A single, dim lantern sheds uncertain light in the cabin of Venture-Captain Retief VanSchuyver. The deck of his ship, the Maelstrom, sways and rocks with the gentle swells in the predawn darkness off the coast of Rahadoum. The captain scratches his patchy beard as he speaks.
“I’m not sure how much you know about the nation of Rahadoum. Its position on the mouth of the Inner Sea keeps it prosperous enough, I think, but the strangest thing about the nation has nothing to do with trade. You may already know this, but they’re not too keen on the gods. Any of ’em. Not Desna, nor Abadar, nor Gozreh, much less the bleaker crew like Asmodeus or Lamashtu. Them Rahadoumi want nothing to do with them—had a war over ’em, in fact. Even Sarenrae can’t get her foot in the door!”
The captain leans back, turns, and spits tobacco juice into a brass spittoon.
“Despite all that, Rahadoum is a peaceful nation, eh. Education is highly valued, and civic duty held in high esteem. At least it hasn’t had to deal with any religious wars in a long time. But turnin’ your back on the gods has its downside. Famine always looms on their horizon. The desert claims more and more of their farmland every year, it seems. And, worst of all, plagues wreak stark havoc among ’em. Thousands die every year from one ailment or another for want of a decent cleric. They have no power, no divine will, to stem the tide of disease, and they struggle and they starve and they die so dreamlessly, knowin’ that when they enter the Boneyard, there’ll be no deity to meet ’em there with open arms, no paradise waiting on the other side."
“Just lately, things have been much worse. A new plague sprang up several weeks ago in the outlying villages around Manaket—Rahadoum’s center of learning. They call it the Night Plague, and it’s a killer. Very few infected have recovered from it but the handful who made it across the borders or out through the ports have been easily cured by clerical magic. This Night Plague’s a killer, but it doesn’t have to be."
“That brings me to why we’re bobbing here off Rahadoum’s coast in the dead of night. Despite Rahadoum’s current social agenda, it’s an ancient, storied land. There’re a lot of secrets buried in those forgotten sands. As a result, let’s just say that the Pathfinders have ‘assets in place’ in the area not ‘officially’ associated with the Swordmeet Lodge in Manaket and leave it at that. But with plague striking the area, and those assets having no clerical support, they are now in jeopardy. We’ve got to protect our people and their research, and to do that we’ve got to get a handle on this plague before it becomes epidemic, or at least shield our folks before they’re exposed to it.”
He looks up, his eyes dark and fierce. “So we’re going to give Rahadoum a little help… whether they like it or not.”
He gestures behind him to a shadowed figure sitting on a
sea-chest. “This is Agosa Agion, a holy hand of Sarenrae and Pathfinder field operative.”
A human male rises from his seat and bows low. He wears a desert dweller’s robes on his slender frame and a green turban around his angular head. His forked beard is golden-colored and dyed with henna at its tips.
Captain VanSchuyver clears his throat and continues. “Agosa normally serves as a healer in the Sothis Lodge and his expertise should serve him well as a plague doctor. I don’t intend for you folk to play nursemaid to a bunch of plague victims, that’s what we’ve got Agosa here for, but getting him into the country and to the action is where you come in."
“Your job is to sneak him into Rahadoum and get him to the village of Wadi al-Hesr, avoiding the nation’s priest-hunting military forces—they’re called the Pure Legion—and taking care of any ‘entanglements’ that you may run into along the way. For all the gods’ sakes, don’t let them know you’re even in the country! Right now, we’re anchored just off Rahadoum’s northern coast near the Qassabah Heb Amar. As far as the Rahadoumi government knows, it is the home of Bey Sarkris El Makkra, jefe of several of the local villages. The truth is, the good bey uses his stronghold as a secret smugglers’ port. Tonight, you are the smugglers, and Agosa here is your contraband. Get him into the tunnels where you’ll meet one of the bey’s servants; he’ll direct you from there."
“Don’t mess this thing up. Once you get Agosa to Wadi al-Hesr—only a few miles from the bey’s fortress—he’ll know where to go. Questions? If not, then get to the tunnels before the tides change. Someone from the bey’s staff is surely already waiting.”
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"So I take it the casting of divine spells is illegal, then," Lort, as eve, states the obvious, "Plays right into my strengths. I can't tell you how often I've forgotten I was a priest! Ha! Will be great to be adventuring with all of you again. Such a shame that Miro fell into that industrial cow grinder. I do hope his resurrection monies come through.
"Oh, hey, Gunari... you're a priest of kinds, too, aren't you? Dangerous territory for men like us. We'll have to do our best to fight like pure warriors. Shouldn't be too hard!" Lort helps himself to some whisky and plonks his feet up on the venture captains desk.
"So... when do we get off this gods be damned ship?"
