Sampson is pleased with the bargain struck. The ability to see perfectly in darkness is invaluable, and that's just the beginning. Any thoughts about the effects this might have on his eternal soul are far from the Hermean's mind. He seeks out work during the chaos after the Storm of Madness, hoping that the constant need for large violent men will be particularly strong in the aftermath of the event.
When Zeltresh starts looking for orders, Arzazel thanks the gnome and his new companions for a fun evening and returns to work. He first goes to the Silver Agent of the city to report and potentially receive orders. Then, Arzazel circulates through the city checking on the status of the Aspis businesses and potential business opportunities due to the wreckage.
Finding his primary purpose of finding a proper site all but wasteful with things as they are, he chooses to focus on the more public side of things. Taking to doing a bit of preaching and advising as needed, planting seeds of the all seeing eye among the people. Making no small case that magic had the ability to protect from such dangers as madness and could heal it if powerful enough. Perhaps if Nethys had granted his grace to those who wielded magic more could have been done. After all no magic was outside his realm and while the nation made use of the destructive aspect of his domain, they were clearly lacking in the knowledge and protective aspects of Nethys teachings. Something that could be remedied with the proper support so such an event did not repeat itself.
The moment Vincent could free himself of his duties to the Order and city, he quickly went to make sure his family was safe. Relieved to find they had suffered negligible damages to their holdings, he excused himself to his bunk at the new headquarters of the Order, and fell asleep quickly thanks to the long night he had endured.
In the following days, Vincent was kept busy with his duties. He made a full, detailed report on what he had seen in the events of the madness, including who accompanied him, making sure to commend them for their aid to the city. Then, he was tasked again with patrolling the city as extra security. He left Dante and Therian to help with the repairs of his families few damaged properties, and spent his patrols astride Midnight overseeing a squad of five initiates that weathered the madness relatively unscathed.
When he would pass any of those who had helped the city, he would wave politely, even stop to say hello should the time permit.
The first couple of evenings off, he had attempted to track down any clues regarding the previous owner of the sword he wore at his side. However, unable to get anywhere, decided that he would have to let the matter rest and simply treat the blade as his own.
Another thought that kept coming to his mind was the attractive Commissar he had met at the start of all the chaos. Kathryn. Her name stood out to him. I will have to try to see how she fared after all this insanity. Perhaps she doesn't have as brash of an attitude as Vik. One can only hope. Braganza isn't big enough to have two sticks in the mud like that.
Adurus, his heart heavy with the large amount of pain, death, and madness he's seen in the last few days, feels rather homesick. Though he knows it's still a bit of a longshot, he starts to search around the city for information on the whereabouts of Gruckalus and Bordana, his hometown friends. He goes to the barracks of various military organizations, asking around for registries of recruits taken in the past two years. Adurus takes whatever information is given to him and patiently sifts through it, scanning page after page for those two elusive names.
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Disappointed that he was unable to secure anything interesting during this debacle, Rutilus heads back to the Chelish Embassy to report all that had gone on that night - including his own personal assessment of what the situation looked like within the city, including anything else of interest that his superiors question him on. From there on, dismissed as he is ‘until his presence is necessary’, Rutilus ‘heads to his room to study his spellbook’ - or, that is at least, that is what most people know that he is doing.
In actuality, after heading to his accommodations, Rutilus waits until nightfall (if it isn’t already) and sneaks out of his quarters to seek his local contacts with the Pathfinder Society stationed in the city to let them know what he’s learned so far - especially his findings of the technology commanded by Rud, hoping to get some sort of payment for his findings, despite his absence of any sort of journal recording.
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Okay, finally getting this committed to the site. Thought I’d lay out a few basic rolls for Eldred as he goes about his business. He’ll assist with subduing the insanity plagued folks in the city, then return to his duties as an instructor in the Fusiliers training yards.
But in his off time, he’ll begin the search for Leovarde, this changeling (or whatever) in the city. While Eldred doesn’t hold out hope he’ll find him, he may be able to have a look at the saboteur's backtrail. If he can manage it, the gunslinger will attempt to get a description of the Leovarde persona, something he can get committed to a drawing. Then, he’ll see if the face - not the name - is familiar around town. His hope is that if this is a changeling, then perhaps they borrowed a face that could pass for an engineer in the Wastwares. Eldred will look in his usual haunts:
➛ Start in local taverns where the iron workers and alchemists might frequent. Knowing the nature of the latter’s fascination with gunpowder, they’re probably loonies and prone to a drink or two...or three. Here’s some corresponding rolls for that angle...
➛ Next, searching closer to home in the Foundry. The idea being that this changeling may have assumed the identity of the real Leovarde. Here’s the rolls for that angle...
➛ Next, work through official channels. In the Molthune military, there’s one thing that’s as frequent as a gunshot and that’s forms. Access to the Foundry is tight, perhaps there’s an angle there on how they were able to get access. They may have assumed the guise of someone who has access, then reverted to their Leovarde persona. And the rolls for these…
➛ In all three locations and around town, find out if there’s word of folks going missing prior to the night of the invasion
At any rate, something that will occupy his time. The last thing Eldred needs is to be left alone with his thoughts. Let me know if this works. My write up below is just some flavor to the overall goals I outlined above.
Sergeant Major Leonid Keppish didn’t normally visit the establishments of Cheapside, but on rare occasions his desire for Cettigne tobacco allows the argument for such visitations to be accepted. The older Molthune soldier stares through the haze of tobacco smoke at the hard planes and scars of Corporal Eldred Pentwert. ”I wonder, comrade,” He says, leaning forward in his chair to grab hold of a tankard and sip at mulled cider. ”I wonder if gaining this leaf is worth having to look at your scowling face all evening.”
”Can’t say as that steaming pile of gobber-scat you’re wearin’s any better, Sarge.” Eldred replies and rolls a cigarette to replace the one he’d just finished. ”But give me a few more drinks, you’re lookin’ better all tha time.”
