After being woken up by Ace stumbling into the dormitory at 3 am. You figure you ought to head to the docks to be there by dawn. You see the Rusty Clipper and the captain nods as you board.
Over the next few days, you drink rum, sing songs and swab decks. No one tells you where you are going.
As you disembark from the ship, you realize that you have reached Absalom. The towering metropolis looms in the background of the docks and as you move into the hustle and bustle of the city, a gnarled beggar passes you in the street, begging for coppers. His grimy fist clutches a crinkled piece of paper, which he deftly slips into your palm before disappearing back into the throng of longshoreman, merchants, stevedores, and other pedestrians.
Join me for a few pints of the devilfish-head grog at the Saucy Wench. Sundown. Be ready to travel.
The Saucy Wench is one of the few permanent structures in the Grand Bazaar in the Coins District of Absalom. It is a four-story mead hall of ill repute and one of Osprey’s favorite places to disseminate secretive orders from the Society to its member Pathfinders.
You have part of a day to do what they can to prepare for travel before they meet with Osprey.
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A handsome but clearly disreputable young Varisian bravo hops off the boat and looks around at the docks "Ahhh I feel right at home" he flicks the beggar the couple of coppers - being once a hood rat himself once upon a time he still feels an at home with the underclasses - that could be an uncle for all he knows!
He takes the scrunched note and discretely reads it whilst he adjusts his well oiled raven black ponytail. He checks himself in a nearby reflection and practices his best devil-may-care expression. His clothes look sharp, but edgy, cut well to fit his frame, but unmistakably the style of a Sczarni rough in dark hues to blend with a street at night. A finely made and beautifully styled breastplate of mithril seamlessly fits with his outfit.
A sharp whistle gets a shrill cry from the boat, and a large Axebeak jumps down from the wharf, armoured and with a military saddle.
Amontilado picks up his lance and pulls himself into the saddle, set to ride through town; as he leaves he gives the wharf a final look and a slight haze comes over his eyes, as though remembering less fortuitous times - he then heads for a nicer part of town for a good bed, fine food, and fine companionship.
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A well muscled human with tan skin and tattoo's dotting his body walks off the boat calmly.. He seems well armed with a pair scimitars strapped to his waist and a bulky pack across his back.. His features are hard and his body is well toned.. He doesn't look in a good mood..
None the less he follows his fellow Sczarni to the better parts of town..
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Over the past few days, Avelina drank no rum, sang no songs, and swabbed no decks. She drank water ("I'm on a fast"), she recited liturgies ("secular songs are sinful"), and she cast Prestidigitation on every visible surface ("cleanliness is next to Goddessliness"). She spends most of the trip in her own quarters, venturing out each morning to give sermons about the Acts of the Inheritor, whether she has an audience or not.
When she does make an appearance, she immediately stands out. She wears a custom-tailored sleaveless Iomedaean cassock with a pleated skirt shortened to knee-length, matching leather opera gloves and thigh-high boots, and an effervescent translucent red mantlet. When asked--or if she thinks someone wanted to ask--she says she may be referred to as "Avelina of Mendev" or "Your Grace."
When the time finally comes to disembark from the Rusty Clipper, Avelina is all-too-pleased. She gleefully places coppers into the hands of beggars, using Mage Hand of course. Upon noticing the note in her hand, she jumps, throwing it into the air. She conjures another hand of force to grab it and hold it up for her to read, though she still cleans it off with another cantrip before she considers it safe.
As she reads the note, her face rapidly turns to an expression of equal parts distress and disgust.
"Ugh! What is it with this Osprey and dens of ill-repute? He calls me to one for a briefing, then sends me to a Cayden Cailean temple full of leering drunks--'Hall of Drunken Heroes,' pah! More like 'Hall of Drunken Perverts!--then he summons me to another cave of moral depravity for my next mission!? I must speak with Dear Ollysta about that man! A Righteous Soul such as myself does not deserve such--"
An unsettling fear and trembling shocks the girl as a dreadful thought comes to her. Her eyes well with tears in moments, and she looks to the sky, as though speaking to someone not a few feet in front of her.