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"I can say that I am ready to step free of this ship," the old man says, leaning to brace himself on the railing with one arm. As the vessel rocks slightly, he peers over the edge into the depths of the water. "I mean no offense to you, Venture-Captain Retief VanSchuyver. It's just that a few of us have had trouble aboard ships before, so it tends to put us a little ill at ease." Ibid explains, and turns to cast a sidelong glace at Lord Finarin Moonstep.
Ibid could not quite get used to calling his elven friend, Lord, yet. He knew eventually this title would be familiar enough to him, and would even become second nature before long. Hell, the regal elf had always seemed a bit like royalty to the old man anyway, so this was probably the most logical progression for Finarin before he became a legitimate king.
"Something tells me that you and Gunari won't have too much trouble fighting like pure warriors," the old man adds to Lort with a laugh. "I'm sure I must have seen it, but I don't know if I can recall you casting a spell, my friend. Maybe it's just that I'm an old man, and don't remember all to well anymore," he continues, jabbing fun at the half-orc. "When we first met I saw you stumble into a tavern and you were as big as a ship, then you proceeded to almost kill Cyrus with a bench... I remember that, but I still don't remember you casting many spells..." he continues to chuckle quietly under his breath.
After these short moments spent joking with his friends, he turns back to Venture-Captain Retief VanSchuyver, and continues. "Is there any other traditions we should be mindful of, while we are ashore?" he asks, taking a moment to rest his journal on the railing of the ship, bracing it with one hand, and thumbing through the pages with the other. The old man is looking to see if there are any notes from his general research of the world which might be useful to the immediate task at hand, but even so, he has never been to these shores before and is beyond excited to at last see the fabled, Kingdom of Man.
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"Yes, off the gods be damned ship and into the god forsaken country." Cyrus chuckles, raising his eyebrows several times in quick succession, trying to make sure those around him got the joke, adding to the jovial tone while reminiscing about nearly being decapitated by a bench in a bar fight.
"Get it? See... ah, never mind." Cyrus walks up behind Ibid, snatching the weatherworn leather hat off of his head and placing it on his own for a moment.
"So do the Pure Legion have a regular patrol, or set up checkpoints? I would almost expect to see someone like Faustus there, if not for his particularly divine nature. Just curious what we might need to do to try to avoid them. If we must go through checkpoints, we may need to find a disguise for the good priest." Cyrus asks the venture captain while he tries to make the hat fit comfortably on his head.
Not succeeding, Cyrus pulls the hat off of his head, turning it over to inspect the leather stamped text on the inside for a moment. He takes a quick breath, as if he is about to speak, and stops short, still staring at the hat.
He tries again after a moment. "You know, Ibid. Something's been on my mind." The young ninja completely misses the irony of that statement, considering the recent history just revealed to him. "I've been digging. I know, I know you told me not to, let's just not focus on that for right now." Cyrus pats the air to try to calm the old man down. He hands Ibid back the hat to help by somehow distracting him slightly.
The ninja turns back, leaning against the rails with his elbows and stares out at the endless horizon where the ocean meets the sky. "Janira Gavix, you remember her don't you? Well she always promised to help us do research in Absalom if we needed it. So I called the favor in. I think all I did was waste both our time, didn't really find much on Auxziauk. Learned a bit about the nine hells. Learning how to speak Infernal from that book we took from the sea witch at least made the searching less maddening."
Cyrus looks down at his fingernails, picking some dirt from underneath one of them absentmindedly, then sticks the finger in his mouth to chew off the excess nail, resuming his stare into the distance. "I saw your name in the books," he says bluntly. Well, I don't think it was your name, because it didn't make sense. The word Ibid was on lots of the pages. Janira said it was a reference to something else. That's what the word meant, or something like that." Cyrus pauses again for a few moments, his question still not asked.
"In the share memory spell, when Auxziauk was first taunting you, he said that Ibid wasn't even your real name. So... What did he mean by that?" Cyrus finally turns to stare at the old man, catching his gaze and waiting.
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The old man stops for a moment, and a chill ripples across his skin as the young ninja voices the questions. He can feel a twinge of anger and frustration building within him, but is unsure if these feelings are directed toward Cyrus, or at himself for thinking he could avoid having this conversation indefinitely. He knew he truly was an old fool if he thought he could stop this from happening. The old man begrudgingly gave Cyrus credit for his tactics, having intentionally waited until they were on the ship and moments from disembarking, the youth had probably even timed his questions so that everyone was around them both, making it that much harder for Ibid to avoid the question. But by the same token this meant that the youth's tact seemed wanting.
For another brief moment the old man lamented that the young ninja would not leave it alone and would not stop digging into his past. Truly, Ibid knew why the youth could not let it go. Yet this did not stop the old man from wishing it otherwise.