The gunslinger looks around the Faded Glory tavern and thinks on the past few nights of searching. Sure there were probably spellslingers more suited for the task, able to flip through their books and scrolls, but Eldred doesn’t trust that sort of thing when some good old fashioned legwork can do the job just as well. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to filter through some of his street contacts and really see the impact of the invasion and feed some information up the chain to get added support for some of the deserving locals.
”Not to be a man of low expectations,” Keppish begins, waving his pipe so that the smoky haze is a fog at their table. ”...but I’m not holding out hope for information here. The patrons are, shall we say, not ones I’d see frequenting the new route to the Foundry, much less gaining access.”
”You’d be surprised. This little dive was one ol’ Rud pointed my beak towards a few months ago. How else do ya think I knew about the tabacc?”
The bartender, an oversized human with the unfortunate moniker of Outhouse, lumbers over and shakes his head. ”Sorry, Dread. Got nuthin’ fer ya. But I tolds ya as much didn’t I? Face don’t spark a thought, nor tha name.” He places a folded piece of parchment on the bartop and slides it over...well attempts to slide it over but fails when it sticks to the sodden wood. ”But Bedlam wants a chance ta win back tha marks ya took ‘em for last month.”
”Forget it. Ain’t been paid yet.”
Suit yer self, Dread. They’re drinkin’ up tha swill now..” He stumps away and pounds a meaty fist on the bar to wake up a half-orc who’d fallen asleep in his cups. ”Geddup ya green bastard! Drink ‘r leave!”
And there he was. Eldred harrumphs and leans on the bar, stuffing the rough drawing away and taking a sip of his drink. ”Course when Bedlam gets a drinkin’, there’s coin ta be had…”
”Not wise, comrade.” Keppish takes another puff of his pipe then taps his jacket at the breast where he keeps his money. ”I’m not in the market for losing coin, just the time I’m spending here with you looking for a ghost.”
”Night’s young, bub. We’re just gettin’ started.” He lays out a few coppers to pay for their drinks and pushes away from the bar. ”Figure we got a few more here in Cheapside we can bother before you have ta go home and iron yer undies. ‘Sides, I may not know where this clown went off to, but if we can get a whiff of his backtrail, maybe we can find out where he began.”
”I already told you, Dread. I think it’s a demon from Alkenstar here to give old Rud the what for…” He chuckles a bit, however it isn’t a true mirth when the man considers the number of soldiers lost in his command.
”Demon, monster, con-man, doesn't make a difference ta me.” Eldred stretches his back, still feeling the nerves firing painfully since his encounter with the battle sphere in Rud’s. ”Whatever it is, a bullet will send it to its maker just fine.”
Adurus, his heart heavy with the large amount of pain, death, and madness he's seen in the last few days, feels rather homesick. Though he knows it's still a bit of a longshot, he starts to search around the city for information on the whereabouts of Gruckalus and Bordana, his hometown friends. He goes to the barracks of various military organizations, asking around for registries of recruits taken in the past two years. Adurus takes whatever information is given to him and patiently sifts through it, scanning page after page for those two elusive names.
Most of Adurus' time is spent in futility. It is not surprising given the emotional atmosphere of Braganza currently. Even in the aftermath of that night, the ripples of that night hang over the city like a shroud. Despite his honest intentions, the young Squire is met with a wall of indifference and hostility. Most assume he asks after those he fears lost, which is a burden many also bear. Rather than taking consolation in a fellow soldier's suffering, however, their eyes inevitably flit to the rune-engraved gauntlet clasp that designates Adurus as one of The Order. While the Most Noble Order of the Exalted March is well respected on the whole, it seems their ranks have earned a stigma as being self-entitled noble scions who elevate their own concerns above that of the common man or soldier.
Contempt. That is all Adurus finds as he searches desperately for his childhood friends. And while he shares patrols with some of these very same men and women that bear him unjustifiable contempt, he becomes aware of their sidelong glances, set jaws, and fixed scowls all the more in the wake of his investigative efforts.
Quiet replaces the madness of battle and worse that gripped the city like a vice. Rutilus Leroung was given leave to return to the Chelish Embassy in the wake of the night's events. By comparison, the days that followed would prove to be rather dull, if not outright boring. With governmental agencies and agents on full lock down, those in the embassy were afforded nothing beyond a cursory show of having not been forgotten. Ambassador Kellius Jeggare, though inwardly uncaring, makes a great show of umbrage at being so thoroughly ignored by those daring to call themselves hosts. The elderly Chelaxian, a fierce nobleman without a strand of hair on his entire head and largely unbent by his considerable years, spends much of the time sending off correspondence and angry letters to any and all acquaintances he has made over the years. Rutilus is mostly left to his own devices, until she shows up.
Deep in his studies, Rutilus almost fails to notice the servant hovering nearby desperately trying to get his attention. The young half-orc dare not intrude upon the tiefling's room, but he seems to be weighing the consequences of that action against whatever spurs him to fetch Rutilus. "Your presence is requested below, my lord. An important visitor, I gather."
Descending the spiral of stairs within the embassy, whose construction seems to have admirably replicated the sprawl and grandeur of Cheliax's own architecture, Rutilus emerges into the antechamber to observe who might be calling on him. Much to the tiefling's surprise, it is not his superiors, but a woman dressed in form-fitting black leathers and various other garments and medals arrayed in the ostentatious matter of one belonging to Molthune's elite. More interestingly, Rutilus is able to observe immediately that the woman is not human, but a sylph. Her uniform marks her as a member of Molthune's Commissariat, including a peaked officer's hat with a winged skull motif now firmly tucked between the fold of her left elbow. She stands at perfect attention, platinum strands of hair pinned up in a tight bun as she waits patiently for the tiefling to close the distance between the two.