"Wait! I have not done something to displease You, My Beloved Inheritor, did I? Is this a punishment for some lapse of virtue? That recurring dream about you is clearly the curse of some succubus or something! Did I not do my fasts properly? The rules say nothing about lemon cookies! I only had one...a day."
Her face flushed red, Avelina draws her sword, and kneels down before it.
"Fear not, Beloved Inheritor! Your Favored Soul shall seek penance for any misdeeds. As you say, 'If I betray My Heart, I have died,' and you, Beloved Inheritor, are My Heart as always! And, clearly, I have not died, so I have not betrayed you. I will undertake these trials in Your Name and prove my devotion once again!"
Smiling to herself, Avelina stands and sheathes her sword, wiping away her tears. She waves her Knight-Inheritor's Ring over herself, cleaning away her now-dirtied knees and strides off towards the briefing, her demeanor refusing to make concession to the fact that she was kneeling with tears in her eyes a moment ago.
Presumably, a number of people in the crowded street stopped and looked on in uncomfortable silence. She pays no heed either way.
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A dwarf, apparently living somewhere between a full life where he might be enjoying the drink served at the Saucy Wench and a horrible death, rubs his eyes and studies his fellow Pathfinders.
"Ach, displease th' Inheritor?"
Thorgan studies Avelina for a moment, seems like he's about to suggest something, but then decides otherwise.
"More like ye displeased tha' Ten if ye be set on a mission with Thorgan here."
Thorgan pounds the table, his fist lacking a gauntlet and showing more scars than a lion-tamer's.
"Ah musta done somethin' to displease th' bastards, them sendin' me off to tha' Bonekeeps n' worse. Ah figure they be tryin' to end ol' Thorgan with each passin' mission."
Thorgan motions for a drink and practically inhales the contents.
"Let's see now..."
He begins counting off on his fingers, one of which seems a bit shorter than it should be.
"The Ten've not only sent me to tha' Bonekeep, but to th' Worldwound, they've teleported me into sure death in Taldor, a couple pocket dimensions, a clan of vampires, th' very heart o' th' Worldwound..."
Thorgan nods as his cup is refilled.
"Oh, and to the very plane o' Hell itself!"
The dwarf shakes his head.
"Ah hope ye all brought plenty o' them scrolls o' come-back-to-life. Ah've seen them used over a dozen times now on th' missions th' Ten keep pickin' for me teams.
Thorgan almost seems angry at his empty cup as he studies it again.
"And ye all best be possessin' grand constitutions. Any o' th' Pathfinders without such tha' they be sendin' along with Thorgan ain't returning usually on th' missions th' Ten keep selectin'."
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Avelina rolls her eyes and the dwarf's troubles and admonitions.
"Oh, for Goddess's Sake. I finally get another Righteous Soul to travel with, and he's broken. Honestly, I have no patience for people that sit around feeling sorry for themselves. Look at you! You are a few drinks away from kneeling in the street and crying." The words come out without the slightest hint of irony or self-awareness.
She places her hands on her hips in the universally accepted pose of indignance.
"Yet another trial I must--"
Her eyes suddenly brighten, and an expression of unrestrained glee rushes to her face. She clasps her hands together and looks to the sky, tears of joy beginning to rush from her eyes.
"Beloved Inheritor! I see the sign that you have given me, and thank you!"
Avelina clasps Thorgan's shoulders. She looks directly into his eyes, her entire dominating presence focused on him.
"Rejoice, Thorgan! The Providence of the Inheritor has placed you here for me! The Goddess has charged me with reigniting your spirit!"
She smiles proudly to herself, an absolute confidence in her theological, providential interpretation of this turn of events.