"Ibid? Well... You're right, it's not really a name at all..." he begins shaking his head, finally giving up the struggle. "it usually litters old crotchety books written by old and crotchety men. Ibid is short for Ibidem, which literally means, 'in the same place'..."
"it seems odd to talk about it after all this time... since I've so long tried to keep it from you, but clearly my secrets are at long last laid bare... I am from the city of Promise. To be more specific, I am a product of Mengkare’s Glourious Endeavor."
Or, I was to be... he thinks but does not voice it aloud.
"I had an older brother," he pauses, thinking about his own comment for a moment. It looks as though this is not something the old man thinks about with any regularity, perhaps the recollection being too painful. "Perhaps I still have an older brother."
"He was the smartest person I have ever known, and he was everything I wanted to be. When we were young we joked about me following after him, and us being so similar. But, sadly, I never succeeded in securing my citizenship, unlike my brother. And so, after it was my time to leave, I thought it terribly clever to have come up with Ibid to call myself."
"My brother," he waits, thinking about the distance in space and time separating them. "Oxley Abel."
"He was everything I wanted to be. I am the way I am because I wanted to be him. Surely, I'm just a reference to a better version of someone else, he that is still in the same place across the long oceans. He is the true version of us, what we were meant to be, and I will always be a faded reference," he finishes with a sigh and his eyes staring off beyond the darkened horizon.
Later, when there is a spare moment, the old man finally relays his long shadowed and hidden past to the others.
Ibid isn’t a real name, it is a reminder of failed potential. A poor attempt at humor and a tribute to an older sibling, who was the measure and reference for everything Ibid tried to live up to. He’d given the name to himself, after washing ashore on an unfamiliar beach, hundreds of miles from home, nearly burned to death. He’d always been compared to his elder brother, they were the same but only years apart, and after surviving a harrowing wreck at sea, Ibid’s new goal in life was to live up to this comparison.
Born to a family of privilege and learning, on the island nation of Hermea. The red sandstone walls of Promise and the resolute will of Mengkare protected his childhood, leaving sixteen years of structured, regimented study, pondering countless curriculums and intellectual musings. His mother and father were scholars of no small note, each targeted from separate, far-flung corners of the Inner Sea and recruited for citizenship by agents of Hermea. His elder brother seemed greater than the sum of their individual parents, delivering astonishing breakthroughs within the fields of alchemy, natural science, engineering, and the arcane arts; recognized for his unlimited potential and as one who could be the long awaited realization of Mengkare’s Glourious Endeavor.
And yet, when it was Ibid’s time to shine, he failed spectacularly. At the age of 16 he was unable to secure his citizenship by passing the trial set before him, required of all citizens of Hermea. And in one night, found himself no longer apart of his family- not by their choosing, but by his own. The unforgivable shame and dishonor he felt, drove him to skulk beyond the red sandstone walls of Promise and barter passage off the island of Hermea on a departing Sargavan vessel. He knew he did not deserve to be a part of this Glorious Endeavor, and chose a lonely, desolate exile warranted by his failures.
But the Sargavan vessel never reached its destination, and days after setting out from Promise, the half-charred and nearly drowned body of Ibid washed ashore on the western coast of Cheliax. He could not remember what happened in detail, and found only vague effigies in sleep of the agonizing sear of fire and the dread of slipping beneath dark, ravenous waves.
With the help of the local chelish that found his pitifully burned and charred body, clearly on the verge of death, he was introduced to someone who could help him mend. He was introduced to a devil by the name of Auxziauk and after some time spent listening to the honeyed words and perfectly structured logic of the creature, Ibid sold his soul. The first of his three wishes was used to repair the ravages of fire which had crippled his body but left his mind unscathed, though he wanted a portion of the scars to remain as a reminder.
Then he fled the cruel land of devils with haste and began to travel the world, eventually joining the Pathfinder Society to sustain his wanderlust and the unyeilding urge to perpetually keep moving. A childhood spent in stuffy, ordered lectures left Ibid with a desire to explore the world and to keep others from the monotony and torture of strictly regimented life, which is perhaps why the Pathfinder Society appealed to him so much. But beyond that, there was fearful drive pushing Ibid, as if he were afraid to stay in one place for too long and an unshakeable feeling that something unstoppable was hiding just behind his sight, lying in wait beyond the darkening horizon, ever creeping and drawing near.
Along these travels he met a keleshite man who was beyond clever, but was sadly the father to a dying son. This man, had fate been different, was beyond smart enough to have schooled in Promise itself, having the capacity of mind to do great and seemingly limitless things. If fate had been different, and far less cruel, this father should have watched his son grow. But such a fate was not to be found for the man, nor his son.