At his approach, she says, "Rutilus of House Leroung, Ambassador of Cheliax and Dignitary to Molthune: your presence at Rud's foundries is demanded by Prince-Archbanker Cole Ravnagask. If you would accompany me, please. . ." She replaces her hat and gestures for the tiefling to follow her before making for grand entryway of the embassy.
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Giving a cursory nod in respect as he approaches the fellow demi-human, Rutilus is nevertheless rather surprised. ”This is indeed a treat! Here I had figured that all within the Chelish Embassy were all but forgotten by the rest of Molthune - but then for someone such as myself to have a personal request directly from the Archbanker himself? This is indeed surprising! Of course, I will accompany you. Let us see what the good Archbanker has to say, no?”
As the sylph accompanies him to Rud’s foundries, Rutilus walks just a few feet behind her in respect of her apparent importance as a commissar - a role Rutilus understands all too well as a necessary role. Despite this, however, Rutilus eyes the slyph as he walks, looking at both the curvature of her figure and delicate way she moves - all while summing her up as a person as he does so. Even so, his mind is occupied elsewhere, partially thinking about what sort of planar unions could have resulted in such a creature, while simultaneously thinking about what in the Nine Hells the Archbanker himself would want with Rutilus at Rud’s Wastewares.
Eventually, you arrive at the training grounds of the Molthuni Battlemages. The lady steps forward to speak with the attendant at the door. "I have been sent to retrieve one Zeltresh Turenek. See that he is brought to me immediately."
The man does not argue with the Commissar, and quickly heads into the building.
As you step out of the building, you see the tiefling that had joined you in the siege of the Foundry, as well as a woman dressed in form-fitting black leathers and various other garments and medals arrayed in the ostentatious matter of one belonging to Molthune's elite. Her uniform marks her as a member of Molthune's Commissariat, including a peaked officer's hat with a winged skull motif held at her side. She stands at perfect attention, platinum strands of hair pinned up in a tight bun as she waits patiently with the tiefling.
When the gnome emerges, she states, "Zeltresh Turenek, Battlemage of Molthune. Your presence at Rud's Foundries has been ordered by Prince-Archbanker Cole Ravnagask. If you would join us..." she gestures for the gnome to join their company, then replaces her hat before departing with the two heroes in tow.
You are lead directly back down into the core, and as you approach, you can hear the oh so pleasant sound of Rud working away at something from within.
"Damnit Carrot! What in the blazes of my mother's cunny do ya think ye're doin'! That is not what I told ya ta do!"
"This unit is designated-"
"I swear, Carrot, if you say that damned phrase one more time, I am gonna blast yer metal bits all across this damned place and piss on yer innards, ya got me!?"
Fortunately for "Carrot," you all make your way into the Core, distracting the metal man. "Sir, three lifeforms have entered the Core."
Rud looks up from the work he is doing at some sort of desk covered in lights, and rolls his eyes. "Perfect, not only do I 'ave ta deal with yer stupid ass, but now I got one o' ol' Ravy's bootlickers here ta top off the 'ole friggin' thing," He gets up and makes his way over to the trio of newcomers, where the Commissar stands perfectly still at military attention, but the two of you can clearly see her wringing her gloves behind her back in frustration at the insults.
Rud walks right past her and looks the two of you over. "I can only figger that you two s+#@ stains are the 'experts' I asked for. And wouldn't ya know that it'd be two o' the same cock-huffers that busted up my automaton. Well, pay attention 'cause I'm only gonna say this once."
He points over his shoulder towards the still writhing maelstrom behind him. "Ya see that? Well, long story short, that's what I use ta power my lil' shindig down 'ere. And the thing I use ta keep it under control, well, it ain't workin' good no more thanks to that traitorous piece of s#!+ that caused all this mess. As it stands, I gots me about six more months, give or take a bit, o' power left in that thing before the 'ole thing goes ta s$+&. I can fix it, but I need me something very particular ta do it. That's where you come in," he says, pointing at the two of you.
"Not gonna go into the details, 'cause I don't figger either o' you two are gonna be able ta keep up anyway. The main bit though, is I need me somethin' called a Desmodian Crystal. I 'ad some o' my own boys out tryin' ta find one, but they been turnin' up less than nothin', those sorry sacks o' s*~*! I told Mister-High-an'-Mighty-Prince-Banker that 'e needed ta get me someone who could 'elp me find one, an' fast, if 'e wants me ta keep crankin' out goodies fer 'im. S!&$ must be real bad out there, 'cause apparently yer the best 'e could come up with."
After your speech, as your crowd starts to disperse, the hooded figure approaches and raises his head enough so that you can identify the man as Izalem. He says, rather sheepishly, "Sir, your words...if magic is truly capable of all that you claim...well...I was hoping that perhaps you would be interested in allowing me to learn some things from you in it's use..." He looks directly at Nathmir with his sunburst eyes, one of his golden locks falling from it's hiding spot beneath the hood, causing the young man to quickly raise a hand to tuck it back into place lest someone spot the oddity.
On the night before the feast in his, and those that fought at his side, honor, Vincent was forced to endure a social gathering at his parent's estate, mainly to brag at the praise his own actions had inadvertently garnered in his families name.
Vincent was proud of how he handled himself on the field that night, there was no denieing that. However, he did not do it to bring glory to his House or to try to advance his own standing. He did it because he thought, no, he knew it was the right thing to do. But, seeing all these other noble families and their spoiled children all feigning admiration and adoration on his actions, all the while stabbing each other, and likely his own family, in the proverbial back with sidelong whispers of rumor, gossip, and insult made him sick.
Is this the type of behavior I am defending? These people could care less if Braganza, or all of Molthune, for that matter, burned to the ground so long as their own station was maintained or advanced. It's disgusting.
As soon as he could, he slipped out of the stifling madness that was the banquet, slipped into some common attire, and headed for a nearby ale house he knew Eldred liked to frequent. He had had enough of people blowing smoke up his backside, and knew that the Corporal wouldn't care to call things like he saw it.
