As Harrol reaches out and wraps his fingers around the Splinter, he gives it a tug. At first, the stone relic struggles against his pull and continues slightly in it's orbit, but the halfling's grim determination wrenches it free, malicious lightning continue to ripple along its surface and up his arms.
With the relic free, Benjamin and Harrol begin to slowly appear less bestial, and the portal spawned by the ritual seem to flicker out into darkness.
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The halfling grits his teeth, but doesnt manage to suppress a loud, ferret-like yelp. "Gods breath..." he says, swaying on his feet somewhat. He smiles sheepishly at the praise, and his stunned expression is washed away by the healing magics. "I'll be right as rain once I no longer have whiskers!" he says, running his hands along his chin and pleased to find it almost clean-shaven. "By the Inheritor am I glad that's over... Where to next?"
As you all depart Briar Henge, the relic in hand, you past through the yet-explored area.
Six hammocks hang suspended from the thorns here, crisscrossing along the thorny walls. Two oaks provide shade and shelter from wind and rain. A few clothes hang from the thorny walls. The hammocks and clothes seem simply made. Near one of the tree trunks is a large, sturdy chest. Near the other is a smaller chest, whose open lid reveals several scrolls and tomes. Gaps in the walls allow exit to the northwest, north, and northeast.
The books and scrolls are almanacs, starcharts, and philosophical treatises, mostly written in Druidic.
A small key is found in the small chest. It fits the locked larger chest.
The chest contains a birch wand of eagle eye with 12 charges remaining and a patterned leaf that acts as a scroll of grove of respite.
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Mobled happily assists Sad Rock in demolishing the altar, though she does not let her sacred ancestral weapon out of her hands. She calls back to Benjamin and Ramli as she works. "So ye're an expert on dwarven lasses now, are ye, Benji? Tha's a fresh one, innit?" She laughs and keeps pounding at the altar.
Moblyd is too taken up with demolishing altars to notice any keys.
***
Several weeks later, back in Absalom after some much deserved rest and recreation, another summons from the Society - this one from Drandle Dreng - makes its way into your hands.
The words are both odd and brief.
Meet Kreighton Shaine in the stables to discuss missing artifacts.
Aside from some briefings during training, few Pathfinders deal with the Society’s Master of Scrolls.
***
In the muddy stables, Kreighton’s scholarly robes drag through the muck, and his soft shoes are clearly soaked through, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
"I’ve been working on an extensive study of religious relics, trying to ascertain whether items gain a certain aura of divinity that cannot be detected through normal means. I’ve been collecting these artifacts through a series of well-known dealers in the God’s Market. We’ve never had any trouble before, but recently several of our couriers have been waylaid by a particularly elusive bandit."
Kreighton pauses briefly as his mud-soaked robe snags on a nail and he nearly falls over, but a stable boy catches his arm and steadies him.
"As they were headed through the Ascendant Court," he continues, "a group of thugs ambushed our couriers."
"The first time I thought it was a coincidence — a random mugging. After the second time, however, Grandmaster Torch had some harsh words with me. He suspects someone has targeted our couriers specifically. The Drandle boy suggested I have you investigate the disappearances."
Prior to arriving to meet with Kreighton at the stables, letters arrived from your respective venture captains bearing additional instructions and guidance.
Servant of Justice,
There are few people I despise more than the Chelish bastards of House Arionne. Their crimes against human dignity and freedom-loving people are countless. There is little we can do to strike out at them while they lair safely in Cheliax, however, your current mission presents a unique opportunity.
Three weeks ago, a minor son of House Arionne made a special trip to Absalom. Our intelligence indicates he was there to sell a relic that was stolen from House Thrune years ago. Included with the relic is a letter of authentication detailing how the leaders of House Arionne stole the pen from the Chelish crown. Bring me that letter or find some other way to ensure it doesn’t end up in the hands of that devil queen in Egorian and we will strike a debilitating blow to House Arionne.
Be Ever Vigilant,
(signature)
Major Colson Maldris
Greetings Pathfinder,
The reputation of the Pathfinder Society here in Absalom has taken a beating because of rash actions by overzealous Pathfinders. Our reputation among the city’s guards has become one of a group that kills first and asks questions later, and the city guard is talking about taking a hard stance against us — perhaps even jailing reckless Pathfinders.
Work with the Graycloaks and try to rein in your fellow Pathfinders’ overzealous ways. If you leave a string of bodies behind with no explanation, things are going to get very hot for Pathfinders here in Absalom.
It’s not enough to put an end to this string of crimes—we need solid, incontrovertible proof and no collateral damage.
Tread Carefully,
(signature)
Venture-Captain Ambrus Valsin
Young Shepherd,
The Society places great value in relics. Though such items are greatly treasured by the churches and scholars, I personally find them little more than intriguing distractions—though if you can return a relic to it’s rightful owner, you should obviously take the chance.
Similarly, if you find a lost sheep and can return it to its flock, you have done a service to both the sheep and the shepherd.