Ibid never really knew where the man, his wife, and child had come from. They certainly seemed born of the desert sands of Casmaron, but would never truly confirm if this were true. Ibid only knew that many other children from where they had fled, all precious and fragile in their youth, were similarly afflicted and doomed just like the keleshite' son. What made matters worse, the ailment the boy was stricken with appeared all but impossible to cure by most means magical and medical. Even the merciful spells of the devoutly faithful had been too late to save the children of their homeland before its deadly effects were felt. Yet, Ibid knew of one treatment that in all probability had not yet been tried, though its cost could not be measured in gold, its worth was simply one-third of his soul.
Looking back later, he could never quite remember how long he and the family debated using a wish to save the boy. It felt like years of circling discussions, each never ending with an agreement. Ibid pushed to use a wish, the family felt they could never ask such a request of him. In the end, Ibid only realized how unnessissary the debates truly were after Darius let slip that he and his wife had no way to stop Ibid. If Ibid chose to use a wish, there were no means by which they could prevent him. He did not need their permission, after all. Though the father had always made it clear that he could never repay Ibid for a gesture so grand, and so, by the same fact, could not ask Ibid to do such a thing. But the price was Ibid's to pay and he thought he was willing to pay it. What haunted him later, and haunts him still, was the lingering question- was he so willing to give up a wish to save the boy because he was truly a good man, or was it a foolhardy, desperate attempt to buy his way out of a damned fate by currying favor with merciful, forgiving gods? Later, when Auxziauk was summoned at a cross-roads and Ibid spent his second wish, the devil questioned the man's motives as well, though all the while relished the questioning with a devious sense of enjoyment.
When Ibid's doomed fate became more than he could withstand, the boy's father stepped in and proposed a plan. The specifics seemed outlandish and far fetched, but Ibid was willing to grasp at any chance of avoided the terrible fate had he condemned himself to. In the end their plan utterly failed, just as Ibid feared it would, and what made it worse, the boy's father had taken his own place in hell. Selfishly, it always seemed to Ibid, he had to use his third wish to save himself yet again, just as his first had been used. Three wishes spurned and only one use to help anyone other than himself.
For twenty-eight long years since we washed up, half-dead on the shores of Cheliax, the looming failures of his past drove Ibid to a continued escalation of greater and more perilous undertakings as a pathfinder, as if to redeem his past misgivings. Fueled by a drive to prove his worth and perhaps gain some knowledge to correct the grievous mistakes he had made. He endeavored to prove his worth, and maybe one day earn the citizenship he failed to secure in Promise, but first he had the impossible task of freeing a father from serving a sentence for a crime he did not commit.
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As the giant worm speaks, it stands up to it's full height. The voice booms out from the gaping, unmoving mouth, that lies now twice as high as any man. While at first this creature bears little resemblance to Kaisharga's earlier form, the serpentine shape and dragonfly wings are left to remind of the old eidolon.
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"I is sorry. Kaisharga finally grow big, but it get funny in head too. But no worry, it only speak big. It behave, I promise!" Amaranti pats his eidolon affectionally, smiling reassuringly to his travelling companions. But the words of the venture captain send the Garundi into a thoughtful mood.
"They no like magic from gods?" he says, after a while. "But what of other magic? Amaranti serve no god, but he make magic. He no read spells from books, like elf Finarin. Is allowed in Rahadoum?"
"And what of items with magic? Amaranti buy healing potion from priest, is illegal?"
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"Ibid, Cyrus! Great to see you two in such good fooling again," Lort scrapes his feet of the venture captain's desk, leaving two long streaks of mud along its polished surface - where did the half-orc find mud on board a ship? - and rushes over to hug both men at once, "I know we've been at sea for a while now, but for some reason this seems the first time we've spoken in an age." Eventually, Lort unfolds his broad arms and allows the men to escape.
"Kaisharga, do not take it amiss, but I preferred you when you were a small thing sniping at your master for his foolishness," Lort sees that the eidolon could easily enngulf him in its jaws now and adds, "But I'm sure I just need to get used to you again." He gives Kaisharga a hearty smack on what he presumes to be its back.
"So, Amaranti, I have to say I've missed your special brand of spells. Haafiz caught up with me back in Absalom and told me you'd finally resorted to summoning spells! Ha!" Lort, as ever, finds raucous humor in his own words without realising or caring that most don't, "A fine pair we are. A priest who forgets he's a priest, and a summoner who's reluctant to do much summoning. Oh, other than Kaisharga here, of course!"
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Finarin, who looks a paler shale of pale, smiles at the group.
We are all here. Just like we are supposed to be. Yet it somehow feels different than it should. These men, closer to me than my own brother, and once again we head out on some fool's errand. Neyths I know you care not, and I travel to a land that shuns you, but once more I pray you give me the power to vanquish all foes who stand before me.
"Once again we find ourselves on a ... boat. We did not steal this boat ... did we?" Finarin glances at Cyrus.
"Venture Captain, I do have a few ... questions. So how would this so called Legion distinguish between a spell that ... I cast ... as apposed to a spell .... Gunari has cast? We do share some spells that ... either of us can cast.