Eldred sips at his tankard and wonders at the passed few days. So far his investigations had yielded about as much fruit as a fishmonger's stall. There are one or two of his contacts remaining to pan out, but the gunslinger wasn't holding his breath.
"Have another, Dread?" Farn asks, scrubbing at the bar top in front of the gunslinger then tossing the towel over his shoulder.
"Reload," Eldred responds as he darts his hands into his satchel to retrieve his tobacco and a fresh wrapper. "...ain't got pressin' business in the morn. The greenies 're sleepin' in..."
Farn is a veteran, served up north in the regulars, a pikeman. He grabs up Eldred's tankard and deftly refills it with only one hand, seeing as the other arm is missing below the shoulder. "Remember when we was green, Dread?"
Eldred scoffs. "I don't remember bein' young, Farn. Much less green."
The door to the tavern opens and there's a muttering of silences that passes through the crowded common room. Not that most would notice, but when you choose to hang your hat and spurs in a warren, you get to know the rats.
"New sort," Farn mentions.
Eldred glances up to the clouded and cracked mirror behind the bar and spies the newcomer. Interestin' The gunslinger glances to his left, a youngish looking soldier halfway into his cups is seated in the stool. "Make a hole..."
The soldier looks at Eldred once and makes to reply, but stops when the gunslinger hold up a hand.
"Fresh ale will be in your gap if ya take a walk now." Eldred nods to Farn to make it happen.
The soldier scoots off his stool and wabbles over a few seats. In a few moments a fresh tankard arrives.
When the newcomer strides to the bar, Eldred motions to the vacant stool next to him. "Evenin', sir. What brings ya to Cheapside?" He takes in Teldas via the mirror and offers a grin made unnerving by the scar running down the left side of his face. Noting the commoner clothing, Eldred continues. "How may I be of service?"
Vincent signals the bartender to pour him a mug as he answers Eldred, "Just be yourself. I've had just about all I can handle of people pretending for one night, and we gotta go through it all again tomorrow."
It's evident that the young Field-Squire is frustrated over something. When his mug arrives, he takes a healthy swig, coughing a bit as his palate struggles to adjust from the finer beverages he had been drinking earlier to the more earthy ale he now drank.
"Any luck on finding our mutual friend that caused all this nonsense?"
Eldred chuckles at Teldas' request to be himself.. "Ya see me puttin' on petty coats n' perfume? I gave ya the 'sir', bunkie, cuz ya earned it."
"As for Leovarde... no. He musta popped in the same way that ball-bustin' gizmo puckered up and popped out after we ruined its day." He shrugs. "I've got a few lines out I've yet to pull in, but my fishing expeditions been a bust. Gone to the taverns, the normal haunts around the Foundry for laborers...even 'proper' channels."
He finishes rolling his cigarette and offers it to Teldas with one hand while he fishes out his tobacco with the other.
"What's got you by the shorts? They over starch yer undies?"
Vincent takes the offered cigarette and lights it with a flick of his wrist.
"Family held this big to-do in my honor over what all we did to stop the chaos of that night. I don't hold it against them, it's part of the 'duties of being noble.' But most of the people there were just blowing smoke up mine and my parent's asses hoping to somehow latch on and advance their station. Like that was all that mattered. I didn't risk my life to try to improve my families holding or gain favor in the courts. I did what I did because the city needed my help."
He takes a long puff on the cigarette before continuing quietly so only Eldred can hear, "Just makes me wonder if any of it is worth it. If the rulers of this city are so wrapped up in themselves instead of what is right, maybe it would have been better to just gather as many innocents as possible and let the whole thing tear itself apart."
Nathmir was pleased with his progress, at last it seemed some believers were coming to light. He does not miss the odd man out so to speak. With the opening exchange a number of questions come to his own mind, after all he did not want it to look like he was actively trying to convert abadar's worshipers. He takes a moment to consider his words.
"I am no wizard, rather a priest. I tend to the faithful. If you wish to learn the magical arts then seek out another. If you wish to learn of the ways of Nethys then I am your man. I can understand your curiosity but half hearted attempts on any front are often doomed to fail. If you understand that then I would be most welcome to discuss magical matters before you set your resolve. As well I do not claim anything, magic is endless in scope. Only our understanding is limited. Greater understanding brings with it stability and growth in the art and it's use."
Eldred chews on the Field-Squire's words for a minute, letting the silence stretch between them. Knew I liked this kid for reason...
5 to 1 and a pouch of Brevish tobacco says ya get him killed inside a fortnight... the ghost of his friend chides.
Shut it, Frig... But his hand goes to the lucky charm he wears around his neck. The medallion had belonged to his late friend, a halfling who'd been a constant companion at Fort Ramgate. He's a crafty one, but he's got heart...and gumption.
"I remember a sortie a year ago, me n' my outfit got pinned between a quartet of elven rangers and a gods forsaken earth elemental." Eldred finishes rolling his cigarettes and put it to his master using the nearby candle to light it. "Ran outta lead, our crossbowman no bolts...got down to usin' spears and swords...then rocks..." The gunslinger shakes his head and downs the rest of his tankard. "But we got the job done, we used the tools put in front of us."
You split that elf's skull open, Dread. Remember his face?
Eldred grits his teeth as the image of the young elf archer crosses his eye. He ignores the voice of Frig in his head and continues. "Sometimes you go to the fight with guns...maybe ya for mentors that set ya straight. But sometimes you're left with rocks ta keep your skin on...so you use what you got." The gunslinger signals Farn for another drink with a seesaw of his empty mug. "So you've got a gaggle of lick-spittles who wanna use you." Eldred shrugs and nods thanks to Farn when he drops off a new mug. "Think for them as bullets. And I as I always say, there's a bullet for every target. Present company excluded, but there's nearly nothing a noble likes more than a cause. And the may be a time when your men need something...boots, better equipment...they have the pull with the muckity mucks to make it happens."