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Artian rolls his eyes every time Avelina talks about the inheritor. Another poor soul whose life had been **** for a god entertaiment...
Thorgan, you´ve seem to had travel far away, and faced many risks. But you´re here, and live. Maybe they sent you because they know you should back?
But being far, or work for The Ten, not necesarily means face more risks. I´d only lost a companion, and it was here trying to save Guaril Karela as a favor for his faction companions.
He stops a litle, pick a jewel, and take a gulp.
I wasn´t able to save him, despite all my efforts, and didn´t have one of those scrolls. But I´ll don´t make the same mistake again, so now I have one scroll of breath of life to try my best. Even if it´s not sure I´ll be able to use it.
Osprey sits in the far corner on the first floor, his stubble-covered chin the only visible feature jutting from the shadowed cowl of his worn leather cloak. With a subtle nod, he gestures to you as you enter, then signals a scrawny porter-boy. The lad scurries quickly to the table with a gallon cask and a set of wooden pint mugs. He bids his guests to sit and be served. After exchanging gruff pleasantries, he speaks. “One of my field operatives, Eiastor Wyrn, has been traveling undercover with a small team of Aspis Consortium explorers. Recently, they found the fabled Drowning Stones and recovered from them a significant stash of a rare and deeply disturbing set of demon-linked stones. That was two weeks ago, and I’m starting to grow concerned. I was preparing a larger group of Pathfinders to track down the Consortium team and commandeer their stash, but this sudden change of circumstance prompts me to send someone immediately.”
Osprey leans in close. “If what we know about these stones is true, they cannot fall into the hands of the Aspis—do you understand? You’ll be going to the Mwangi Expanse.”
Once you agree to the mission, he leads you into a back room and down a moldering flight of rickety steps into the dank cellar. Osprey removes a plain-looking scroll from his pocket, unfolds it haphazardly, and mutters an incantation. A bright blue light surrounds you. A haze of crackling pops and blurring smears of light fades into dim shadow, and an assault of hot, sticky air that reeks of mildew and soil. Canopied beneath an oversized tent, hammering sheets of rain slam against the thick canvas like the flapping wings of a huge, primordial beast. Drops plink into buckets scattered about the floor, while additional canvases lie draped over shipping crates and other supplies. Despite all effort, the rains soak through the tent, turning the dirt floor to a muddy soup crawling with roaches. A young man perches on a nearby crate, cloaked in a thick oil-canvas to keep dry. Cracking a wide smile, he raises his voice to speak, but his words are barely audible against the din.
The young man introduces himself as Dirch, though he has to shout to be heard over the rain. Stationed here with four other Pathfinders, they run a small waystation, keeping an ever-vigilant watch over a small, but dangerous tract of jungle bordering against the sacred lands of the local savages, the Rumawa tribe. His team provides what resources they can for fellow Pathfinders exploring the region, including food and first-aid. Dirch and his companions are green and not trained to do much more than hunt, gather herbs and fruits, and perform a general mapping of the area.
Dirch provides yous further background to their situation, as Eiastor Wyrn was relaying information to him via spells. While he doesn’t know the Aspis team’s precise location, there is no word they’ve passed back through the Rumawa’s territory, and infers from Wyrn’s last message that they’ve made camp just upstream of the tribe’s territory.
Dirch offers you a place to rest, basic supplies, and provides you with flat-bottom push-rafts, which are commonly used to navigate the region’s shallow, muddy rivers. Dirch advises you to use the rafts to travel upriver to the Aspis Consortium’s camp rather than risk the jungle. “If you follow the river,” he says, “you’ll get there. I don’t have good enough maps to get you there through the jungle, and walking through there is like being swallowed by a kraken—avoid it if you can.”