"Also what is the penalty for casting divine spells? If it is a simple fine ... well should we run into a problem the consequences might be worth the risk."
"I might want to also have to peruse through my spellbook once more. Just to see if there is something there that could .... assist us."
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"Lort! Amaranti! Good to have you both back."
We did not steal this boat ... did we?" Finarin glances at Cyrus.
Cyrus flashes a wry grin towards his elven brother. "Not this time. You can tell because she isn't listing horribly to port and nothing is on fire." He winks at the captain of The Maelstrom.
"Yea, so far I am with Finarin, most of my questions are around what the consequenses for divine magic are in this country. Just how zealous are these Legionnaires? I am quite adept at sneaking and remaining unseen. Gunari, on the other hand... tsk." Cyrus cannot maintain his serious look and breaks into another grin.
It is good to have everyone back together. The only thing we are missing is Miro's songs. Still mad that the brass won't let me use any of my reputation to help him out.
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"So... when do we get off this gods be damned ship?"
"It is only a half hour's journey from here to the smuggler's port. Be prepared..." the Captain of the Maelstrom warns.
"I mean no offense to you, Venture-Captain Retief VanSchuyver. It's just that a few of us have had trouble aboard ships before, so it tends to put us a little ill at ease." Ibid explains, and turns to cast a sidelong glace at Lord Finarin Moonstep.
"Ships aren't for everyone, but I always welcome a Pathfinder with the proper sea legs. Had a few burly types that got picked from my crew for some unsavory activities down the coast. Heard a dwarf with a yak was the go-between, but don't know much else, so yer assistance on this voyage was appreciated until I can find replacements." he mentions.
"Is there any other traditions we should be mindful of, while we are ashore?"
As Ibid asks, Agosa fields this questions. "Avoid any outright worship, even the presentation of holy symbols... Anything of a magical nature might be problematic, especially if the guards suspect the goddess's hand." the man mentions.
"PURE LEGION!? LET THEM COME! I WILL DEVOUR THE GODLESS MEN! I DEVOUR THEIR BODIES AND I DEVOUR THEIR SOULS! AND WITH THEIR LAST BREATH, THEY PLEAD AND BEG FOR ANY GOD TO SAVE THEM!"
Both Agosa and the Venture-Captain's eyes widen in terror. "You do understand that you aren't there to slaughter anyone right? We want to help them..." Agosa gulps as VanSchuyver reconsiders this group for the mission.
"So how would this so called Legion distinguish between a spell that ... I cast ... as apposed to a spell .... Gunari has cast?"
"They no like magic from gods?" he says, after a while. "But what of other magic? Amaranti serve no god, but he make magic. He no read spells from books, like elf Finarin. Is allowed in Rahadoum?"
"And what of items with magic? Amaranti buy healing potion from priest, is illegal?"
The pair seems the feel more at ease after Amaranti calms the monster, but there is definitely tension now between the leaders of the Society's mission and the Pathfinders called to work.
Agosa seems to look between the pair and understands, but he tells them. "You just can never know. Try to abstain from all magic, even items. Any divine implement will be seized and you may face jail time if they are found on your person."
"Also what is the penalty for casting divine spells?"
"Could be death or hard time in the quarries, either way, the Society has no knowledge of your visit to Rahadoum and we will not save you if you are imprisoned..." VanSchuyver warns.
"Just how zealous are these Legionnaires?"
"Extremely..." the pair says in unison, surpisingly.
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"Ha! Lort! You keep shape, I see! Good!" Amaranti laughs, comparing the half-orc's muscles against his own. In good mood, the giant Garundi looks around him, and realizes he is surrounded by old friends. His wide arms grab the nearest unsuspecting allies into a warm huddle. "Old team together. Ha! If enemies wise, they hide before we come. If not, they get butts kicked!"
The warnings of the Venture Captain Retief VanSchuyver start to creep into Amaranti's consciousness. He looks up at his bonded eidolon, giant-sized and ill-behaved. "If we want not get noticed, it be best send Kaisharga home. Is big, Pure Legion see easy. Call it back when manure hits fan. Or then Lort see me summon other creature!" The warnings in mind, Amaranti starts cataloguing his carried items, and digs up a scroll and few vials that he suspects to be of divine origin. "What we do with items, leave here? Or hide in bodies? Last time Miro did hiding, say Amaranti's was not clever."
"What about plague? Still there? Is dangerous for us?"
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The old man looks toward his garundi companion, nodding in agreement to Amaranti's words and wise questioning. "Aye," he begins, continuing to nod to Amaranti. "Well spoken. If we do in fact need to hide our gear in these lands, that could certainly pose an annoyance for us." Ibid shudders recalling a particularly painful mission in which they were asked to proceed with their precious gear stuffed in an obnoxiously locked and magically hidden chest.