Eldred holds up his tankard in salute. "They may be nimrods n' morons, sir. But Abadar bless it, they're your nimrods n' morons..."
He takes a drag of his smoke and sets his tankard down.
"Fer a bunch o' s~@+ stains, y'all 'r at least worth a few laughs."
Composing himself some, he continues, back to his old self soon enough, "If'n I knew where ta start, I'd already 'ave it 'n 'ave this damned thing workin' 'arder 'an a 'ore's cunny at a dockside 'ore'ouse! Yer best bet is in some God's fersaken ruin somewhere!"
He turns and tinkers with the console in front of him for a couple moments, then looks back to the trio still standing there and says angrily, "Well!? I ain't gon' 'old yer f$#%in' 'ands! Go get it!"
Vincent nods his head, "Yeah. I know. I'm just tired of all the b+!~*!$+ that comes along with it."
Changing the subject, he adds, "So, how have the rest of our 'group of heroes' been? I haven't had a chance to see anybody what with the clean up. Last I saw of Adurus, he was looking for some friends of his I think."
"Word on the street the bug guy's lookin' ta do some more killing. Can't say I know what to think of what he's made of...but he's Hermean." He frowns and curls a lip. "That devil-humpin' hellspawn outta Cheliax has been hold up in his embassy far as I know. Nothing on Zeltresh or Arzazel... But Nathmir's preaching up a storm, on his way to building a right nice following..."
Eldred shakes his head. "Far as Adurus, got the same whiff, he's lookin' for friends. But I've seen neither hide nor hair." He downs the fresh ale in a few gulps and pushes himself up from the bar.
...
He fishes 3 silver marks out of his hip pouch and lays it in the bartop. "Mine n' his Farn. Much obliged."
Then he puts on his hat and grins towards Teldas. "No time like the present moment, eh? 'Sides, I owe the boy an ale or two for pullin' my biscuits outta the fire. He's over in your neck of the woods, right? Let's go pay him a visit."
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Rutilus remains quiet as Rud and Zeltresh talk it out, thinking heavily on where he's heard of Desmodian Crystals before. As far as he knew, they bind energy of some sort from other planes.. but thats as far as he's read on the subject. He'll have to research it further.
"As it so happens, Rud, you could not have expected to find a better candidate to seek out your crystal. While I cannot speak for Zeltresh here, since I do not know his capabilities beyond his skill in Pyromancy, I happen to be an expert on planar matters and arcane matters - As it so happens, I have heard of Desmodian Crystals before, although their purpose beyond binding energy from the planes eludes me at the moment. As for actually finding one, the task will be a little more complicated.. but I have full confidence that I'll be able to locate one - hopefully in time."
Rutilus has his hands behind his back as he speaks, deigning to look around at the machinery as well. "In fact, the first thing I shall do is see if I can't find any more information on them - I'm sure theres a library somewhere in the city with enough information.."
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Nathmir looks at the man for a moment before speaking once more.
"Let us not set our sights so low. If you wished to protect yourself then shadows and shelter is where you should be. Let's find your, for a lack of a better term, type of magic. Some have a calling while others have a drive. What matters is will and resolve, that is the closest thing to common ground all those of the art have."
Not one to make half hearted attempts himself, he would spend some time with the young man. Nethys cared not at all for those without magic, yet magic could be brought out where none was present before. As a devoted priest he would at least make the effort, the growth would remain with Izalem.
"We will find what your suited too. That is one of the wonders of magic, their are no incapable people. Only those who make a choice."
However, before you can even adjust to the lively interior of the tavern, you hear the recognizable voice of your superior agent call out.
"Zazzy! Git in me office, lad! I need ta 'ave a word with ya!" The stout proprietor of the establishment steps out from behind the bar and makes his way to a door in the back signaling with his thumb for the half-orc to follow.
As you pass, a couple of other Bronze agents in Darvan's crew mutter amongst themselves, mostly assuming that you have done something wrong and are about to get a lecture, a beating, or both.
Once inside, the dwarf slams the door behind you, and motions for you to sit. The room is not very big, and the cramped conditions force you to squeeze uncomfortably in order to take the seat opposite the Silver Agent's desk. The sloppy conditions in the room do little to help the space: papers and notes lie scattered about the office, as well as stacks of coins, dirty dishes, and several empty (but used) tankards clutter the area.
"Listen up," he says quietly, motioning for you to lean closer as he takes his seat in the leather chair behind the desk. "I've gotten word tha' tha' sunnova b~+#* Rud's lookin' fer somethin'. Several o' tha other Bronzies 'ave spotted 'is men runnin' about tha city, hittin' tha books an' all sorts o' nonsense. In my time 'ere, I ain't ever seen 'im 'ave 'is crew out doin' s+!@ like that. Whate'er it is 'e needs, 'e needs it bad, an' I'm willin' ta bet 'ed pay good coin fer it!"
He leans back in his chair, and kicks his feet up on the desk, causing several coins to fall from their stacks, though Darvan does not appear to care. "I want ye ta find out what it is 'e's after, an' let me know. None o' my other boys gots an in like ye do, lad. Time ta put it ta use while yer on the uppity-up's good side! An' remember, this is just 'tween us, got it?"
Arzazel nods and keeps it brief with the Silver Agent as he did with his former masters, "Right. Tell you what Rud wants. Try to find it before him. Just between us." He repeats what he understands of his new orders then delivers his regular report of business, which Darvan appears to pays little attention. After a long pause, Arzazel nods again for his dismissal. He cautiously squeezes out of the chair and office, surprisingly agile for his bulk. He closes the door behind to give Darvan some privacy. As he passes the couple of Bronze Agents, he keeps his expression neutral giving them a conspiratorial wink at the last moment.