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As you float down the river at Dirch's insistence, the forest beyond quickly darkens into an endless void of shadowy leafy claws. Impossibly tall trees stretch up into the sky, as if strangling the sun into fragments of amber that slip between their angry branches. The ground below is barely visible beneath a carpet of thick green shrubs and mosses. The lush vegetation grows right up to the water, obscuring the stream banks. The waters run slow, dark and murky with rich black sediments from the recent rains.
After traveling 8 miles, loud drumming rises from the forest.
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During the briefing, Avelina preens at the mention of demons.
"'Demon-linked stones?' Well, now I understand why my expertise was necessary for this mission. I have been charged by The Inheritor Herself to expel such obscenities from the world!"
Her gaze goes off into the distance, a wide smile on her face, as she imagines her great victories against the forces of the Abyss. It's obvious she paid no attention to any of the briefing after that.
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Avelina smiles smugly as Dirch describes the forest.
"Dear, Auntie and I have ventured into the Worldwound as often as some people go to tea. The Inheritor Herself protects me!"
She taps her chin, hand on her hip.
"Though I suppose a boat would allow me more time to read the Acts of Iomedae."
Before heading out, Avelina casts a spell on herself.
"Divine Armor of the Goddess!"
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Thorgan ponders the drumming for a moment, holding up a mailed finger that would seemingly be to shush Avelina.
"Ach, ah recognize tha' sound. Tis some sort o' religious ceremony tellin' trespassers tha' they need to make ah sacrafice."
The dwarf ponders what kinds of sacrafices they would need to make, wondering why he didn't ponder such things prior to their departure from the Pathfinder basecamp before shrugging.
The drumming grows louder as you sit in the boats doing nothing but obviously prepare for a fight.
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Thorgan continues to gaze off into the distance, reflecting on how many times the Decemvirate essentially offered him up as a sacrifice to the likes of Bonekeep and the Worldwound.
"Ach, blasted jungles and sacrifices..."
The dwarf gestures to the shore.
"Best we not git th' whole jungle on ourselves, no matter how much th' Ten'd be likin' to see ol' Thorgan git through tha'."
Thorgan begins to paddle for the shore.
"'Sides, better t' be on tha' shore than th' river if crocs're ahead..."
Thorgan knows that the crocodile's favorite prey is the duikar, a medium-sized jungle antelope. He thinks it would be fairly simple to dock the boat and track one down in an hour or so.
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Avelina gasps at Thorgan's mention of sacrificing the totemists.
"Sacrificing intelligent beings is an expressly evil act! Even the Decemvirate agree on that point. As representative of the Inheritor's Will, I will condone no such behavior!"
Avelina sits upright in her seat on the boat, legs crossed and hands folded on her lap.
"Regardless, I will honor no gods other than the Inheritor. I will not be cajoled into kow-towing to inferior beings. If they wish to try, they will see Her Might firsthand!"
She turns up her chin in pride.
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"I completely understand, your...Ladyship, but either we grab ourselves a Duikar for their angry crocodiles, and a Duikar probably isn't much different from the last half dozen animals we ate on the way here - or me and the lads here are going to have to hack a lot of men to death instead. On balance I reckon one death is probably a greater act of kindness than a bunch of deaths, and I reckon a Duikar is right down the pecking order anyway."
"Now I get your position here, that you don't want to be seen paying tribute to another god, and I respect that - thats honour right there, so instead, I ask you to leave this to us to deal with - because I understand honour, and I understand that they need to feel respected. Allow us to give them their respects. It is more decent than giving them all shallow graves"
"What we are doing is... trade"
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Avelina subconsciously preens a little at the compliment to her honor and loyalty to her goddess.
After a few moments of thought, Avelina waves her hand dismissively, not actually looking at Amontillado in the eye.
"Do whatever you want. As long as duikars--whatever those are--are not adorable, that is. The Inheritor does not like it when people kill adorable things."
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Thorgan rubs his head so hard that he nearly creates a half-dozen new creases in its surface as he continues to tug hair from his beard.
Adorable...