Sometimes I feel like all I am is my gear, he thinks, looking to the magical longbow slung diagonally across his shoulders. I don't want to part with these treasures again. Not even to sleep.
"I always feel a bit safer with Kaisharga around," Ibid mentions. "But I do feel confident, perhaps overly so, that with this expert team joined once more, there is nothing that will withstand our wiles and tactical prowess." The old man finishes his words by turning to look one by one at the others.
So long as this Pure Legion doesn't have the ability to cast black tentacles, he thinks, still lamenting his performance on their last mission together. Lest I get trapped in a corner for the entire fight...
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"Ha. Great point, Cyrus. I think they were saying best not to flaunt magic of any kind, not that it was illegal... erm, right?" Lort looks uncertainly up at the venture captain, "And don't worry about being no good at hiding stuff, Amaranti. Last time I tried to hide that a weapon wasn't peace bonded, it got taken from me... and then I got killed. Right, Gunari? Won't be doing that again in a hurry."
Lort pokes around in his backpack for some of the wish lists he'd made since he was last adventuring. 'Some way to hide stuff', he reads the last item to himself, 'So next time you won't get killed'. "Heh."
Agosa comforts Amaranti a bit by explaining that the plague is not life-threatening and that, if affected, he may be able to cure you in secret. "I am coming with you after all."
"They aren't against magic in general, just divine magic. If your displays of magic seem divine in nature or are just questionable overall, then you may be detained unnecessarily. We should avoid this." the cleric reasons as you board the rowboat.
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"Going to a godless land. Well, guess it is a good thing that I have a couple of new toys. " He makes sure his Tankard of the Drunken Hero and his chalices are in his pathfinder pouch, as well any other divine items, save his old, wooden holy symbol, which he tucks into his tunic.
"Cyrus, could you hang on to this for me? Keep it hidden and secure? Just in case." He hands the ninja his silver holy symbol, figuring that it doesn't hurt to have a spare available.
"Refraining from magics is fine... as long as we have good source of beer and such. Venture-Captain, are there any resources that we can requisition from your holds? Perhaps a small keg, ore something?"
So, what can you tell us about this plague? Are we at risk if we go there?"
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"No problem Gunari." Cyrus smiles.
In a flash, the silver holy symbol is nowhere to be seen.
"I feel a bit better now that I understand more. The only thing that I need to hide is this wand of cure light wounds. In fact, I'll trade you Gunari. Toss this wand in your sac?" Cyrus blinks a couple of times, obvlivious to the awkward innuendo.
"I think I am out of questions. Ready to go when you are, gentlemen." Cyrus tightens the straps on his bandoliers, double checks his wrist sheaths, and makes sure the haversack is snapped shut. He begins to tap his foot nervously as they board the rowboat.
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"Thank you for the information," Ibid says, nodding in thanks to the captain. "And thank you for the safe voyage here." The old man then clambers off the ship and into the waiting rowboat, taking a moment to adjust the odds and ends of his gear before taking a seat. He looks toward the shore and ponders what wonders and amazing oddities they will find in a kingdom so singular.
As he sits lost in his musings, a shiver ripples along the surface of the water and the gentle sloshing sound of a few disparate waves wash along the miniature wooden hull. From his overly stuffed backpack the old man pulls out the wand of healing magic that he has carried so far across the surface of the world, from kingdom to kingdom, and that which has saved his life on more than one occasion. With a slight clink of glass, he also wrestles free a few containers of holy water and proceeds to fit them all into his magical smuggler's pouch, tailored for the crafty fingers of pathfinders.
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The seven Pathfinders set off in the small rowboat as Agosa waves to the Venture-Captain. "Until we meet again, my friend!" the Captain belows as sea spray mists the party.
The stronghold looms high upon a sheer cliff above the benighted ocean, the crash of waves against the stone edifice carrying across the water. Three lighted windows gleam above the waves, and as the lighter moves in closer to shore, the windows align as a sort of face—two at an equal height like eyes and one below and between them like a mouth or nose. Now only jagged rocks, hidden shoals, and towering cliffs lie between the lighter and the smuggler’s caves beyond.
The lighter has seats for four rowers and a place for one person to man the tiller, as well as benches for others and space for baggage. The players will need to determine who is manning what position, as different skill checks must be made by different individuals in the boat. These specifications are spelled out with each obstacle. Others can make aid another attempts to help that individual, even if they are not in the correct position to make the check themselves.
As you set off towards death on the rocky shoreline, Agosa's face turns a pale green. "Ugh... I don't feel..." he mummers before retching over the side.
BLAAARGH!
He wipes the spittle from his chin as he laments about one of those burly men that the dwarf stole. "I know how he feels now..." Agosa bemoans.