After he leaves the Bulbous Steed, he meanders the city to ensure that he is not followed. When he is confident of his lack of a tail, he goes to find his gnome friend Zeltresh.
Arzazel looks at the message from Zeltresh to meet him at the library to be a scholar. He looks again up at the ornate, stone library feeling very out of place. The former slave does want to be a scholar, but... He would feel more comfortable entering a seedy dive than this library. After much hesitation, he adjusts his outfit and enters.
The half-orc wonders around among the books for a long while captivated by the enormity of space and volumes of books. Finally, he sees Zeltresh between a stack of books taller than the gnome pouring over a thick tome. "Zeltresh..." He calls out, which is immediately attacked with "shhhhhhs," from everyone. He fist bumps his gnome friend and sits down next to the books. "What are we doing here?", he whispers.
As Adurus is about to wrap up his search for yet another evening and retire back to the Order's barracks, he spots two blurred figures approaching the limits of his vision. As the grow closer, he sees that it is Eldred approaching him with another man in his company, a cloak pulled tightly over his shoulders, his hood pulled low. Though as they grow closer, you recognize the bull's head hilt of the sword that Vincent has claimed as well as the familiar face of your comrade in arms, though currently out of uniform and dressed as a commoner.
As the pair approach the squire, Vincent says, "Well met, friend. Any luck your search?"
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"The half-orc?" Rutilus sneers and scoffs, "Can't say he seems the 'scholarly' type. But if you think he'll be of any help.. I suppose you can bring him along, as long as the brute doesn't get in our way. I suppose he could be useful if we need to carry a large number of books.."
-----
When the two get to the library, Rutilus immediately seeks out the books on planar information, leaving the gnome to his duties, fully expecting that Zeltresh can handle himself. As he and his familiar scan through the shelves, he hears the half-orc arrive, his voice booming. Rutilus shakes his head and smiles to himself at how right he believes he was about the brute.
-----
Later, as he begins to research in earnst, he keeps his stack of books on another table from Zeltresh and Arzazel, focusing his own efforts on seeking out the information he's looking for and not really working 'together' with Zeltresh or Arzazel at all. Instead, both he and his familiar flip through the books. Though his familiar isn't anywhere near as knowledgable as he is, the familiar does know to seek out the words "Desmodian Crystal", and attempts to help its master locate it.
_____________________________________
(Success)
As the pair approach the squire, Vincent says, "Well met, friend. Any luck your search?"
Adurus, with a somewhat exasperated sigh, says to Vincent, "Ah, no luck. Finding my friends's like searching for a needle in a haystack, and most of the officers are rather uncooperative, which isn't helping. How are the two of you?"
As the days roll on, a measure of sanity is finally regained for the city of Braganza. City patrols manage to re-establish law and order throughout all of the districts as incidents plummet down to near nonexistence. Repairs are well underway and governmental offices are restored to normal levels of operation, though the thick mire of citizens vying for reparations in the wake of the disaster make the process a brutal slog worthy of testing the patience of even the humblest persons. In spite of such a bureaucratic deadlock, a glimmer of hope returns to Braganza.
The Bulbous Steed continues exhibiting a facade of a straightforward business. Given his standing as a Silver formally recognized by Molthune's government officials, enforcers have a tendency to look the other way (if they even look at all) despite the dwarf's many indiscretions. The sub-basements beneath the inn are teaming with a spectrum of looted goods ranging from the boringly mundane to the impossibly extravagant. Many mansions were breached during the chaos that began at Rud's Wastewares. And so, many dwarves helped themselves to the exposed innards of these grand estates.
While it is not a glorious task, it is one that Arzazel has proven himself well suited: making sure the men and women in Darvan's employ don't steal his ill-gotten fortune out from under his nose. Most know better than to risk his ire in the first place, though there are a few instances where reminders are needed. A couple more bodies turn up in the river despite the authorities' seeming success, predominantly dwarven.
This all takes place largely before the library trip, where Arzazel accompanies Zeltresh and Rutilus. Arzazel is able to glean without directly probing that the pair are researching something called a 'Desmodian Crystal'.
You would have thought Rud insane, were it not for the extreme circumstances surrounding recent events—granted, the aging Alkenstar tycoon is likely insane regardless, though the reaction is warranted by the vulgar fellow bandying mentions of a Desmodian Crystal.
It was a myth. An obscure myth at that. A device purported to offer nearly unlimited power that could be harnessed towards unlimited applications, the only thing rarer than knowledge on the subject are persons capable of actually tapping into the Crystal's depthless energies. Rutilus only vaguely recollects such scant information because the name Desmodius is one known to few beyond a small collection of inner circles to be encountered in Cheliax, each of these inner circles consisting almost solely of artificers and archmagi of considerable clout. The entity bearing that name, Desmodius, is even more enigma than the strange crystals that invoke his namesake.
Given such rarities upon myths upon legends, Rutilus correctly concludes that information on the objects themselves are not to be encountered in any library in Molthune, at least directly. . .
Their search is tiring, prolonged, and seemingly futile. Of the vast shelves of tomes, codices, and the odd grimoire, there is no mention of a Desmodius, nor a Desmodian Crystal. There is but one clue to be gleaned from the textual repository, and it too is vague. A tome entitled "Cromwell's Treatise on Ancient Societies of Gastash" deals mostly with those regions that fell directly under the rule of Zutha, the Runelord of Gluttony before Earthfall. However, there are brief entries detailing various cultures with whom Zutha's nation traded regularly. Of these, one stands out in particular: The Munring.
Located in the region now referred to as Molthune and Nirmathas, The Munring consisted of a small confederacy of sorcerous dwarves. Generally ostracized and shunned by traditional dwarven societies, the Munring dwarves were considered to be peerless craftsmen like their cousins, though it was dweomercrafting unlike the smithing legacy most dwarves are notorious for. Indeed, Xin-Gastash's famous sentinels of old were commissioned by Zutha and given form by the Munring dwarves. More famous than their penchant for unrivaled constructs, each of the Munring citadels possessed unquenchable, and fiercely guarded forges of unspeakable power, capable of producing armaments of unparalleled might.
