one can encounter swarms of creature who will be unaffected by an Orcish axe. A wise Pathfinder will think ahead on what she might run across, and prepare for it. But these days, few seem to do so.”
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Aram smiles and says, ”Sadly, I am a poor storyteller. I have retired from active work as a Pathfinder, and not many wish to hear the tales of derring-do of a shopkeeper, even in a shop as interesting as Kaleel’s Curiosities. But I do enjoy discussing the many lessons learned by Pathfinders over the centuries of the Society’s work. For example, the swarm I mentioned, in the sewers. Imagine it’s a swarm of biting insects, or venomous spiders, how would you seek to counter it?”
As soon as the question is voiced, the male Boartusk twin shouts, ”Smash ‘em! I’d take my axe and swing it right through - urf!” He’s interrupted by his sister’s elbow in his ribs, and her voice takes up the answer, ”No, Garl, that’d never work! It’d be like trying to smash the fog in Absalom during Desnus. Let me think a sec...oh! I’d use my axe and smash it into the ceiling of the sewer tunnel, and bring a big pile of rubble down on the spiders! Crush ‘em all!”
Aram bin Kaleel’s right eyebrow lifts questioningly, and he can’t quite restrain himself from saying, ”Speaking of rubble, are you not in the tunnel as well, in the little scenario I described?” He turns to the party, noting that Wicket has joined the group and is sniffing at a pint of sewer brew as if to determine if he should drink it or use it to water his moss. ”You see why I pine for the golden days of the Society? In any case, short of a tunnel collapse, how would you respond to a swarm of poisonous bugs intent on doing you harm, thereby foiling the mission you have embarked on?”
”Very good, very good,” bin Kaleel replies, ”I’m pleased that you handled my relatively simple question so well, but even more pleased that you supported each other as you did. A Pathfinder should stand on his own two feet, but be able to lean on a fellow agent when needed.”
As he says this, the halfling woman who was so excited to see Sir Reinhart brave the Starstone gets up from an adjoining table, saying in a clear, bell-like voice, ”And that’s the tale of Durvin Gest and the fabled Lens of Galundari, and there are important lessons in it for all of us!” As she moves away from her table, she sees the party and raises a nearly-empty glass of wine in a gesture of greeting.
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Sobestian frowns. "Oh dear! I missed a tale. If you'll pardon me...." Sobe quickly excuses himself and makes his way over to the other table. Tipping his hat with a flourish, he introduces himself. "Sobestian Opparason III, at your service, fair muse! I regret that I missed your tale of Dirty Jests and the Legs of Gilliana. Do you have any other tales. I just love stories. I'm an aspiring bard."
Much like Venture-Captain Dreng, Aram bin Kaleel is impressed by Tog’s mental acuity. ”Exactly!” he says excitedly in response to the muscular orc’s rather belated grunt, ”That’s exactly how to handle such a situation. Your grasp of the complexity of targeting myriad miniscule organisms is impressive indeed!”
The halfling woman smiles broadly at Sobe’s introduction, and politely hides a chuckle behind her small hand as he butchers the name of her story. ”Nice to meet you, Sobestian,” she says, ”I’m Janira Gavix, Pathfinder - and a bard as well, I’m proud to say. From what I overheard just now, it sounds like you all are agents of our fine Society as well. And not only that, but you’re seeking the counsel of experienced agents as you start your careers. It does my heart good to see that.”
With a modest bow of her head, she goes on, ”I myself completed my confirmation not so very long ago, and I turn to more experienced agents whenever I can. And I pass on what I’ve learned as well, to those who come behind me. If you need anything, now or when you’re on assignment, just ask. If I’m not here, you can usually find me at the Grand Lodge.”
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Janira responds enthusiastically to Wicket's question, "Oh, the places you'll go! The things that you'll see!" Garl Boartusk weighs in, saying, "The people you'll smash!"
Aram bin Kaleel shakes his head at this last comment and says, "Or, perhaps, you will take a different approach." His eyes shift toward Heryn approaching and he continues, "Ah, it appears our hostess is coming this way, to conduct whatever business you have with her, may it benefit our Society. Should you need anything - supplies, advice, a cup of mint tea - please come visit me at my shop, I would be happy to assist you.”
Heryn arrives at the table and says, ”Well, my other bartender has finally arrived, so I’ve a moment to take care of other business. Would you all come with me?” She nods graciously to the other Pathfinders at the table, then leads the party to the kitchen, where a couple of cooks are busily working at a wood-burning stove and several stone-topped tables. Off the kitchen, she opens a side door into a storeroom, and down a set of wooden stairs into the basement.
”Dreng wanted you to pick up a particular vintage he’s been meaning to try,” she says as she makes her way down the dim stairs. ”He does have an appreciation for good grape.” At the bottom of the stairs is a tightly-packed storeroom. Barrels, boxes, and crates of assorted foodstuffs and drink garnishes are pushed against the walls or under the stairs. Crossing the room, she opens another door and says, ”The cellar is this way.”
The door opens into a ruined chamber, cracks running through the stone floors and walls. ”The big quake of 4698 did a number on this place, we haven’t quite got it all put back together, though I know we should have by now…” Running across the center of the floor are several wide cracks, all but one large enough to step across. This last one, more of a fissure than a crack, has a wide wooden plank laying across it. On the far wall of the room is a wooden wall with a doorway in it. ”The cellar’s through there. Be careful on the plank, it’s not as stable – or as sturdy - as it should be.”
She moves carefully across it, then turns to wait for the party to cross.
Heryn shrugs in mild embarassment at Sobestian's questions and hangs her head, muttering, "We're going to fix it, but the upkeep on this place is murder...and I do like to give discounts to Pathfinders, but that brings so many of 'em here, it's hard to make ends meet..."
She looks up as Wicket waddles across the plank. It groans slightly under his weight, but he makes it safely to the other side.
Rokdor lumbers across the plank, her stout bulk eliciting more groans from it than Wicket did. And though it can't be called dashing or elegant, Sobestian succeeds in crossing the plank as well.
When Tog takes his first step onto the board, it groans ominously.
The groan of the board ceases as Tog strides along it. Unfortunately, it is replaced by a loud, wrenching crack as the board breaks across the middle, threatening to drop Tog into the crevasse.