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"Not a problem, Cyrus." says the warpriest, adding the wand to the pouch, along with his own wand. "I can take one of the rowing positions... I think Ibid should take the tiller. I know that I am better suited for the physical, just like Lort and Amaranti are. We'll do just fine. Finarin, says Gunari, he missing Lord apparent in his voice, "Perhaps you would deign to take the final oar?"
Glad he left his monkey with the Master of Scrolls back at Absalom, Gunari takes his place, and prepares to row.
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As the ship sets off, Lort also feels the need to yell something back to the Venture-Captain, "Good luck to you, unhappy acquaintance. May Gozreh have mercy on your black heart!"
The half-orc looks to each of his six companions in turn. "What, is that not a traditional sea-farers' farewell? Huh. That Varisian captain who took me south to Absalom has some explaining to do."
Lort also turns green as the waves lurch. Since he is a half-orc, none notice, but he is definitely more orcish in pallor today. "Rowing will suit me just fine, Gunari. Though I do make a pretty decent lookout." Lort picks up an oar and gives it a heave. As the lighter twirls away from the shoreline, the half-orc soon realizes he needs to synchronize his efforts.
[b]"Oh, acting in unison! Ha! I know how we deal with this one. Same as in the forced march drills. Ready? Pull on the final syllable of each line:
"Grab the oar, ya filthy whore!
Stick it in and row to shore.
Water parts like smooth white knees -
Pump yer arms and fight the seas!"
With songs like those, and a farewell like before, those in the know realize that somehow Lort traveled back to Absalom from the Lands of the Linnorm Kings on a pirate vessel.
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The old man listens to the half-orc's song with a cringe at the possible meaning behind the words, owing that it sounds great, but thinking a bubbling innuendo might be hidden within the verse. Looking about himself, casting his eyes in the dark, he strains to see dagger-like shore. "I've not quite grown my own stalwart, sturdy pair of sea legs, Gunari," he says under his breath. "If we trust general knowledge to get us through, I can certainly grab the tiller."
"However, Lort might be right about his role as lookout," the old man adds. "Or, if we are concerned we need more flexibility on the till, then perhaps Cyrus might also be a good choice."
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"Um the ... tiller? Oh you mean that hing that makes the boat move... directions The oars. Hmm. I am not so sure that I would be best suited for that." He glances at Cyrus.
"Yet let it never be said that Lord Finarin Moonstep would shun physical labor. I am looking forward to something so .... common place. It should be fun to sing bawdy songs, and work my muscles into ... pain and soreness. It seems that this so called society delights in utilizing one of my skill as a .... mundane laborer."
Sitting down, Finarin produces his silken, embroidered kerchief from his sleeve. He wipes both the top and bottom of the oar handle.
"One never knows who used these before .... or where their hands were."
NEVER A BOAT. NEVER A BOAT
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"Just sit over there old man, keep a weather eye out for reefs." Cyrus chides playfully, pointing to the seat that doesn't require rowing or manning the tiller. "I'll take this, I can react faster than you, and gods know we don't need Ibid popping a shoulder out of socket trying to pull on the oars."
Hey, I've heard this one before... Cyrus joins in the next chorus.
"Grab the oar, ye rotten wench
Pick yer spot upon the bench
Cresting waves like soft twin hills
Pull harder boys and fight the swills!"
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Gunari joins in on the singing, though his shanty has a different bent...
"Whiskey is the life of man
Always was since the world began
Whiskey-o, Johnny-o
John rise her up from down below
Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey-o
Up aloft this yard must go
John rise her up from down below
Whiskey here, whiskey there
Whiskey almost everywhere
Whiskey up and whiskey down
Whiskey all around the town
Whiskey killed me poor old dad
Whiskey drove me mother mad
My wife and I do not agree
She puts whiskey in her tea
I had a girl and her name was Lize
She puts whiskey in her pies
Oh whiskey straight, and whiskey strong
Give me some whiskey and I'll sing you a song
If whiskey comes too near my nose
I tip it up and down she goes
Some likes whiskey, some likes beer
I wisht I had a barrel here
Whiskey made me pawn me clothes
Whiskey gave me this broken nose
Oh the mate likes whiskey, the skipper likes rum
The sailors like both but me can't get none
Whiskey is the life of man
Whiskey from that old tin can
I thought I heard the first mate say
I treats me crew in a decent way
If whiskey was a river and I could swim
I'd say here goes and dive right in
If whiskey was a river and I was a duck
I'd dive to the bottom and never come up
I wisht I knew where whiskey grew
I'd eat the leaves and the branches too
A tot of whiskey all around
And a bottle full for the shanty man"
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With a wave of hand, Amaranti dismisses his eidolon. In a blink of an eye, the giant worm implodes and disappears, leaving only grains of sand dropping on the deck of the Maelstrom. Then the Garundi gathers his divine possessions in his newly-bought Pathfinder Pouch, and jumps to the rowboat.