As you are going through your investigations, remember that not all who serve evil are evil at heart, and that many a sheep has been led astray by deceit and treachery. Should you stumble across any sheep who have lost their way, urge them to seek redemption and help them return to their flock.
Mind the Flock,
(signature)
Ollysta Zadrian
Moblyd does not appear to have been included in the summons, instead an odd-looking elf stands silently among you.
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The unusual looking elf jabbers out in a strange dialect of Elvish,
"vr!•p bl÷vp h01vd, y1v¶e [DrAnG]"
"By your wish, I command it, Master Drang."
The elf fiddles with a couple of strange dials on hir's long, bejeweled glove, and then begins speaking in a somewhat stilted Taldan. "This one apologizes. Nomenclature Thorel Castrovir. In your acquaintance I have pleasure. I serve for now the Lodge."
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Young Harrol steps off the ship, his face barely containing his excitement as he sees Absalom for the first time. You endure his eager chattering all the way to the Grand Lodge, and hear a little squeak of excitement at their assignment in the God's Market, so close to the Starstone Cathedral itself, despite the graveness of the news.
He at least has the decency to look embarrassed.
Kreighton gives Thorel a long smile and goes so far as to reach out and press his hand onto the other elf's.
"I rather liked that... But I suppose it's best to continue in Taldan."
The venture-captain hesitates for a moment, entranced by Thorel, before realizing Damvorak asked a question.
"Yes! yes! What was stolen?"
Clasping his hands together, he looks about the assembled Pathfinders before he realizes that he might actually be the one to answer the question.
"Oh! There have been two robberies so far!"
"The first stolen relic was a shard from a lance Iomedae used in a battle with a demon when she was mortal. The other was a pen that a Chelish noble claims was used by Asmodeus to create the accord with
House Thrune."
"Neither of the relics has been validated as authentic, so their worth is questionable. Nevertheless, they are invaluable to study and the fact that they are likely going to be sequestered in some private museum or collection is infuriating to the Society."
Once again, Kreighton gazes wistfully into the distance before making an odd sound and reaching into a pouch at his side.
"Oh yes! The list. Grandmaster Torch has helpfully provided this."
Pathfinders,
I’m sure that daft elf has thoroughly confused you by now, so hopefully this note will help set things straight. Someone has been preying on your fellow Pathfinders and stealing important relics from the Society.
We need you to discover who is behind these crimes. The Graycloaks have found scant information. They did recover the Shard of Iomedae’s Lance, but the details about the recovery are scarce. My contacts have provided me the names of some of the witnesses to the muggings, which I have included below.
Rialla Barleyhusk: Witnessed the first mugging; works at the shop across from Cayden’s Hall.
Friar Horace: Witnessed the second mugging; is the master brewer at Erastil’s Alehouse.
Jarid Moltwin: Was caught selling the Shard of Iomedae’s Lance; owns a private stall in the God’s Market.
The Pathfinders’ reputation with the Graycloaks is tenuous at best, so try to work with the Graycloaks and don’t leave a trail of bodies behind you.
Tread Carefully,
TORCH
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"An interesting theory, that proximity might cause divine resonance."
Rubbish
"Obviously we should talk to these witnesses and find out what they know."
If any of them are were-creatures or druids I'm going to blast them to the next life and Torch be damned.
With that the curious alchemist goes over to the curiouser elf and begins prodding her.
"What does this do? This one? How about here? Riding drakes?"
Kreighton continues to stare off into the distance, as if he were admiring the sunrise. Except, it's noon and he's mostly looking at the broad side of the stables rather than the horizon.
"Oh! Seven, nine, nine, five, four, three, seven."
Smiling at Thorel, he resumes a posture reminiscent of a Magnimarian golem until Damvorak brings him back to life.
"Graycloaks? Are they local?"
Kreighton stands still again, his keen eyes trained on the half-orc.
"Oh! I'm sorry, I thought you wanted me to watch you. I see, you're asking if they are local watchmen!"
"And, you're asking me!"
"Yes! They're something of a force of professed nonbelievers who police the God's Market and the entire Ascendant Court. Their atheist bent is meant to ensure that no one group of worshipers receives any sort of special treatment."
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"Y1v¶e," Thorel regards the Kreighton, "The green µån∫á߆* is most interesting. He reminds me of the noble µ•r!•çk* of Åß•ã*"
Ze turns to the dwarf. "This one dreams a visit to your world's Sky Citadels. Your phenotype designates you as of their originator species 'dwarf,' yes?"
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Sad Rock rushes to the meeting, annoyed that his previous contact had given him a hastily written missive that seemed to somehow divine what his job might be before he had even met with the Venture Captain.
Tis strange how many things are known...this Packminder Sodality has no secrets.
Sad Rock enters the stable and stops up short as the smell hits his nostrils.
Smells like Moblyd...she's on case too, no doubt.
Wrinkling his nose, Sad enters to find the Venture Captain and the group already in meeting.
I'm late! I hope they don't hate me...moreso.
Sad Rock takes his position in the back line of Pathminders, hoping no one notices his late arrival.