Unfortunately, nothing more is known or recorded of the dwarves. The events of Earthfall are thought to have wiped out their confederacy, and attempts to locate any of their citadel ruins have yet to meet with success.
Izalem Ravnagask continues his clandestine visits during Nathmir's sermons. You are able to quickly determine the true nature of Izalem's heritage, as well. Unlike what his uncle, the Prince-Archbanker Cole Ravnagask (the ruler of Braganza) insists, he is not some manifestation of Abadar's favor. His mortal blood is mingled with that of a peri—an emberkin—which explains his fiery-golden eyes and overall golden appearance. More impressive is Izalem's vast well of potential. He has yet to fully mature, and harbors no shortage of self-doubt in his abilities. But there is power in his blood; great power.
The young emberkin has received some training with a blade, and excessive teachings on the nature of Abadaran faith, though it seems Cole Ravnagask has been interested in very little beyond forcing the youth down a path not of his own choosing. Nathmir remains convinced that there is likely little that Izalem could not accomplish were he to set his mind to it.
Following the night of revelry with Eldred and Vincent, Adurus inevitably finds himself returning to his quarters in the makeshift headquarters for the Most Noble Order of the Exalted March. Given his status as a squire, the fire-scarred man is still relegated to sleeping in a bunk within the common barracks. No matter how simple however, his bunk calls to him strongly given the late hour of his return. To Adurus' surprise, he returns to find Squire Raston sitting on his bunk, apparently waiting. As Adurus approaches, the reason for his vigil becomes apparent.
Rising from the bed, the wooden supports beneath creaking from the strain of the brute's bulk, Raston beams happily at Adurus' approach. Forgetting manners, as usual, he says proudly, "I found 'er! That girl y'were goin' on about."
Adurus can only assume the man speaks of Bordana.
Returning with a bit of wobble to his step, Eldred eventually manages to find his way back to his richly appointed suite in Terandar's Bulwark. It's a change for the better, full of guards and servants again instead of phantom suits of armor, terrified golden-boys, and the lingering, wailing dead. While unsettling and recent memories press in from all sides, Eldred manages to stifle the unbidden reminders in his unwieldy rush for his bed. The corporal's hand reaches for the thick, oaken door.
Eldred finds himself wanting to grin for a brief moment. A shapely woman stands near the foot of his bed. She looks like she'd be good for a tussle, until the gunslinger locks eyes with her own. Commissar Kathlyn, eyes cold as a Jadwiga, regards Eldred with a flat stare that betrays no reaction. She simply watches. Any hopes of a pretty girl to warm his bed are dashed on the flagstone floors. This one looks the kind who'd make it a night to remember in the worst way possible.
"Corporal Pentwert. I had hoped to discuss some official matters with you." Her tone is as level as her cold stare. She continues, "I can return at a later time if your revelries have deprived you of your faculties for the night."
But damn don't she cut a pretty figure. . .
Sampson finds himself tapped on occasion to support the patrols circuiting the poorer districts of the city. Most of the fighting has died down now, though calling it fighting is probably an honor the act doesn't deserve. Criminals with about as much prowess as rabid dog are dispatched as easily as they are found. Before long, enough of the lowlifes are thrashed or cut down that the message gets sent.
The temporary tent-city that had formed outside of the eastern gates for building season fared well enough during the chaos. Most of the criminal activity within the city's walls are pushed without to the rapidly growing squalor of the tents and crooks therein. Braganza seems to care little about what goes on in that place, however, simply resolving to bar the gates to those outside until a measure of peace can be solidified within. And when that finally happens, the purging begins.
Eyes no longer turning away, a full platoon of Molthuni soldiers pour out of the city gates and begin dismantling the tent-city. Those who hesitate, refuse, or argue find themselves confronted with force. Some of the bolder operations in the place attempt to put up a fight, usually small gatherings of tents set up to offer several vices, from gambling to pesh dens, though their resistance only manages to earn them a mound of dead who are burned along with their tents. In the span of an afternoon, the entire area is scourged clean, the only evidence of their having been there to begin with the heavily trodden mud.
After that night, Sampson is no longer called upon to do Braganza's killing. Always in the back of the Hermean's mind, however, is a faint impression. An itch that speaks to Leovarde's presence. He remains at a fixed point South—Sampson knows that much. The shade within him does not deign to speak in the interim, dormant until its desired reckoning is manifest.
Having spent his free time earning some coin as hired muscle for desperate merchants, Sampson's days are mostly dull and empty. His presence alone is discouragement enough for any remaining would-be looters and thieves. It would seem he has earned himself a bit of a ruthless reputation owing to his part in the various purges undertaken by the guards and soldiers.
Upon returning from one of his side-jobs, Sampson returns to find a flatmate and fellow soldier, an elven jokester called Vinfarel, leaning against a wall adjacent to Sampson's dormitory atop a solid wooden stool. Seeing the enormous man's approach, he leans forward and motions frantically but quietly for him to approach.
As Sampson draws near, Vinfarel leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "The Giant's got a lady-visitor. I was proud of ya for a moment, but she didn't seem like she was trying to ride Mount Hermea. Too proper and businesslike. Told her to come back later, but she just went into the dorms anyways. Had a stack o' papers in her arms an ass that'd turn a dwarf from drinkin'."
Against his own preference, Vincent is ultimately faced with the prospect of returning home, to the same snobs that spurred his retreat into the Eldred then Adurus' company. Much like Eldred, he accomplishes his return on legs that have a little more wobble in them than is appropriate for one of his station. Given the events not a week past, however, one can hardly fault him for the lapse in decorum.