"Amaranti strong! Make good row! But not like seas, you must tell what to do! " the Garundi grabs the oar, but from the way he handles it makes it evident the man comes from dry deserts. But what he lacks in skill and technique, he makes up with brute strength.
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By the end, Gunari realizes that he is the only one singing, but since he's taken the role of coxswain as well as rower, he makes it work.
"Sweet barleywine, but I am thirsty!" without thinking, he pulls out a tankard, and fills it with Cayden's magical brew. Noticing the shocked look on his team mates, he says, "What? Oh, apologies, did you all need some, too?"
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"Lord Hoity-toity, I could see the Drunked Hero would grant me a pour of your favorite Chelish red. Sometimes I think your brother was right... still don't know why you ignored him back at the attack on the Grand Lodge. I mean, you did have to to save someone or something after we dispatched that Vulture... and I thought it was clever of me to use the same method to slay the vulture that I used on the T-Rex... goad it into swallowing me, and then cutting my way back out. It was all planned... both time... honestly!"
"But did it have to drop me on top of the Trollheim? Such a waste! Such a shame!"
Agosa covers his ears with this talk of alcohol and silently hums a Serenrae ballad to himself, trying to forget about the sea sickness that is exacerbated by the boisterous crowd on the boat.
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"Hey Lort, remember that time when I lost a bet and had to take a shift in the crow's nest? Pretty sure this isn't anything like that. Though I probably won't fall asleep this time... Heh"
Cyrus stands up, procuring a fine tricorn hat and fitting it on top of his head. In the distance one of the deck hands can be heard screaming about his hat being stolen again for the fifth time this trip alone. He puts his left foot on the bottom of the rowboat, lift his right leg up to rest on one of the benches, striking a dashing pose that is accentuated by the slight breeze.
A slight rocking of the boat has Cyrus nearly tumbling to the deck, if not for his nimble legs. He flashes Lort a sneer that turns to a grin when he sees that the half orc can't hide his mirth.
"You take the Tiller old man. I'll keep a weather eye on the horizon. And in front of the boat so we don't hit a reef."
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With a look of grumpy acceptance the old man stands and shuffles toward the tiller, pausing briefly to pluck his hat and wipe the sleeve of his jacket across his forehead. "Let it be known I've never had much luck with ships," he sighs, grasping the mechanism. "When I was sixteen, I tried sailing from Hermea and ended up washing ashore in Cheliax... half dead."
"I'm just giving you all fair warning, in case I dash this cutter on those rocks ahead..." he cannot bring himself to laugh and instead clenches his jaw in an effort to steady his nerves. Narrowing his eyes, he looks about the vessel to the darkly churning sea, attempting to channel what knowledge he has of waves and tides to keep the rowboat on the proper side of the surface.
The massive ship sails off into the dusk as the Drongos make their way in the direction specified by the Captain. Through the darkness, you can spot a pair of large obstructions in your path, but it seems that the current is destined to take you there as the rowers frantically try to adjust course. As you near you see the massive rocks thrusting upward from the turbulent waters. The black rock blends in with the night-shrouded backdrop of the cliffs, so they are difficult to gauge in size until the boat is nearly upon them.
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"Gentlemen, I do believe that the froth of water at the base will cause us some ... difficulties. I believe that we should ... pull harder, or face a spell in the water."
Finarin grips his oar. Looking at Lort, Amaranti, and Gunari pulling into rhythm, Finarin easily adapts to the timing of events.
Pull, roll, lift, push, pull, roll, lift, push.
Though his timing is perfect, the water rippling by his oar is scant compared to the burly men besides him.
This would be for future checks in the boat, provided there are some. :D
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Soon, even Amaranti catches the rhythm from the song. After a while, the rowing starts to feel easy, relaxing in all it's simple repetition. Then Finarin cries out his warning, and the Garundi starts rowing with all his might. His muscles bulge as he drives the oar into the water, and boat moves with each mighty stroke.
However, at the end Amaranti starts losing concentration, and loses the rhythm.
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Lort lends his strength to Amaranti's. "Come on my big Garundi friend, it is just water! Ha!"
As the sea rocks and rolls, Lort continues to read the ocean. "Port side oars! It's coming in from starboard!" His companions learned a while back that Lort has the two directions mixed up and surely adjust accordingly.
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Ibid watches as the others row in unison, struggling against the waves and current, and slowly but surely shifting the small vessel away from the dagger-like rocks. "Row, men!" he says roughly, leaning his weight against the tiller, attempting to direct the ship with the force of their strokes. "Together now! That's it! Row, my friends!""
The group rows heartily as Ibid directs them and Cyrus keeps a lookout. They seem to be nearing the channel and free from danger when suddenly Amaranti's strength gives out and the other rowers have to throw their weight into the oars to keep from crashing.
Gunari