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"Be not embarrassed, Young Harrol. It's good to partake in what life gives us and enjoy it to its fullest!" Ramli says as he walks with the halfling to the meeting.
After listening to the dotty old elf, he grabs the note. "It appears we have our first clues, my friends. Let's be off to talk to these fine folks. The sooner we begin, the sooner we can be finished!"
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"I think starting with Jarid makes some sense. I'm ready."
Damvorak walks apace with the others and heads toward the God's Market.
"Does anyone know where Jarid's stall is? Or should we just ask at the Market?"
Weapon Equipped = Staff
Conditions = none
Hand of the Acolyte = 6/6
Resistant Touch = 6/6
Channel Energy = 3/3
Spells
Cantrips DC 13: Create Water, Detect Magic, Spark, Stabilize
First Level DC 14: Identify, Command, Divine Favor, Remove Fear
Kreighton stands, gazing into the distance, lost in thought as you sort out your plans to search for Jarid Moltwin.
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Thorel takes out a small journal book that looks oddly octagonal. With a series of intricate folds ze has a blank surface of fuchsia colored paper before hir. Ze touches hir bejeweled bracer, chants some words, and starts magically etching notes onto the pagefold.
With some deciphering and the ability to read Elvish dialects, a reader might make out the text flowing from the glowing stylus.
It is four Sovyrian cycles since the great portal brought me to Kyonin. Creche guardian Barbarel would marvel at the magics that some of these aliens employ. I find the taxonomy of the various bipeds fascinating. The reality transcends the myths in the same way that the megamoths rise above Ocean of Mists and touch the crystal horizon.
It is chill, though. Even here in the city called Absalom. And I miss Barbarel. I miss my creche mates and our pod in Grand Topiary 17. Such is my duty, though, if we are to make way for the next wave of settlement. These Pathfinders shall be a perfect vehicle for my assessments.
Barbarel would find the small one designated Harrol very sweet. I shall have to learn diminution formula to dial into my HAL.
Upon finishing, Thorel smiles rather sweetly and nods curtly to Harrol. A frown follows, and a single tear in hir eye. I miss you, Barbarel. And you to, Jaz. Ze is too distracted with homesickness to be of much use to the search, but still glides along beside Sad Rock anyway. Is he homesick too?
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Uncertain what to make of the elf, Harrol gives her a blank look, unable to process such an outlandish figure into the worldview of a small-town-pilgrim, he simply gawks.
He spends much of the journey staring at her, opening and closing his mouth as though he has a thousand questions to ask but can't seem to find where to start. Thoroughly bewildered, he decides to focus on the task at hand.
"Excuse me. Could you tell me where I might find...?"
It takes Harrol some time, but most of the shoppers within the God's Market take a liking to the halfling, and he's quickly pointed in the direction of Jarid Moltwin's business.
On the front of this stall, a large sign proclaims “Estelle’s Last Hope Mercantile.” A smaller sign below, obviously in a different hand, advertises “All merchandise verified authentic,” and in even smaller text below that is written “No Refunds.”
The stall is filled with a variety of unique items bearing various claims, each less likely that the last. “Cayden Cailean’s Lost Loincloth” sits on a shelf next to a clumsily preserved, half-eaten apple claiming to have been discarded by Norgorber on the day of his ascension.
The large Qadiran man smiles broadly as Harrol enters and bows deeply to greet his new customer, his voice smooth and sweet like sugar.
"Ahhh! Welcome my little friend! What brings someone of such discerning taste into my most humble stall on this fine day?"
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Damvorak is direct and to the point.
"Greetings, er, my good man. We're here about the Shard of Iomedae's Lance that you had the misfortune to obtain - quite accidentally I'm sure - and try to sell. We're with the Pathfinder Society and trying to track down the criminal gang responsible."
"I wonder, could you tell us a little about the person you got the shard from? Anything at all could be extremely helpful, and we'd be most grateful."
Who says I can't be polite if I try? Now speak up citizen and spill!!
Jarid's wide smile quickly fades as Damvorak does little to break the ice with a compliment to the Qadiran or his wares and instead jumps right into a conversation to discuss stolen merchandise and criminals.
Perhaps, even worse, he identifies everyone present as Pathfinders.
Jarid's face flushes, his fists clench and he simply points to the exit.
"I-- I-- had NO REASON to suspect it was stolen. I'm out good coin. GOOD COIN!"
The man is so obviously enraged, he begins stammering.
"You're- you're-- scaring off my customers. Costing me more! OUT WITH YOU! NO PATHFINDERS ALLOWED! Don't make me get the guards!"
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Thorel chooses this moment to approach Jarid with a potential purchase: a pair of non-functional wings made from dream spider silk, said to be the wings of Desna's saint, Goril Mothman. "This one bestows apologies for interrupting. These gossamer wings—they are not of arcane provenance, but would magnify this one's aura of legerdemain in a pleasing fashion.. How much?"
Jarid appears undeterred by the sudden shift to pacifying words of a handful of Pathfinders in his shop .
Thorel's inquiry into merchandise causes him to hesitate for the briefest of moments.