The Field-Squire is pleased to see the gardens empty, save for the usual house guards; a sure indicator that at least most of the guests have returned home for the night. The chill air proves a well matched companion to the warmth of the whiskey. Vincent finds himself wishing to linger a bit in the courtyard, and his legs oblige him, carrying him towards the myriad-cherubim fountain to plop down with an exhausted sigh along the stone rim. The gentle flow and bubble of the waters beside him soothes him into a near trance, though the alcohol likely shoulders much of the effort to that end. He is almost unaware that he is no longer alone, until the man beside him clears his throat.
Eodric Teldas sits beside his nephew, still virile and powerful in appearance despite the crow's feet at his eyes and the grey wings climbing from his temples to mingle with the black of his long hair. The man is a walking ideal—an inspiration for Molthune worry of being exemplified and possessing a soul without blemish.
Through a hint of a grin, Eodric says, "I trust your celebrations have not begun to supersede your responsibilities of a Knight of the Order, nephew." Though the words carry reprimand, the tone belies the joke. He was simply having a go at the younger man.
Vincent lets out a chuckle at his cousin's jest. "If only I could enjoy the celebrations," he says as he throws a nod over his shoulder towards the manor. "All the people care about in there is trying to advance their own place in whatever social ladder they can. They could care less about what had just happened, so long as none of the chaos affected their holdings. I couldn't take it anymore, so I slipped out."
He stands and turns to face his cousin, forcing his legs to stand in a position at least reminiscent of attention. He grins as well, adding, "I hope your age hasn't started hindering your memory, cousin. for I'm no Knight yet." His words are likewise just playful banter, a game of words the two had always enjoyed, at least before Eodric had established the Order. Since then, Vincent realized he had hardly seen him, and he hoped his cousin hadn't outgrown the repartee of their younger years.
Arzazel tackles Darvan's tasks as if he was taking out the garbage: necessary but generally unclean and messy. His reputation within the Aspis as a cleaner starts to grow.
Afterwards, he enjoys the library search with more zeal than Zeltresh and Rutilus can maintain. Each night, he keeps Darvan secretly current on what they discover, specifically the "'Desmodian Crystal' and "the small confederacy of sorcerous Munring dwarves."
I don't really get it. So I can help him choose any class or something? Maybe I am having a brain fart. xP
Sampson nods to the elf. "Thank you for informing me." The Hermean makes his way into the dormitory, looking for this purported woman.
In a nutshell, yes. At the moment he is effectively a level 1 Warrior, but class levels will supersede that rather than add to it. Nathmir has an opportunity to direct his training (even though you're not an arcane caster yourself, a priest of Nethys training others to do so is totally cool in my view) as he sees fit. Izalem is receptive. If I might pull back the curtain a bit, you're looking at an impressionable pupil with the following array:
STR 15
DEX 10
CON 14
INT 17
WIS 16
CHA 16
Sampson's departure from the entryway is followed by a brief "good luck" from Vinfarel.
As Sampson steps into his dormitory, he finds Commissar Kathlyn standing rigid, practically at attention, in the center of the room. He recalls Vincent and Adurus mentioning her the night they descended into Rud's facilities, but this is the first time he has shared anything approaching a close proximity with her. Much as Vinfarel had claimed, she carries a small folder of papers in the fold of her left shoulder. While Vinfarel's appraisal of her womanly figure are no doubt accurate, Sampson instead notes the physical conditioning her frame indicates: small, powerful, and lithe.
She notes Sampson's arrival immediately, regarding him with emerald eyes as she says "Sergeant Klein. I am Commissar Kathlyn. We must speak." Her words are direct. Sampson has heard of the Commissariat's agents before, enough to know that they usually are only encountered where treason (alleged or otherwise) is concerned. She gestures to a pair of chairs on either side of a squat, square table. Affixed to a cord on her left breast are a small collection of medals. Many are various commendations and badges of office that Sampson recognizes. One he does not: a silver bird of prey grasping the sigil of Imperial Governor Markwin Teldas in its talons.
He stands and turns to face his cousin, forcing his legs to stand in a position at least reminiscent of attention. He grins as well, adding, "I hope your age hasn't started hindering your memory, cousin. for I'm no Knight yet."
Eyes glittering with mirth, Eodric manages around a sly grin "Not a Knight? I wouldn't be so sure of that." It is a tantalizing statement. Knight-Lord Eodric Teldas rises and adjusts his richly appointed coat. He is dressed in his finest, and veritable wall of badges, medals, and other trinkets dominating his breast rattle noisily.
"Best get some sleep, Ser. Braganza will expect you at your finest for the trials ahead." He bows to his younger cousin and makes to retire for the evening himself.
Eldred offers a salute and pulls off his longcoat and drapes it over the ladder-back chair at his desk. "Ain't gonna get much brighter with sleep, Commissar." He motions to the small table a few feet beyond the desk. "Have a seat if it pleases ya."
There are few things Eldred likes about the quarters afforded him. A simple man with even simpler needs, he always thinks it outranked his actual rank. He was a mudman, a ground-pounder...a hunter. But the idea of having fresh water at hand appeals to his growing headache.
Eldred pours himself a customer of water, then after a pause, pours one for his 'guest'. His stark-blue shooter's eyes take in the woman, the uniform and the medals. Campaign insignias told a lot about someone in the service. "Ya ain't got the blackcoats of the inquisition standing around....figure you'd have me already fitted 'fore you stepped in here. So, if the noose ain't for me, then who's it for?"
》 ...identifying items on her uniform
In that case Nathmir will give him his wish for defensive magic. Consider his stats and such. He will train him to specialize in abjuration magic as an abjurer. If he levels up beyond 1st let me know as depending on his disposition Nathmir may advise martial or divine training for him. He could end up as a mystic theurge or eldritch knight. Once you give me the all clear I will write a post about Nathmir helping Izalem in his first step into wizardom. :)
As his cousin turns to depart, Vincent thinks about what he just said. "Trials? What trials? What's going on, cousin?"