Muttering to himself low and inaudibly, he turns away from the Iomedean sorceress and scans the shore for signs of a duikar or suitable substitute.
"Might be best if'n ye stay in th' boat, 'Lina. T'wouldn't want t' be gettin' swamp water or duikar blood on yer fineries."
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"Oh, you needn't worry about me, Dear; the Inheritor can fix such trivialities in seconds." She holds up her hand, showing off her Knight-Inheritor's Ring. "Still, your concern is noted. I always have said that dwarves have a natural tendency towards righteousness."
"Regardless, I will take no part in any pagan beast hunts. I will be fine staying here. I always have something to read." She pats the engraved tome chained to her belt.
"I can also handle myself quite well, thanks to the Blessings of the Inheritor. No harm will come to me." She gives a self-satisfied smile.
She smoothes her hair, gazing off towards nothing in-particular, as though everyone else had already left.
"I am rather adorable, aren't I?
After about an hour, you find a duikar and catch it. As you sacrifice it, seven men come out from the jungle.
The lead man in the crocodile headdress speaks to you in the local dialect.
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I don´t like to left back someone of the group. But at least this serve to not hear she for a time. Well, not "at least", thankfully.
I can´t understand them. But I have an scroll wich let me understand a little. Please, keep your hands out of your weapons, I don´t want them to think we´re starting a fight
If nobody offers a better plan than trust in a comprehend languajes, Artian will walk two or three steps to the men. Sit downs in the ground to look more pacific and draw th sign of the open road. He has no hope those men will recognize it, but doing it should serve to let them know he is trying to comunicate. Then he will unpack his scroll of comprehend languajes and, if no native is afraid he´ll cast it.
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She waves at the man, then addresses him in Taldane. She enunciates very deliberately, speaking much slower than normal.
"Greetings! My name is Avelina. Have you heard the Good News of the Inheritor's Ascension yet?"
She inclines her head towards Artian, though makes no attempt to actually look at him.
"If the crocodile man is here to induct you all into their weird crocodile mystery cult or something because you did their little ritual, please remind him I am not interested."
The men watch Artian carefully, but don't seem to react as he casts the spell from the scroll. The lead native repeats himself.
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Their spirits are pleased with the sacrifice. And they want to know what are we doing here
Then Artian starts to draw in the ground, first something that could pass by people and them something that could be rocks, one of them with a scary face. When he has DRAWN the map, he puts some of the rocks he carry for his sling over the rocks drawed, to make it more clear those are supposed to be rocks.
Knowing his pictorics abilities are bad, Artian inspires and throws away all his shame to start make gestures and noises. He tries to make the point they are the people walking in the draw, even pointing the skirted draw and then to Avelina, and they are going for some rocks. More especifically for the rock with an ugly face that roars and makes wild gesticulations.
How the hell does anyone paint a demon linked rock... Not matter, only hopes at least they have some laughs and understand me
The man laughs loudly.
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They know about the stones.
And someone come here a few days ago, there had been some kind of combat, because they lost four men. I´m going to told them we´re not the same, and ask for free pass
Artian waits a little to see if someone have any suggestion and start drawing again. He draw two new groups of men, one group armed, and one group with a man with crocodile head.
He points the second group, and then the natives to make clear that draw is meant to represent them. He points his group and then to the draw with the skirted girl in it. An last, he points to the armed group and to the natives and them, shacking his head negating.
And lastly he points the pathfinders and him, and draws and arrow passing between the natives and shakes his head up and down, asking for an affirmative answer.
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Thorgan elbows Hawkwren as he watches the ranger produce a scroll.
"Ach, no worries there lad. Artian's already used one o' those."
The dwarf sits back patiently keeping his mouth shut while studying the faces of the natives for signs of malice or danger, yet is one of the first to his feet as the "discussions" wrap up.
"Ahl'right. Well 'ah suppose th' good news is th' natives won't be lookin' to feed us t' their crocs then now, right?"